Does life have to involve regret? / Photo: ekler

Regret seems to come with age maybe because, as writer David Sedaris wrote, “when you’re young, it’s easy to believe that such an opportunity will come again, maybe even a better one.”

At the age of twenty, I firmly believed in a “no regrets” policy because it was hard to think mistakes couldn’t be set right somehow. With the distance of time, my perspective has become a bit more informed.

The attitude behind my policy at twenty was arrogant; especially since it masked my timidity to really live up to it.

In Voltaire’s Candide the eponymous hero can be crudely separated into two categories: the young optimist and the provincial minded youth.

His breakneck brand of innocence serves him well throughout his globetrotting adventures where he doggedly pursues every opportunity.

But by the end he has shed the proverbial rose-colored glasses viewing the heart of his past self with weariness and insists that “all that is very well […] but let us cultivate our garden.”

The Cost Of Living

Many face this dilemma at one point or another – where reconciliation must be made between the cost of living and all it entails and fulfilling “the dream.”

For roamers it is an itch that festers until suddenly you’re on a bumpy bus ride far away from a zombie existence and filled with an overwhelming sense of freedom and affinity for the moment. Some of us never turn back and continue trekking; feeding that ever increasing gorge whose only demand is that you keep on going.

But what if you lose the ability to stop and recognize the moment for its potential?

Although my time spent in Italy was happy and full, I look back at my twenty year old self and recognize two moments with an apologetic heart for my youthful rashness.

Moment #1

One lazy afternoon in Florence, my roommate and I were at the train station purchasing tickets to Paris. We split off to browse the nearby newsstands.

Photo: yanig

A backpacker asked what map I was looking for. I told him Paris. He had just come from there! He needed a map of Lucca. I had just been there!

Earnest and sincere he drew me in. Talking to him was easy. When discussing his favorite Parisian museum his face became adorably animated. But, I was shy and incredibly pre-occupied.

Abruptly my roommate and I left to continue our errands. He looked a bit bewildered when we turned the corner out of the station. The encounter had been all too brief and yet indelible.

Did I leave like that purposely? No, I just didn’t know any better; I couldn’t hold onto the tease of something more sparked by that instant connection. After a few moments of gasps and curses, I shrugged him off, thinking that providence would give me a chance to correct my blunder.

A delusion only the very naïve and young could enjoy.

Moment #2

The other offense was that I didn’t loiter around in Rome.

I barely noticed the Forum due to the crowds, sacrificed a detour to a personal favorite Bellini statue, didn’t even venture inside the Coliseum and skipped an evening out in Rome all because annoyingly, I was too cheap to catch a later train back to Florence.

During the sprint across the city like a mad woman to catch my bus I gave up on forming a swath of Roman memories.

Are these two incidents regrets? I’m hesitant to categorize them as such; instead I’d rather think of them as important lessons.

Obliviousness happens. The “no regrets” thing isn’t a rule. It’s a warning to remember that missed chances occur, and the only safeguard is to be mindful of that knowledge.

Frank Sinatra, one of the masters of living, summed it up perfectly in his finely aged voice, “Regrets, I’ve had a few. But then again, too few to mention.”

Have you had any travel regrets? How did you deal with them? Share your thoughts in the comments!

Photo by greekgod

Panic washed over me. I tried telling myself that everything would be OK, but remained unconvinced.

Suddenly I leapt out of my seat and pleaded my way past the flight attendants. My progress was halted by security.

“I lost something in the waiting area. Can I go get it?” The security guard gave me a thousand yard stare.

“Please!” Amazing how far this word can get you.

He relented. “OK. Be quick because we’re about to close the gate.” I flew out and dived under the seats of the lounge, which caused a businessman to jump.

“What did you lose?” the security guard asked as I returned to the plane.

“My lucky coin. I can’t fly without it.”

“Lucky coin!” His colleague looked at me in disbelief.

The guy who let me out reproved him. “You can’t leave without a thing like that, man!” He was a believer in the power of lucky charms as well. Prior to this incident I had traveled with my coin unfailingly for five years and then intermittently for six years.

My lucky charm is a humble penny with a stretched image of Queen Mary. The panic I felt at its momentary loss alarmed me, but its also an inevitable travel truth that you will lose stuff.

The Power Of Superstition

The last few times I’ve traveled without it I’ve attributed any and all misfortune to its absence. Illogical, I know – but superstitions aren’t exactly rational.

Dictionary.com defines superstition as “a belief or notion not based on reason or knowledge.” I agree. Go ahead and think of as many superstitions as you can. Now try to find a rational reason for each one. Tricky, isn’t it?

There is a push-pull relationship with superstitions. You try to avoid succumbing to a superstition, but then at the last minute you decide to follow through, just for good measure. This is how some superstitions become traditions.

To think I may never see Rome again because of the Trevi fountain coin toss superstition. I went to Rome twice in one month. On my first visit I threw a coin into the Trevi fountain. On my second visit I forgot. I haven’t been back since.

In From Here to Eternity, Deborah Kerr’s character explains that if you throw a lei into the Pacific and it floats away from you, you’ll never come back to the Hawaiian Islands.

I’ve spent my summers in Honolulu since I was eight and this was news to me. I wonder – if you’re ignorant about a superstition, does the adage “no harm no foul” apply?

Unlucky 13

Many superstitions center on the significance of numbers, especially 13, the fear of which is called triskaidekaphobia. There is no definitive reason why 13 is so abhorred.

Photo by Jeff Yang

Some attribute triskaidekaphobia to the Vikings or to the Last Supper, but rest assured the fear is ancient. And it effects still affects us.

Recently, Brussels Airlines came under fire for employing 13 circles in their logo. The uproar caused them to paint one more circle onto all of their planes.

Have you ever noticed that some planes have no row 13? The entire Cathay Pacific and Continental fleets are missing it. Sensibly, British Airways has refused to succumb to the nonsense. Other airlines have reached a happy compromise and insert row 13 in their smaller aircrafts, thereby screwing the short-haul passengers.

There is an Italian superstition about the number seventeen because the roman numerals can be rearranged to spell vixi, which in Latin means ‘I have lived’.

Lufthansa’s entire fleet except for the Dash 8Q and ATR 72-500, the smaller planes, are missing row 17. In an exercise of cultural sensitivity some airlines like Delta skip row 13 and 17 in their 757-200s.

Next time you enter a high-rise hotel pay attention to how they’ve numbered the floors. You may suddenly go from the 12th floor to the 14th floor. In an article by Barbara De Lollis for USA TODAY, she quotes J.W. “Bill” Marriott Jr., who states “‘it was one of the first things I learned: Don’t go to 13.’” It’s a tradition to ignore the 13th floor.

Ever refuse to travel on certain days or wonder if there is a day that’s best to avoid? Don’t travel on a Friday! Besides the awful traffic and whatever else the world throws at you it’s been said journeys should not be started on this day.

Lord Byron sailed for Greece on a Friday and died. Embarking on Friday didn’t directly cause his death but it doesn’t matter. The outcome only added weight to the superstition.

All In The Mind?

Some superstitions are cultural (i.e. the number 13) and some are self-created. I know people who have to clean house before a trip. If the house is dirty the trip will be bad, and there’s nothing worse than coming back to a dirty house and a fridge full of moldy food.

I used to keep my old inspection stickers and tags on my suitcase until my dad scared me by suggesting a confused baggage handler may send my stuff to the wrong destination.

However, I’ve found that I’m not the only one with a fondness for tags. The sister of my American Social History professor keeps the tag as a good luck charm for another trip and then replaces it with the new one.

Many superstitions are also rituals. I used to always pack in the same manner, placing my beloved battered books by W. Somerset Maugham and F. Scott Fitzgerald on the bottom, but I’ve since broken this habit.

I broke some of my habits by asking a simple question – why am I doing this? Do I honestly believe if I carry a coin and pack my books ‘just so’ I can thwart my plane from crashing?

Eventually, the reason came out: If the prior trip was successful (meaning I got back more or less in one piece), I try to repeat the same conditions as closely as possible. So, if I hold unto the baggage tag, remember my lucky coin and pack my suitcase in the same way, then maybe I will have another good trip.

Then again, the times I left the coin at home, I’ve had unusually bad flights. Serious arguments cast a shadow over my last two trips, along with bad weather. I’ve been plagued with canceled ventures to South America.

In life and travel, fortune decides too many factors. Superstitions feed into this lack of control and the desire to gain it back.

Next time I think I’ll take my coin with me.

What travel superstitions do you have? Share your thoughts in the comments!

Photo by FreaksAnon

“You are a hobo,” declared my friend of a decade. I stared at her, perplexed, and racked my brains to figure out why she was calling me a bum.

Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I was planning a trip to Peru despite not having worked for several months.

She continued, “You know a picture of Charlie Chaplin shows up on my phone when you call me, right?”

I waited for her to go on, but she just looked at me sideway and said it again:

“You’re such a hobo.” For a moment I thought about making a sarcastic remark…but then a big grin broke out across my face.

“Really? Have you ever seen Chaplin’s movie The Kid? I love it.”

“That’s why you’re such a hobo.”

I corrected her, “Charlie Chaplin’s character was known as The Tramp, not The Hobo.”

She rolled her eyes at me and sighed.

Doing What’s Right

To be called a tramp in the tradition of Charlie Chaplin’s alter-ego is a compliment. The Tramp and the Kid are pure-hearted characters in downtrodden circumstances.

Yes, they may scam you and trick you but the mischief is always done with an honest spirit. Their dreams aren’t big and they live by doing what’s right.

The rub about these two characters that Chaplin created is that the Tramp and the Kid are lonely figures who somehow maintain their optimism.

Just about any journey that we undertake in life is done with a certain degree of loneliness, which is a nugget of wisdom that Chaplin intuitively understood. The Tramp and the Kid stand alone together.

The degree of aloofness that exists between strangers is slim when you think about it. Usually all it takes to cut that divide between two strangers is a “hello.” People on a train for twelve plus hours or tenants in a high-rise are intimate strangers.

We all stand alone yet together.

Through Thick And Thin

The world is beautiful and harsh in all its infinite possibilities. Whenever I travel, what I call “The Tramp and the Kid Doctrine” guides me.

They have taught me that life encompasses the good, the beautiful, the ugly, and the terrible, yet it’s the various journeys we undertake that purify and renew us again and again.

We travel many journeys, be it by plane, train, boat, or through our psyche. And, despite the mercurial nature of life, we march on.

We try to do what’s right, even if it’s sometimes lonely to do so. The spirits of the Tramp and the Kid are always with me, and I see their images everywhere.

On my first night in Florence I came across The Tramp and The Kid street performers. The Kid impersonator clung to the Tramp with a listless air while the Tramp looked harassed instead of charismatic.

They went through the motions of a sad routine, and though the mannerisms were perfect, the spirit just wasn’t there.

The Kid From Saigon

A year after the trip to Florence, I met a real-life Kid in Saigon.

Photo by Dlade

One drizzly humid night, Van, my Vietnamese-American friend, and I walked through the industrious crowds of downtown Saigon, taking in the smell of moto-exhaust and steaming bowls of noodle soup.

A couple of feet around a corner sat an old man selling handmade pop-up cards. We stopped to purchase a few.

A young scrawny kid sat down next to us and asked in rudimentary English if we wanted to buy gum. What amazed me was that he then began to ask the same question in several different languages: French, Russian, Korean, Japanese and Chinese.

The kid grinned and told us that the card-man was overcharging us. The card-man sighed, lowered the price and waved the boy away. He scooted about six inches to the left, flashed a smile, and continued to talk to us.

I turned to smile back at the kid for his boldness. The drizzle transformed into hard-pounding rain and we ran for cover under a store awning.

Under the stern gaze of the store employees we quietly conversed in English and Vietnamese. The rain began to dissipate just as the store employees’ patience ran out and the three of us looked at each other, planning our next move.

A Hard Knock Life

We took the Kid to dinner with us. He led us towards a restaurant that he said was popular with Chinese tourists.

I didn’t question his choice, thinking he must be craving the food from there. However, I had to admit that it was likely he received a kickback from the restaurant for bringing in tourists.

Van and I thought the Kid was ten years old. He was fourteen; the oldest of several children. During dinner he pointed out the violinist in the restaurant orchestra as someone very kind who sometimes gave him money.

As our guest of honor, he told us his life story.

The Kid had been working the tourists since he was a toddler with his mom, and on his own since he turned five. Years ago his family was well-off but that changed when his dad had a disfiguring accident.

The Kid recalled how his mom was once beaten by another street peddler over a territory dispute. They lived outside the capital and everyday the Kid paid someone for a ride into the city to make money.

Almost 40% to 50% of his profit, depending on how much gum he sold that day, was spent on getting a ride back and forth.

We offered to kidnap him to America. He declined, because he needed to take care of his parents. His ultimate goal was to learn enough of several foreign languages to work at a hotel.

Hope for the Soul

We stepped once more into the drizzly humidity and said goodbye.

He walked past us and we moved forward. I turned around to see him, in his too big t-shirt and baggy pants, tugging on the arm sleeve of a man, asking in French if he would like to buy some gum.

In the silhouette he looked, for the entire world, like the Tramp’s Kid.

As the distance between us grew I realized that I had met a genuine Kid. His is a hard-knock life but there’s strength in it. He may not have much but his soul is hopeful.

Have you encountered Kids who “work the tourists” and survive by their wits? Leave a comment below!