Honeymoon
As John Denver sang, “I’m leavin’ on a jet plane.” I’m going on my first vacation since before moving north. To be clear, I travelled to China in October 2019 to visit my brother and his family and I’ve been to Vancouver multiple times, but this will be my first vacation-vacation in a long time.
Two years ago this month, C and I got married. We spent a few nights at an off-grid cabin and promised each other that a proper honeymoon would happen very soon. But you know how things go…life, work, lockdowns, my guilt about leaving Chilli, etcetera. But here we are, two years later, finally heading on our honeymoon. Ten days in Barbados.
Barbados is significant because C is Bajan and my step-grandma is, too. C has been many times, and I was with him once. It’s a beautiful place. Really, just as beautiful as those tourism advertisements make it look. White sandy beaches, clear turquoise water. It’s a stark contrast from Yukon’s current snow, darkness, and cold (don’t get me wrong, though, I love it). Perhaps best of all, C has planned the entire trip. Everything from the hotel to dinner reservations, mapping out outdoor activities, and locating the best beaches.
I consider myself to be reasonably well-traveled. I’ve been to Asia, much of Europe, and have traveled extensively through North America, but I certainly haven’t been everywhere, and I can tell you, everywhere isn’t on my list.
Before we moved north, I spent three weeks in the Netherlands doing research for my doctorate. It wasn’t my first time there. My mum’s family is Dutch, so I feel a strong connection to the country. I remember that trip fondly. It wasn’t as much a trip as it was an opportunity for a brief immersion. I did groceries, filling my bag with items you can only find in the Netherlands, I stopped at the cheese shop, and wandered the streets pretending my Dutch was more than disappointingly passable at best.
I loved my time in the Netherlands.
When my work there was finished, C joined me and we spent another three weeks in France, Austria, and Italy. Our days were full. We walked well over 30,000 steps most days. Spent hours in museums. We visited the monuments and relied on local connections to find the hidden gems. We ate well. It was wonderful.
C had never been to Europe, so for him, everything was new. The thousand-year-old buildings, the paintings and sculptures, the smells and local idiosyncrasies, the language, the food. He loved it and I loved that he loved it. It made me appreciate the trip all the more.
In my early twenties, I traveled to Norway alone. I left on Boxing Day as part of an effort to travel as frugally as possible, I purchased a ticket with a layover in both Seattle and in Paris. On the Paris to Oslo leg of the trip, the plane was turned around mid flight due to a mechanical problem. This meant an unexpected overnight in Paris. The unanticipated turn of events meant that I shared dinner and spent the day exploring Paris with two other solo travelers before our re-scheduled flight took off.
I learned a great deal about myself on that trip. At that point in my life, I was relatively shy and insecure, but the trip pushed me to come out of my shell in a way. Traveling can do that.
My first time on a snowmobile in Norway.
The Norwegian landscape past the arctic circle.
Traveling can teach us about ourselves, and perhaps more importantly, about others. And at a time when divisiveness and intolerance are rife, isn’t it important to understand more about people with experiences different from ours? I’d argue it is.
In recent years, a particular culture has emerged among travelers, and I’ll admit, there was a time I half-heartedly participated in it. The wanderlust culture. The way of life that espouses the belief that “not all those who wander are lost.” The “I haven’t been everywhere, but it’s on my list” perspective. The Instagram bios complete with #wanderlust and a long series of flags denoting each country traveled to. On the surface, this culture feels positive – it’s about exploring, experiencing, learning, appreciating, and growing; however, I can’t help but wonder if deeper down, there is something more insidious at play. Although I have never actively participated in wanderlust culture, I have at times fallen into the competitive space, the space that prioritizes the number of countries one has traveled to, rather than the richness of experience. A sort of veni vidi vici mentality.
There is a certain freedom in traveling. You’re free to explore, to try new food, to experience new things and new places, all with the knowledge that when the trip is over, you will go home. It’s not always easy to navigate new spaces and new ways of doing and being, but you know it’s a temporary experience. This kind of freedom is a luxury not afforded to all. It is a privilege and I find myself thinking about that and wondering to what extent Instagram and other social media platforms might make us forget that to some extent.
This all makes me think of the ‘Instagramable’ Joffre Lake in British Columbia. You’ve probably seen the quintessential Joffre Lake picture: a turquoise lake, a backdrop of trees and snow-covered mountains, and a person balanced on a downed tree partially submerged in the water. It’s a stunning sight, and the landscape is the very reason this particular spot is so often visited, photographed, and shared about. In fact, according to one report, Joffre Lake saw 183,000 visitors last year and over 2000 visitors a day during their busiest season. This, of course, leaves a significant footprint – both literal and figurative.
Search ‘Joffre Lake’ on Instagram and this, and thousands more similar pictures are what you find.
As much as I cringe when I think of the impact this has on the natural surroundings and the unfortunate and undeniable motivation behind the images and footage shared from locations like Joffre Lake, I cannot claim I’m not guilty of this, too. My social media presence is in large part based on and thanks to the Yukon’s stunning natural beauty. I want the North Phase community to see and appreciate and perhaps even want to visit the territory. I share about remote locations, hiking spots that simply do not see the hordes of people that trails see down south, and picture-perfect locales, but I know that they would not feel the same if they were overrun with tourists. It’s worse than ironic, but I don’t know what it is. Selfish? Contradictory?
Travel is wonderful and it is environmentally costly. It is enriching and it is special. I don’t think we’re entitled to it and like good chocolate, if you have it too often you forget to appreciate it. We need to consider the impact travel has on the environment and to practice and promote intentional travel. I’m not exactly sure what that looks like, and as I set off to spend ten days at an oceanfront hotel, I certainly don’t know if I’m doing it right. But the fact that all of us are thinking about these things must be a good starting place.
We don’t need to see everything in person to know it’s valuable.