The dilemma of the traveller and the tourist
The concept of ‘finding yourself’ abroad has long been a tired cliché and, more recently, a contentious one. When tourists, often escaping a miserable corporate life, embrace the ‘healing’ power of a Mediterranean archipelago or a Southeast Asian island, they are criticised for romanticising a lifestyle that, for locals, is simply their everyday life.
But what if you had been learning a target language, its literature and culture, and for academic purposes needed to live in that target country for a year? Would the same questions of exoticism and ignorance arise, or is there a distinction between the conscious traveller and the complacent tourist? These were the questions that I asked myself as I embarked on my year abroad.
I feel that both labels are two extremes that I oscillate between. I can be a conscious traveller, making an effort to speak the language and respect the locals, or I find myself being a complacent tourist, taking my picture at the overcrowded spots known to everyone on social media.
Walking across cultural bridges
The majority of my year abroad was not spent gazing at the portraits in the Prado, but instead firmly fixed on the whiteboard of the classroom. I was an English Language Assistant in a Spanish town on the Costa de Almería. My role involved giving lessons on Natural and Social Sciences – a welcome change from my Humanities degree – as well as introducing my students to the English-speaking world and its customs.
In turn, I gained a richer understanding throughout the year of Spanish, specifically Andalusian, heritage and tradition. Whilst we sang Christmas Carols, hid Easter Eggs, and got lost in fairytales, I in turn learnt about the Three Kings Day, the passion of Holy Week, and strolled along the palaces of Al-Andalus. I observed the pride of the school community during local and national festivities, and adopted a slower lifestyle that did not hinge upon productivity alone.
Soon I was dancing at festivals, tasting local delicacies and getting lost in more ways than one. During my walks, I saw myself floating on the sea in front of me. I imagined what it was like to live a life of blissful uncertainty, guided by the calm of the current instead of whirled around by my tempestuous mind. Approaching my flat felt like reaching land again. I sobered my illusions, following the winding streets sprawled with bougainvillea that led me on my way.
Speaking the language meant that I leant into the traveller a whole lot more throughout the year. The improvement was subtle, but the increasing ease I felt with day-to-day conversations brought down any cultural boundaries experienced by the tourist in me, and enhanced my affinity for the country as the traveller.
I wonder if it would matter though, had I not chosen to learn Spanish. Could I not call this place ‘home’, even if I was drawn to it? But the issues of overtourism, and an apathy towards cultural integration lurk disapprovingly behind these concerns.
The traveller and the tourist were both alive in me. I was keen to research every detail about Andalusia’s Moorish sites, but was also content with a bog-standard beach day. I suppose the two coexisted. The traveller nurtured the intellectually curious Oxfordian in me, and the tourist reminded me to take a break from its bubble and appreciate how fortunate I was.
An Insider Outside the Oxford Bubble
It was strange, however, to be on the outside looking in on the happenings at Oxford. I found being in the classroom or at the beach whilst my friends were completing their dissertations an amusing contrast. I was free of Oxford’s structures but ironically all the more aware of which week in term it was. I looked forward to reading the College newsletter and scrutinising each week’s dining hall menu. The months that flew by tenfold at university now sauntered as calmly as a siesta.
I constantly imagined what it was like for my friends at certain points in term and where I would have fit in the picture. At one formal, my friend propped her phone up on the wine glass to include me, my picture glowing against the dessert. I never felt left out, but an impending dread weighed on my heart that I would be left behind after most of my year graduated. The “How is Spain?” and the “You’re so lucky!” remarks grew bittersweet over time.
Ultimately, I resolved to make peace with the fact that change is the only constant. I reframed my anxiety, looking forward to being at Oxford for my final year and wanting to make the most of such an extraordinary opportunity.
Where is “home”?
I have a month left until, like John Denver, I leave Spain on a jet plane. The question of ‘home’ is thereby one that resonates with me now more than ever. “Who am I now?” and “where is home?” are doubts that crop up in my mind as my flight date draws near. I think of the list of ‘goodbyes’ I am due: to my flat, my friends, the school, and someone special I met here. After making such close connections, romantic or otherwise, perhaps I am too afraid to lose them.
The same sadness crept up on me last year at Oxford. I was afraid of change and resistant to accept a reality I had prepared for months ago. But I knew I would come back ‘home’.
In this case, I am not sure when I will return. If I will. I may well be swinging back and forth between the two countries forever. To make a choice is to be dismissive of our intersectional identities. Perhaps I am as dramatic as I was last year, but the uncertainty adds to the weight of leaving part of me behind.
Regardless, my departure is inevitable. My visa will expire, I will return to Oxford and graduate next year. A reality I had prepared for months ago. I sometimes feel ashamed about my mixed emotions when I am excited to savour my last year at an exceptional university I also call ‘home’. How grateful I am to have these choices and not need to make them.
“Finding myself”
With all these questions, I am not sure if I have ‘found myself’ abroad, or if that is even the right question to ask in the first place. I feel more confident and free, but also restrained by my overthinking. However, just as I have done this year, I will pursue the path that I need at this moment in my life. My home could be all these places at once, waiting for me to return with open arms once I am ready.
As I slowly start to pack up my life here, I realise that I have to be okay with losing a piece of myself in order to find the ‘me’ that will lead me back ‘home’ one day.