I suppose an obsession with travel has always coursed through my veins, though I was never able to make it a central concern until well into my 30’s. I knew for a very long time that I wanted to dive deeply into this world and even write about it, but artistic commitments, relationships, and most importantly—money—made this dream tough to realize in my younger days.
Still, I managed to ramble pretty good in my 20’s, exploring much of the alluring, psychedelic landscape of the American West, accompanied by small jaunts north and south of the border, as well as a couple of crazy months spent in the UK (and Ireland), where —sans smack—I got to live my own private Trainspotting. The 90’s were just nuts.
What I’m getting at is that, once I moved to Korea and was supplied with not only a launchpad, but also a job that paid the bills AND gave me scads of the most important resource—TIME— that I got to traveling straight away. And of course used it as material for my writing, though I sometimes forget that the very act of living in Korea is an insane act of travel in its own sense.
I remember being in SE Asia, baked as a potato on the banks of the Mekong, and having the most pretentious Swiss girl ever (trust me when I tell you that the competition is fierce) roll her eyes at me when I told her I was just out for four weeks, and say: “When you go out for just one month you are a ‘tourist.’ When you go out for NINE (she pointed to herself), you are a ‘traveler.’”
“But I LIVE in motherfucking KOREA,” I screamed inside of my own head, grinning and eating the dollop of shit she forced down my gullet. “I’m not going back to my home country. Probably EVER. Enjoy the Banana Pancake Trail, bitch,” I continued to think, as the tropical blood sun set behind mountains on the other side of one of Asia’s mightiest rivers.
I’ve told this story multiple times and I believe it even shows up in one of my books but man, that sort of cuntfuckery—travel one-upmanship—used to drive me crazy. And it still exists. Sometimes I get asked “How many countries have you been to?” as if the country count actually means more than a flake off my sack. And my answer is that I don’t quite know but the number isn’t particularly impressive, as I’ve not traveled extensively in places like Europe, where you can knock six or seven off in a day.
The country count is an idiotic measurement, a drooling way to flash your superior traveler’s stripes at someone else. And what it doesn’t take into account is that some of us (he points to himself, Swiss-style), keep RETURNING to the places that really stoke our fires, that while travel is well addictive in its own sense, certain destinations contain so much gravity and magic that you can’t help but go back and continue to sip from that well.
What places have hooked you? For my parents it was Hawaii. They honeymooned there and just kept hitting that vein as long as they could (they even lived there for half a year or so). And the fact that they blew whatever pittance of an inheritance I may have had on trips they really couldn’t afford doesn’t bother me, because now I get it. I want to do the same. I am at times overwhelmed with the need to go back to the places that draw me, or the places that keep inviting me back.
Travel really is a drug this way. You’re always chasing that first hit, no?
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Laos was the first country to really get under my skin. I went there for the first time in 2006 and was immediately smitten. It was slow and hypnotic, with languid, emerald rivers, limestone mountains, ice cold beer everywhere, and a shy, kind people who should have hated me for the crimes my country committed there during the so-called “Vietnam” War. 1
Bus trips were measured in the tens of hours along catastrophes of mountain roads. Villages seemed untouched, and people would line the roads and shout “SABAIDEE!” as I cruised by on my dilapidated rented motorbike. The food was hearty and full of tropical flavor; the whole affair felt like Thailand without the ATMs and fake smiles. No one was in my pocket. It was pure, beautiful, innocent, and also tragic.
I explored the landlocked expanse of the country five times from the Chinese border to Cambo and have spent time in most every major city or town. I haven’t been back for a long time now and have heard that the Chinese have built a high-speed train from Vientiane northwards, which, while certainly a boon for the Lao people, must ruin the thing that made the place so special to visit: its remoteness. But I cannot begrudge poor people for wanting to be less so. Still, I can’t help but think that something has been lost, because surely, unless you’re willing to endure a 14-hour bus grind over moon cratered roads, you’re just a “tourist,” right?
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I never was that interested in Japan growing up, and then I went there. Like my first trip to Laos, I believe it was with my good friend and travel companion, Steve Feldman. I figured it would be just like Korea but a bit cleaner, and while that notion holds a few grains of truth, going to Japan made me understand just how different the two nations are.
Japan was immediately mesmerizing, a kaleidoscope of splashy colors, insanely cool architecture, immaculate streets, bicycles, neighborhoods so quiet it was almost eerie, and food so dialed in and savory that is almost seemed UN-Asian. But as organized and perfect as the place seemed, you could sense the wild, chaotic heart beating underneath.
The people had a look in their eyes that brought to mind fire, and once they drank—and the Japanese LOVE to drink—the masks came off and that raw verve quickly percolated to the surface. I almost got my ass kicked at a punk club when I complained about paying 2000 yen to see a DJ, and later, on the street, an oteng (fish cake) vendor denied me service just because I was far too bellowy and uncouth.
You see, the Japanese have a deep, quiet pride that can border on arrogance at times, but they’ve earned it, because, pound for pound, they may have the best country on the planet. Every angle is pleasing to the eye; its prosperous and moneyed; it all works like a finely-tuned clock, but on top of this anal perfection is a raucous, almost feral spirit—a kind of island madness that you also see in the UK.2
I’ve been on all three main islands numerous times now. From Kyushua to Hokkaido I’ve lived, drunk, and eaten large swaths of the country and am completely flabbergasted and charmed every time I wash back up on those supremely civilized shores. More Japan, please.
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Mexico is the first country I visited where English isn’t the main language. I had learned Spanish to a degree but never practiced it outside the borders of the USA until the summer of ‘96 where, during a break from a road gig that had me in San Diego, I headed down to Ensenada with a couple coworkers and attempted to do the talking, badly failing at negotiating a reasonable rate for our first hotel room, thinking that “500 pesos” meant “50 pesos.” The manager was nonplussed when I handed him such a measly note for room for three people.
When I lived in LA I made a couple more dips into Baja and by that time my Spanish had improved, but it wasn’t until 2017 that I returned to Mexico proper, doing a week in Sinaloa and Chihuahua aboard “El Chepe,” the train that runs from Los Mochis on the coast and then up and around the rim of Copper Canyon, a series of gorges that dwarfs our own supposed “Grand” Canyon.
This was a revelation, an exploration into the expansive, arid north of our southern neighbor, where very few gringo tourists were venturing at the time due to the fact that the whole region was (and probably still is) under de facto narco control.
But it didn’t take long for Mexico’s irresistible tendrils to get into my spine. Music, cold beer, mountains, rivers, beaches for ages, more music, and tacos for miles, and I returned two more times, finally completing my goal of seeing the country from Tijuana to Chiapas.
What I’ve taken away over my six visits to the place is that I’m ashamed I went so long without truly appreciating the fact that perhaps the most delicious, mysterious, magical country on the planet is a direct neighbor of the nation that I grew up in. That this republic to the south—despite its poverty and violence and its own myriad issues—is perhaps the place I’d wanted to travel to all along. It just took me moving across the Pacific Ocean to finally do it, and all I can think about is: When can I go back?
So again, my traveler friends: Where do you keep returning to again and again, if not physically, at least in your minds?
Between 1964 and 1973 the United States dropped 2 million tons of ordinance on Laos, more than all of the bombs dropped in World War II combined: that’s 260 million individual bombs over 580,000 bombing missions. While the munitions killed plenty in the day, many—especially cluster bombs—remained unexploded, killing up to 20,000 and maiming countless others well after the hostilities ceased. This is surely one of the 20th century’s great war crimes
I know I’m not the only one to proffer this idea that island people suffer (or benefit) from a kind of collective restlessness that pours out in manic ways. Both Britain and Japan have attempted to tame this feral nature through rigid, ordered societies, militarism, and colonial ventures, with mixed success. There is certainly a madness afoot in both places that can never really be tamed.
I'm on a ship right now tapping out responses on my phone, so I can't answer your question about countries that have touched me. But regarding the "competition" among some folks as to who is the "better" traveler, OMFG, get over yourselves. As soon as you try and prove your better, you've lost the debate.
This was great and as I read I started thinking of the countries that stole my heart. Argentina is one - I started a long-term trip there so wasn’t sure if it was a fleeting love but after visiting for a second time I’m hooked. Some others that stick out include Bulgaria, Colombia and the UK & Ireland, also Italy (specially Venice and Piedmont). I also agree with you about Mexico. There’s so much to see and explore and it does feel magical. I’ve found whenever someone asks me what my favorite country is it ends up being a list of all the countries I’ve visited, they’re all special.