How cultural travel taught me to be grateful: Ten days to remember

Cultural travel is brilliant travel = slow, informed, sensitive

For the first time since I started my semi-nomadic life in 2018, and with 2022 drawing to a close, I found myself asking, “What have been my top cultural travel experiences? “Specifically, what have been my top “slow travel” (culturally-sensitive, unhurried, informed) experiences of the past year?

This is not the same question as what were my favorite counties or cities, or parts of the world.” My question became more like what experiences were the most memorable? Which had the most impact or emotional punch? Another way of putting it, and maybe the best, is “Of 2022’s travel experiences, for which am I most grateful?”

I came up with three (let’s call them ) “events” almost immediately. I quickly found sorting them out to be almost as challenging as it was unnecessary. So I treated these top three as anchors or measuring tools for the rest. I was able to consider other “events” which came close, what might have been in my top days of gratitude if my top three — occurring during my first trip to Ireland, at Dubai Expo 2020, and in Japan during the Setouchi Triennale — had not happened.

A very cold, snowy day in Istanbul. March 12, 2022.

I knew that it snowed in Istanbul from time to time because there was a big storm in December 2021, but I really didn’t think Istanbul saw snow before that or that my visit would coincide with another big winter blast. The snow didn’t blanket the city as much as it revealed it. The new white outline of buildings and streets gave Istanbul a relief I might have missed before. It made me see things a bit differently, and that prompted me to ask deeper questions about this bifurcated city and its pivotal place in the world than maybe if it shad not snowed.

But most of all, the snow made me think of the sky and how the magnificent domes of the grand mosques of Istanbul are themselves representatives of heaven. Under these architectural marvels, I felt enveloped, enfolded with the rest of the faithful under a structure that was so high and wide that I might as well have been outside. To stand in one of the grand mosques of Istanbul is to be immediately aware of the heavens above you. I didn’t look up as much as I looked around, as if I had found a port hole above me, opened it, and poked my head through. On this snowy day, the domes of the grand mosques of Istanbul hovered with grandeur and simplicity, creating both a feeling of emptiness and of being embraced.

(You can read more about my time in Istanbul here.).

Religious Relics of Faro, Portugal. January 4, 2022.

Faro lies in the center of the Algarve, south of Lisbon. I didn’t know much about it before deciding to take the train down. I soon discovered the chilling Chapel of Bones (superior to the famous one in Evaro) and the Stations of the Cross in the Cathedral. These two are within walking distance and a visit to both is an instruction on the beauty and gruesomeness of medieval Christianity. The Cathedral has exquisite Stations of the Cross, wood enlayed with pearl, acquired in Jerusalem. They are small and not prominently displayed but stunning nonetheless.

The Chapel of Bones is constructed of human skulls. Hundreds of them, nearly all of them seemed the same (small) size. This was both weird and troubling when I got to thinking about it. The Chapel is disturbing and completely irresistible. I lingered. I was there by myself but I definitely did not feel as though I was there alone.

(You can read more about my time in The Algarve here.)

Covent of Christ in Tomar, Portugal. February 1, 2022.

I found a book on Amazon where the author claims that Portugal is the successor state of the pan-national Knights Templar. He seems to be a bit of a crackpot but we know what they say about broken clocks. In any case, Tomar was the capital of the Knights Templar, and the Convento de Christo their holy of holies. The site is expansive and old, dating from the 12th century and additions and modifications nearly ongoing. The space that most deeply impressed me is known as a Charola or “round church.” These can be found in other Romanesque churches. The style here in Tomas is “Manueline,” after the King of Portugal who presided at the height of the Discoveries. (You can read more about Manuel and the Age of Discovery in the post on Lisbon.) The Charola t is not a huge space but it reflects huge ambition. It soars. It dazzles. It gave me celestial vertigo.

The entire site, the Covent, Castle, and gardens are each worth a trip to Europe, let alone to Portugal. Visit Portugal, and make sure that you visit Tomar.

Standing on a cliff in Sagres, Coast of Portugal. January 13, 2022.

Portugal has two coasts and they are both on the Atlantic Ocean. Portugal certainly feels Mediterranean but it does not have a Mediterranean Sea Coast. Instead, tiny Portugal boldly faces the vast and mighty Atlantic. At Sagres, I felt I was on the spot where Portugal’s improbable ambitions touched the roiling Atlantic. I regret that I stayed for only two days. But because I had been in Portugal for nearly three months at the time, I had a pretty good working knowledge of its 16th-century history. I came to Sagres because it was the home of Henry the Navigators’ school of navigation. This was the Star Fleet Academy of its day, the toolbox of its improbable oceans-spanning exploration and conquest (along with a dark colonial legacy.) Brazil, Africa, China, and Japan would all be touched and it all started at Sagres.
(You can read more about my time in The Algarve here.)

Tour by Antonio of Quinta da Regaleira, Sintra, January 17, 2022.

This 60-minute tour took a mere three hours because Antonio was incredibly informed and charming, and I was the only person on the tour. Quinta is a site infused with signs and symbols of the Knights Templar. I felt it was like taking a walking tour of a Dan Brown novel. I loved Sintra and had taken my time before going to Quinta, so I had the lay of the land in mine that Antonio was able to deepen and broaden. I learned much about the Templars and Portugal — including a reference to a famous author who came by a year or so earlier to do some research for a book.

Sushi on Naoshima Island. October 28, 2022.

I had wanted to return to Naoshima since the day I left. It’s an old fishing village become a site for modern art. When I first visited over the New Year’s holiday, every single restaurant was closed. (Thank you 7Eleven). So returning to the island I was eager to explore the cuisine and while I had many great meals, Olympic Sushi was a favorite. Sitting on the floor with Louise, huge mugs of beer in hand, tired from the day’s trip to Teshima Art Museum (a one-of-a-kind art experience), I was filled with my love of Japan, my appreciation for art and thrill at immersive experiences. I thought about my good luck in having Naoshima casually recommended to me by a guy I met in Tokyo in 2019 and thought about what a sophisticated world traveler I’ve become to be happy to be on this tiny island in the Seto Inland Sea that few had heard of and even fewer Westerners had visited. That’s when I knew that Japan was my favorite country in the world.

National Gallery, Dubin. March 21, 2022

I love museums and Dublin has too great ones. EPIC, the Irish Emigration Experience is new, interactive, and generally not how I like my museums. However, it takes the intelligence of its visitors for granted and gives them in return a lively educational experience, full of facts, and entertaining.
Dublin’s oldest museum, the National Gallery, hosts an annual portrait competition. A runner-up in the 2021 competition was Note to Self by Tom McLean. I loved it. There was a frankness to it and a freshness that I found hard to turn from. The artist is young, hip, like the crowds in central Dublin. And it is a portrait about writing, about words, as much as it is about personality.
If the Irish are anything, they are lovers of words. Just before viewing the 24 short-listed portraits, I listened to a National Gallery podcast, an interview of the poet Paula Meehan. On this podcast, she read, “ The Island, A Prospect,” commissioned for another exhibition on Irish landscapes. She writes upon learning as a school girl that Ireland’s climate is temperate, “… the child I was found that word disappointing, no earthquakes, hurricanes, typhoons, volcanoes, floods.. Temperate! A dreary wet city Sunday sound.”
There is also a Vermeer hanging in another part of the museum. The subject is writing a letter. As with Note to Self, we cannot see any words at all in the painting. I found myself thinking of the act of writing by hand: the motion is unmistakable even at a distance but the text is easily kept secret from the observer. Writing words is a public and private act, a physical activity and the product of intimate thoughts and feelings. McLean and Vermeer, to say nothing of the storied tradition of Irish prose and the beauty of Irish ballads, made me appreciate the beauty and mystery of the act of writing words. This day made me appreciate travel as a wandering about in the precincts of my mind and heart, my learning and my longing, as much as it is a passage across time zones and borders.

The pavilion of the Republic of Ukraine, Dubai Expo. March 7, 2022.

I visited Morocco in 1981. It is the only Arab country that I had ever visited (in addition to a long layover in Qatar). So I was a bit surprised to find myself flying to the United Arab Emirates for Dubai Expo 2020. I had seen many commercials for Dubai Expo 2020 but none of them explained what it was — a place, an event, a date (from the past but Covid accounted for that.) Somehow after matching the visually compelling but information-scare ads on CNN, I was prompted to learn more. What I found out was that this Dubai Expo 2020 was a “World’s Fair” like the one in my native Queens, NY when I was growing up. What’s a World’s Fair, I thought, other than 191 national museums? So, with my time in Europe coming to a close, I booked a ticket. I loved every minute of it. My new Romanian friends, the African security staff, and chatting with the young people working at their national pavilions were the highlights. (Let me put it this way: OSAKA EXPO 2025 here I come!) But it was my visit to the Ukrainian pavilion that melted my heart. You can read about it here.

Being counted in the Irish Census. April 3, 2022.

Being counted in the Irish Census. April 3, 2022. In Galway. It was a coincidence but it felt perfect given the emotional valance of my trip. And I loved Galway, with its big bay, adorable aquarium, Irish Polar Bears, and pubs with live music.

I had been to Europe a half dozen times before making my first trip to Ireland. While my Dad’s side of the family was proudly and loudly Irish-American, they never spoke of the Emerald Island. I don’t think they knew anything about it. Certainly, they didn’t make any effort to encourage an understanding of the place even though I grew up aware of “The Troubles” and there was always someone “right off the boat” in my Queens, NY neighborhood who was instantly identified by his Irish brogue. After landing in Dublin from Porto, still, on the wrong side of immigration, I passed a Ukrainian mother with her child at a desk with an immigration official. I presumed she was a refugee to Ireland. I thought of all the Ukrainians scattered throughout Europe and I thought of the great Irish migration.
The internet told me I could take a bus to my B&B but I thought I should ask someone official so I did. Immediately, I started to smile as she spoke. There was that accent. So, I concluded that I had to tell her that I was Irish American. I thought it was important to add that this was my first time in Ireland. I had to share details about my family history. I could not stop from talking but fortunately, this did not stop her from taking. My blabbering did not stop in the coming day and very soon everyone had a face that I knew I had grown up with. It was my first time in Ireland, but I was home. I had not expected to have my heart stirred by the first person I spoke with while leaving the Dublin airport. The Grays are Irish Americans, but I had always identified more with my maternal German ancestry. For days, my thoughts centered around my father, my uncles, all of my cousins who had always seemed more Irish and Irish-liking than I ever was. My blabbering did not stop in the coming day and very soon everyone in Glasnevin and Drumcondra had a face that I knew I had grown up with. It was my first time in Ireland, but it felt like time-travel back to Queens, NY. I was home.
I shared much of my feelings upon arrival with Murieann, my host in Dingle, in the West, a few weeks later. She is an Irish speaker, has two sons who play Celtic sports, and a home they share with very lucky AirBnB guests. I choked up a bit when I told her that I had not expected my visit to be so personal. She smiled as she stirred oatmeal and I spread jam on her soda bread. I wondered if my feelings of homecoming were something that she had heard before from previous guests.
In coming to Ireland, I became Irish.

Bali on a motorbike. December 19, 2022.

He handed me a helmet and said “Get on.” I had been at his rented villa for maybe an hour or two, reacquainting our bodies after a “Whats App” mediated three years. I had vowed never to take a motorcycle taxi again after witnessing the aftermath of a New Year’s Eve accident in Bangkok some years earlier. I took automoblie taxis from then on, even when it doubled the time to get anyway. In Kampala, in 2020, I refused when a policeman offered me a ride on his to help track down my stolen iPhone. So here I was in another Southeast Asian country about to put my 230 pounds on two skinny wheels in busy traffic. During the taxi ride from Denpasser airport to Changdu, I realized that it was likely that my friend and Bali host had rented a motorbike, so I knew this moment would come.

I thought about mentioning my unease to my Korean friend but I kept quiet and obeyed, I donned the one helmet we had between us. Soon I was behind him on the white aging motorbike, my left hand gripping a rear handle tightly, my right arm wrapped around his strong midsection. That felt good. My legs — at an awkward angle to find purchase on the stirrups — did not. As the engine turned over, I pressed my chest against his back, making us one center of gravity (and maybe something more).

Almost instantly — maybe it was how we shared the space on the bike, maybe it was how great it felt to see him after nearly three years, maybe it was recognizing that I had already taken my biggest risk by coming to Bali with no more than a phone number and an address. — riding behind him felt romantic. I felt romantic to allow myself to trust, to let him take charge, to fold into his competence and wrap around this core. Soon we were ascending the bumpy brick alley to the road, he making adjustments as the bike heaved and hoed under the torque of my weight. (I thought of the motorcycle taxi driver in Bangkok, who yelled, “Grab me tight! Closer!” as our bike wobbled when it needed to weave with me as dead weight too near the rear.) As Kim and I turned onto the busy street crowded with motorcycles, some with two passengers behind the driver, I thought, “Well, these idiots seem to be doing OK., so what could go wrong?” We zipped past rice fields and pastures, saw ocean and mountains in the distance, and generated a cool breeze in the 85-degree tropical air. We stopped along the road on a quiet stretch to take pictures of clouds. “OK, Edward, ready to leave?”, he soon asked. “Ready!” I replied, “to go!”

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