The Distance Between Places and Ourselves
On travel, identity and the quiet education of travel
There is a peculiar thing about travelling. We spend considerable time planning where we want to go, what we want to see, and what we hope to experience. Yet we rarely give the same consideration to what we might discover about ourselves along the way.
Perhaps because we assume that wherever we go, we remain fundamentally the same person. We carry our habits, beliefs, convictions and expectations across borders as effortlessly as we carry our passports. We may change our surroundings, our language and our daily routines, but the person observing it all appears unchanged.
I have come to believe that one of the more valuable aspects of travelling has very little to do with the places themselves. It lies in the temporary separation from our familiar surroundings, which can inspire us to reconsider what we deem essential.
At home, we inhabit a setting that is largely familiar. We know how things work, what is expected of us, how to communicate and where we belong. Our professional roles, social relationships and daily routines provide a remarkably stable frame of reference through which we understand ourselves.
Travel interrupts it.
Suddenly, the ordinary becomes unfamiliar. A simple conversation requires greater attention. A social convention that seems entirely natural at home may be interpreted differently elsewhere. Even the pace at which people eat, work, converse or spend time together can challenge our assumptions about what constitutes a sensible way of living.
And this is where travel becomes interesting. Not because another culture is necessarily better or worse than our own, but because it demonstrates that much of what we consider normal is simply what we have become accustomed to.
On our recent family trip to Europe, we stopped in Singapore. What struck me, once again, was the versatility of life. Within a relatively small geographical area, different cultures, traditions, languages and beliefs coexist, each contributing to the character of the place.
A few hours on an aircraft can take us from one social environment into another. The language changes, the architecture changes, the pace of everyday life changes. People interact differently, organise their days differently and, perhaps most interestingly, appear to attach different levels of importance to things we might take for granted.
Of course, a brief visit tells us very little about the full complexity of a society. We are observers, often experiencing only a small part of everyday life.
Nevertheless, I find these encounters valuable.
They remind me that the way I have come to understand the world is only one of many possible perspectives.
And that raises a question I believe deserves more attention than we ordinarily give it.
How much of what we consider important in life is the result of conscious reflection, and how much is simply the consequence of the environment in which we have learned to live?
The comfort of our own perspective
We often speak about travel as an opportunity to broaden our horizons. It is a pleasant expression, although I suspect one of the more difficult things for us to recognise is the extent to which our own perspective limits what we are able, or willing, to see.
To broaden one's perspective requires more than encountering something unfamiliar. It requires a willingness to question what we already believe, and that is considerably more difficult.
More often than not, we do not approach the world as neutral observers. We interpret what we encounter through the accumulated experiences of our upbringing, education, culture and personal history. When something contradicts those expectations, our first instinct is often to judge it rather than understand it. We pose questions such as:
Why do they do things this way?
Why is everything so slow?
Why is this so complicated?
Why can't things work as they do at home?
and many more similar to those .....
These reactions are understandable. But they also reveal something about us as observers. They expose our expectations and biases, highlighting how accustomed we have become to our own ways and routines. This familiarity can make us resistant to unfamiliar practices, even when they serve a purpose we might not initially understand.
We tend to mistake our preferences for principles and our habits for standards.
Travel gives us an opportunity to recognise that distinction.
Expanding our horizons, however, demands humility, curiosity and deliberate reflection. By listening without immediately judging, we begin to distinguish our assumptions from the realities we encounter.
We may discover that what initially appears inefficient, unusual or even unreasonable has developed within circumstances we do not fully understand. Equally, we may find that some of our criticisms remain justified after closer examination.
An open mind does not require us to suspend judgement indefinitely. It requires us to exercise judgement with a greater awareness of its limitations.
In that sense, travel becomes less about the accumulation of experiences and more about meaningful exchange. It provides an opportunity to reconsider our assumptions and, perhaps, integrate new insights into our daily choices, relationships and understanding of others.
The risk of romanticising elsewhere
There is another tendency I find fascinating.
When we travel, particularly to places we admire, we sometimes begin to imagine that life elsewhere is somehow more fulfilling than the life we know.
The streets appear more beautiful. People seem more relaxed. Food tastes different. Conversations feel less hurried. Life appears to possess a quality that our ordinary routines somehow lack.
Some of those observations may be entirely justified. But we must also recognise that we are experiencing a place without necessarily carrying the obligations of living there.
As visitors, we are often temporarily removed from the responsibilities that shape ordinary life.
We experience the surroundings without necessarily experiencing the financial pressures, administrative demands, social tensions or personal difficulties faced by those who live there. We see a society from the outside, often during moments when we ourselves are free from many of our usual responsibilities.
That distinction matters.
A society that places considerable emphasis on family is not necessarily more compassionate. A society that values individual independence is not necessarily more enlightened. A society that celebrates professional achievement is not necessarily less concerned with human relationships.
Each contains complexities, contradictions and competing values that may take years to understand. We should therefore be cautious about confusing what we observe with what we understand. This does not diminish the experience. It simply reminds us that perspective requires honesty in both directions.
We may be too critical of the environment in which we live because we know its shortcomings intimately. At the same time, we may be too generous towards places we visit because we encounter them without the same responsibilities or depth of understanding.
Perhaps the more useful question is not where life is better, but what different societies have understood about living that we might have overlooked. And, equally, what might we have understood that others have not?
The purpose is not to establish a hierarchy of cultures or ways of living, but to become more conscious of the assumptions through which we evaluate them.
When our worldview becomes a question of character
There is another dimension to this that I find particularly interesting.
Much of who we believe ourselves to be is reinforced by the people and environments around us. At work, we occupy a position. Within our families, we fulfil particular roles. Among friends, we are recognised through a shared history. Even our routines reinforce a familiar narrative about the kind of person we are.
Remove those structures, even temporarily, and something interesting happens. We become less defined by what others already know about us. A stranger does not know our professional achievements, qualifications, disappointments or ambitions. They encounter only the person standing before them.
Our titles have little relevance. Our reputation does not precede us. There is a certain freedom in that anonymity.
But there is also a question worth considering: how much of our identity depends upon the recognition of others?
It is easy to confuse the roles we perform with the person performing them.
Travel does not resolve that distinction. It merely creates enough distance for us to notice it.
Yet I think there is something more to consider.
The environment in which we live does not merely influence how we understand ourselves. It also shapes what we regard as important, what we pursue and what we are prepared to sacrifice along the way.
Over time, these priorities influence our behaviour. Consider how differently people might organise their lives depending on what they believe constitutes success. For some, professional achievement, financial independence and social recognition occupy a central position. For others, family, community, tradition or personal freedom may carry greater significance.
None of these priorities, considered in isolation, tells us very much about someone's character. What matters is how those priorities influence their decisions, particularly when they come into conflict with other responsibilities.
An ambition to succeed professionally is not inherently problematic. It may encourage discipline, perseverance and a strong sense of responsibility. But what happens when that ambition begins to justify compromising our principles or neglecting the people who depend on us?
Similarly, a strong commitment to family or tradition may provide meaning, stability and a sense of belonging. Yet what happens when those commitments discourage independent judgement or become a reason to dismiss those who choose to live differently?
The difficulty is not necessarily found in the values themselves, but in how we interpret and act upon them. This is where I see a connection between our worldview and our character.
Our understanding of the world influences what we consider important. What we consider important influences the choices we make. And through those choices, particularly when they are difficult or inconvenient, something of our character becomes visible.
Of course, the relationship is not straightforward. We do not always act consistently with our beliefs, and circumstances can limit the choices available to us.
Nevertheless, I think it raises an important question.
How often do we examine the beliefs that sit behind our priorities, rather than simply concentrating on achieving the things we have learned to value?
Perhaps this is one of the less obvious opportunities that travel provides.
By encountering people who organise their lives differently, we are reminded that our priorities are not inevitable. Some may reflect convictions we have examined carefully. Others may be assumptions we have inherited without much consideration.
Recognising that distinction does not require us to abandon our values.
It requires us to take greater responsibility for them. And perhaps that responsibility is itself an expression of character.
Returning is part of the journey
Then there is the part of returning home after travelling.
We quickly resume the routines that occupied our lives before we left. Professional responsibilities demand attention. Family commitments continue. The familiar expectations of everyday life gradually reassert themselves and those environments that seemed so different during our travels become distant memories.
Yet something may have shifted.
We notice an assumption that previously went unquestioned. We reconsider how we spend our time. We become more conscious of what we value, what we tolerate or what we have unnecessarily complicated.
Sometimes the change is subtle. Sometimes there is no lasting change at all.
Travel is not inherently transformative. A person can cross continents and return with every prejudice intact. Distance travelled is no guarantee of perspective gained. The difference lies in how we engage with what we encounter.
If we travel merely to confirm what we already believe, we may collect experiences without learning very much. But if we allow unfamiliar places to challenge our certainties, travel can become something considerably more meaningful. It can teach us to distinguish between what we know and what we assume. Between the lives we admire and the realities we understand. Between the identities we have constructed and the character we carry wherever we go.
Even then, I would argue that recognising something about ourselves is only part of the process.
We may become aware that we have judged others too quickly, yet continue to do so. We may recognise that our priorities have become unbalanced, yet make no effort to reconsider them. We may acknowledge the importance of humility while continuing to behave as though our own perspective is beyond question.
Awareness does not necessarily lead to change. Nor should every new experience compel us to revise our convictions. Sometimes reflection reinforces what we already believe, but with a clearer understanding of why those beliefs matter to us.
The more important question is whether we are willing to examine our assumptions and accept responsibility for the choices that follow.
Travel can expose the limitations of our worldview. Reflection can help us understand those limitations. But character is expressed in what we subsequently choose to do.
Perhaps, then, the greatest value of travelling is not that it allows us to escape our ordinary lives. It is that, for a brief period, we can observe those lives from a distance and occasionally, that distance is precisely what we need to see them more clearly.
There is more than one way to live
Perhaps what I appreciate most about travelling is the reminder that human life is extraordinarily versatile.
Across different societies, people construct meaningful lives within circumstances shaped by culture, history, opportunity and personal choice.Some of those circumstances offer possibilities that others do not. Some traditions deserve admiration, while others warrant criticism. And not every way of living provides the same opportunities for dignity, freedom or human flourishing.
Recognising that life can be lived differently does not mean abandoning our capacity to distinguish between what is desirable and what is harmful. It means recognising that our own understanding is not necessarily complete. We may discover that some of our priorities are worth preserving. Others may deserve reconsideration. Still others may turn out to be expectations we have followed for years without giving them much thought.
I do not believe travel automatically makes us wiser, more tolerant or better people. But it can remind us that the world is larger than the framework through which we have learned to interpret it. And that recognition carries a responsibility. Not necessarily to change how we live, but to become more deliberate about why we live as we do.
After all, the significance of encountering another perspective lies not simply in our willingness to observe it, but in our willingness to consider what it reveals about ourselves.
We may travel thousands of kilometres to discover that there are many ways to live.
The more difficult question awaits us when we return.
Having recognised that possibility, how consciously will we choose to live our own?
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