So Small the World

One of my sons is in China as I write. Six of my children are going to Ireland in April. I have had the good fortune to make three trips to Germany and one each to England and Italy. By contrast, the only foreign travel my parents ever achieved was crossing into Canada and Mexico. It was in Mexico that my mother fell in love with gardenias, a taste she passed on to my eldest sister whose corsages in my growing-up years perfumed our refrigerator. We gagged on the butter and milk for days.

We, being a rather nomadic family ourselves, were always fascinated by movies and books that took us to "faraway places with strange sounding names." That hasn't changed.

It's becoming hard now to remember when going somewhere by plane meant getting dressed up, and cruises were for the very rich. Have you been through an airport terminal lately?

I can still recall my first magical  experience eating in the dining car of a moving train; the spotless white tablecloths, the bud vase with its pink blossom, the mirror-shiny heavy cutlery and dishes. Not only has transport lost its panache as a result of all this affordability, a certain mystique is missing from famous places. Crowds swarm the Spanish Steps, the Taj  Mahal, Machu Pichu. It's hard to romanticize a place where hawkers are selling cheap imitations. Perversely, tourists shun the too-touristy, and vacationers seek the ever more exotic escapes.

The plus side of today's travel, one hopes, is that exposure to other people, other cultures, will lead us to try to understand better and care more for all with whom we share our shrinking planet.