My Creative Literary Journey

As I spend a year traveling abroad in Western France, I will be sharing with the world my thoughts that range from cultural perspectives in relationship to my study abroad experience, to my passionate concerns about our enviornment, to the detailed...

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early birthday dinner w mama (at THE DUCHESS)

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Travel, Love, Curiosity, and Knowledge

I genuinely believe that travel and intellectual development are as connected as you and me. Where we relate in our shared humanity, travel and ingenuity are linked in their symbiotic rapport. I have been fortunate to have already travelled quite often throughout my life, thanks to the dedication of my parents and their mutual belief that is the very foundation of this entire paper: the idea that by traveling one expands oneself in every possible direction. Although some may neglect this idea for its overgeneralized theory on such a sophisticated concept, I honestly believe that this notion applies universally to the subject of travel. We frequently experience new things, which inescapably form together, as if every new experience is a small chunk of clay that we add to the infinitely expanding ceramic masterpiece that grows within us. With travel, we experience so many new things that our small clay center quickly grows with endless intricate, detailed additions. Further, my theory on the human accumulation of experiences is similar to my theory on love. I believe that love is infinite. There is no limit to the amount of feeling a human can have. One does not replace one’s love for someone with recycled love from someone else, but instead one simply grows one’s ability to love to accommodate this new object of adoration. My father, an avid traveller himself, taught me this lesson, and I am curious to know whether he thinks it applies to travel as well. Not only are travel and love connected through their limitless boundaries, but they also connect in their similar necessity of faith and confidence. To leave what is safe and travel to a new place, both physically and psychologically, one needs the security to be curious. For as Pico Iyer wrote in his piece, “Why We Travel,” “All good trips are, like love, about being carried out of yourself and deposited in the midst of terror and wonder.” Love and travel, both explorations in the name of discovery, require the command of the keen spirit every successful adventurer wields. Furthermore, I believe that travel and love clearly apply to the artful collection of knowledge, and what is travel but a broad classroom in which we expand our acquaintance with the world in infinite abstract directions? Every day I sit in my classroom, every conversation I have, every thought I weld in my mind, everything that is me or shares some part of me has been influenced dramatically by my travels. In the classroom, I have noticed over the years that I seem to have exponentially grown in academic knowledge. But more importantly, every day I become more and more able to think about the world in broader, more catholic directions, seeing what I used to say straightforwardly, I now see from multiple viewpoints contemplating the intricacies, the variances, and the historical motives.     In an odd, contrasted way, I have noticed that the more I travel, the more I realize how little I genuinely know. The futile trials of knowing all end in a shocking realization. Travel can be just as humbling as it is empowering. In fact, maybe it is the humbling effects of worldly voyage that bestow onto us the most significant powers of all. I suppose I should follow that up by telling you what exactly is so powerful, but all I can say is that I do not yet know. And possibly, it is in not knowing that I know all the more.      Specifically in correspondence to my studies abroad this year I have learned much about my culture. Often, one has to exit one’s world to learn the most about it. And we see this again, and again, in the literature we read in English class. From Henry James’ subjective portrayal of Victorian society to Joseph Conrad direct critique of colonization, we see that one must surprisingly leave the realm one studies to learn the most about it. For it is in expanding our knowledge through travel that we learn the most about ourselves, our society, our country, and our home.      It is hard to say what came first: travel for the purpose of survival, or that of accumulating knowledge. When I reflect on humanity’s past, looking onto the people of the once massive Makadikudi lake of southern Africa, I wonder why there were those who decided to leave. I suspect that there must have been a curious spirit that flickered in the first man to adventure out of his small world and into the unknown.      As George Santayana wrote in his famous “Philosophy of Travel”, “Intelligence is a venture inconceivably daring and wonderfully successful.” There is no doubt that one who is not curious to learn will never expand his knowledge. The basic relationship between curiosity and knowledge, perhaps an abstract thought at the time of Santayana, has become a hackneyed educational advertisement in our day and age. So based on the mutual accordance that there must be a connection between curiosity and knowledge, and having already proven that curiosity and travel are inseparable, I suppose these connections manifest the relationship between the voyager and the sage, who are fundamentally one and the same.     For although one can read an endless collection of books, spend years studying in a classroom, receive never-ending lectures on the world, there is nothing quite like seeing the world with your own eyes. The basic premise of the formal Western education system has always been to compress all of the teaching of the world and its history into a short period of a few years. But if every student had the opportunity to learn the genuine lessons of the world, and not those that are repurposed and fabricated to the wills of the modern educator, designed to be taught in an almost industrial style, imagine the genius those students would grasp onto! There is an incredible wealth of knowledge waiting to be exploited, and it is only through travel that we can learn what cannot be taught.  

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COP 21

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PARIS

My article for the school newspaper on the Paris attack:

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My school in the states asked me to write an article for the school newspaper on my reaction to the french people’s response towards the attack.

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Raw Journal Entry from My Travels in Botswana

“03/08/15

San Camp, Makgadikgadi Salt Pan, Botswana

This morning Peter (my younger brother) and I made sure to be on-time to breakfast. We wanted to be good ambassadors for our country through proving how punctual we are. Afterwords we took a walk through the Kalahari with a small group of San people, or Bushmen. they were shirt in posture with dark, leathery skin and their facial features appeared almost asian. They are known for being peaceful and string-willed to survive life in the Kalahari. They have historically been oppressed by the other tribes and now even the Botswana government, an internationally popular regime. 

Their language consists of clicks + clacks along with words that couldn’t have sounded more foreign.

They were a nomadic people who hunted + gathered. They stored water in Ostrich eggs underground. 

Their traditional; way of life is nearly impossible today. The government has forced the people to move from their homelands, so that huge game reserves could be established. 

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I just got back from a run through the dessert with Peter + Karina. It was exceptionally hot and dry. To think the San people survived here for ions is incredible and truly awesome. 

Yesterday, Gregory, an ex-Zimbabwan man, explained to us the history of the area. What stunned me is that essentially humanity was born not far from here. Humans have survived here since the start of the human race.”

--Looking back on this experience I am still in awe of the beauty of nature. I know much more about the indigenous peoples and their land today than I did then. But that is not what I wish I had added. I wish I had been less numbed to the sights of Southern Africa. This journal entry was from last summer when I traveled through Souther Africa--Madagascar, Zambia, and Botswana. I saw elephants, lions, wild dogs, which are incredibly rare, jaguars, more birds that I can remember, lemurs, giraffes, and so much more. I met men and women who amazed me in their intelligence, beauty, and spirit. I walked across the sands which are the remnants of the once cornucopian-like land that the first man walked on. But all of these experiences came at me so quickly. I quickly became numb to it all. I would sit in the Range Rovers blasting Nirvana and The Killers. I would journal endlessly. I would look around me, but I wouldn’t always see. An example is during my run. When I wrote about it above in my journal entry I expressed how uncomfortably hot it was, but I did not write that I was running past huge herds of wild zebras, I was running on a flat salt plan by which I could see hundreds and hundreds of miles in front of me, until the Earth curbed downwards past the horizon. I ran from my small tent and I continued running, the thin layer of crust atop the surface crushing beneath every step I took. 

Presence is remarkably more difficult in the present. 

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A Raw Unedited Entry from My Hand-Written Journal--My Dream

“31.10

My dream is to one day soon live in the Santa Cruz Mountains, or maybe somewhere in Washington, with no technology. I want to bring a whole library of books, a car, an iPod, a type write or MAYBE a laptop with only Word on it. I want to wakeup before sunset every day and hike while the sun is rising. I want to maybe go fishing. I will search the forest for treats...I won’t even need to shower. I can meditate. Maybe I’ll occasionally drive to the ocean and explore the area. I can find farmers’ markets and only buy from small businesses. I’ll have a garden next to my cabin. I can write a book, some poetry, a biography. I can journal. I could bring Bodhi (my Bernese Mountain Dog) to keep me company. Or maybe Louis + Barkley (my other two dogs). I’ve been dreaming about this for a while now and I might have to do it this summer. Maybe Ray + Anna will be nearby and they’ll be able to visit me.

I’d only use snailmail and I’d be so isolated I would have to row to the mainland everyday. 

I want this so badly.

I need this.

Then I might feel happy.”

--I wrote this late at night and I was in a pensive mindset. I was drawing a lot in my journal and I started to draw a picture of what happiness looked like to me, so i decided to add an accompanying description. Me writing this does not mean that I am not happy, it is just an alternative happiness. One that is less complicated, more straight-forward, and probably happier... 

a confidence in the heart, a tranquility in the mind 

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It was a distinct glimpse: the dugout, four paddling savages, and the lone white man turning his back suddenly on the headquarters, on relief, on thoughts of home--perhaps; setting his face towards the depths of the wilderness, towards his empty and desolate station.

“Heart of Darkness” by Joseph Conrad 

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A Short Unedited Entry

10.11

           It is currently 01:05 on what is now a Tuesday morning. In just six short hours, I will hear the familiar ring of my alarm telling me to rise for what I presume will be a familiar day, but I can only hope it will be anything but familiar. Nothing important is happening tomorrow. I will get out of bed before I realize I am too tired, to which I will probably fall back asleep until I realize what I have done. I will quickly make myself presentable and brush my teeth to white perfection before descending the stairs that creak with each subtle movement. I will open the garage and ride my bike up a hill that leads to a hill that leads to a curved slope, which is really just another hill. But as I ride each hill I will try and look at each and every one differently. I will try to notice the subtle differences I feel as my wheels consistently spin forward atop the never-ending sea of grey. But whom am I kidding. Every hill is the same.

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Observations Through the Inescapable Looking Glass

11.9

Arrivals are realizations. Either our presence is realized, or we arrive at a previously unknown conclusion. In many ways, they are one in the same. In the context of travel both forms of realization remain relevant: whether we land in an unfamiliar place, or whether we find ourselves discovering new perspectives on an unfamiliar culture. When traveling, the two forms intertwine and form one’s true arrival. A traveler is most impressionable at first physical arrival to a place. In fact, before he has even touched foot on the strange soil he has already arrived at multiple opinions of said place. Once arriving in this new place every experience becomes a piece of an infinite puzzle; travelers generally start piecing together the puzzle as soon as they arrive, but these pieces of the puzzle are never clear. Maybe having travelled often the traveler has learned to keep an open mind, and not to jump to false understandings. But I think it is something plainer: something to do with viewing something from an inevitably outside perspective. This haze is one of the many nuances that define ethnocentricity, or in this case, viewing a culture from a foreigner’s point of view.

My arrival began when I landed in Boston. That is when it began to sink in. I was leaving my home country and culture, my family and friends, my life in many respects, for a transitory existence that would only last nine short months. But after somewhat reluctantly saying goodbye to my mother the idea of nine months abroad began to feel anything but short. My arrival commenced with the realization of leaving the United States and starting the “life-changing” adventure everyone promised me it would be. All I could think about were the trifling cultural differences between France and the United States. I did not wear sweatpants like I normally would have. I tried to keep my hair messy and my outfit simple; for the first time in my life I wanted more than anything to blend in with my surroundings. I kept practicing my introduction in my head trying to improve my sorry French accent. Thoughts swirled through my head, growing and growing as I gave each idea attention, until I was blessed with chaos. The quintessential airport environment, filled with that specific emotion that lies on the fine line between anxiety and excitement, began to distract me from my worries, my anxieties, and my independent, uncontrollable thoughts, drowning me in excitement and anticipation. I was one of the first students to pass the border from familiarity to the unknown. As soon as I left my mother and crossed to the other side of the divide I knew I had to look forward. But the idea of inevitably experiencing France from a foreigner’s view lingered in my mind. I wanted desperately to be what I could never be: an insider.            When we arrived at Charles de Gaulle I looked around at the familiar European advertisements, and beneath them the crowds of people that I would hopefully soon be apart of, or at least appear to be. I have travelled to this country many times before and am familiar with the culture through proxy of my grandfather’s French nationality. I tried to mimic some of his mannerisms and kept him with me in the back of my mind. As I walked through the E.U. line of customs and handed the guard my Swiss passport I tried to speak as little as I could to avoid standing out. My heritage offered great comfort to my anxieties of cultural exclusion. My physical arrival began. While arrivals are sometimes depicted as moments of clarity, vividly remembered for years to come, a certain haze, as I mentioned earlier, seems to always accompany my arrivals abroad. Again, I am an outsider never able to see as locals do. The haze is an almost inexplicable feeling. At moments of arrival, a time when heightened presence would be expected, almost necessary, I feel entirely un-present. I feel almost as though I am having an out-of-body experience in a way. Everything I do, everything I say, I picture in my head what it would look like in the eyes of others. It is possibly a physical phenomenon connected to sleep deprivation, or perhaps it is the traveler in me who desires more than anything to travel through the cultures around the world as a member of each and every culture, and not to travel as an outsider. A world traveler can even feel in limbo at times, between a citizen of the world, learned in many cultures, and a patriot learned in only one. But in truth this learned traveler can only genuinely know one culture for each traveler knows each place uniquely, because in truth no traveler sincerely knows said place at all. Instead, his knowledge is a combination of notions preconceived and outside perceptions, yet perceptions grounded with truth nonetheless. It is most similar to a memory, but one that resembles that of a painting of an amateur work of watercolor, the artist having used too much water and too little paint. That which holds little validity is the water, and that which weighs more heavily through experience is the paint. Although a traveler can infinitely better the quality of his masterpiece, he can never avoid being an outsider: having too much water and too little paint. My first perceptions on arrival were inevitably coated with this foreign haze. I consistently try to diminish the haze and blend with my surroundings, like when we first played the scavenger hunt game. I never held the map in my hands and tried to walk swiftly, I did not want to be labeled “tourist” and excluded from the culture before I ever had the chance to explore it, but no matter how hard I try I am aware that I share the shame of every traveler because I will never be more than a traveler. Each of us holds a different view because we, as travelers, are forced to study foreign cultures from the outside. This outlook is something complex and entirely unique to each traveler, who first creates their imagination of the specified place, and then slowly supplements truths of said place for their preconceived ideas continuously approaching the divine arrival, but never reaching it. For an outsider will never become an insider, no matter how determined, no matter the extent of cultural knowledge, no matter anything at all.