Toni Caicedo’s travels have led her to believe that travel is wonder, that wonder is magic, and that magic is travel.
Magical travel moments usually bubble up unexpectedly, unplanned and surprising. I am beginning to understand why explorers dare unknown dangers to experience the thrill of discovery. We all share that same excitement of unfolding awe as we discover unique sights for ourselves, with the same tingle that Magellan must have felt when he sighted a new land.
I remember a castle in Spain, high on an isolated hill, guarding the valley town below, its building stones strewn carelessly about by time, unmonitored, unguarded, still being restored – after how many centuries? My daughter and I traipsed around, up and down its dusty cobblestoned staircases, stumbling through the scattered evidence of some reconstruction attempts on the castle’s crumbling outer ramparts.
Suddenly, rounding another corner, we came upon one tiny, jewel-like room tucked into the castle interior. Warm, golden light poured out of this dark corner. This single miniature treasure room had been completely restored, creating an art gallery filled with ancient icons, pedestalled statues, and lavishly draped tapestries, all dazzling under artistically-focused spotlights. What mysterious hand imagined and formed its elaborate beauty? What was its purpose? Was the room finished early to inspire the workmen to envision the castle’s future, finished splendor? Perhaps the room’s creator just wanted to show what magic she could do, and then she left it hidden away, like God conceals beautiful butterflies deep in an unexplored forest. How wonderfully Hispanic to value art above boring maintenance.
I also recollect the wonder of Gaudy’s surreal, baroque church in Barcelona, where we discovered a diminutive chapel, tucked away down some narrow steps. As we roamed around the small prayer alcoves, our eyes were captured by the droll, slightly suggestive smiles of the angelic cherubs, making us laugh out loud at Gaudy’s private joke.
Once our whole family sneaked into an immense, untended Yucatan estate in Mexico to see a Mayan temple which guarded a sunken limestone cenote. Cenotes are like the swimming holes that form in used quarries. They were once underground caves, before the top fell in revealing a deep, water-filled opening in the ground.
Our Volkswagen camper carefully crept along a long road, bouncing over axle-breaking ruts, and finally arrived at the temple. Discovering a sea-filled canal behind the temple we peered down into exquisitely clear, still water and then rushed to put on our snorkeling gear. Stepping warily into the serene water, our bodies broke the dark mirror between air and water, and were softly enveloped in the cenote’s silence. We swam slowly toward the sunlight, wrapped in wonder, diving into every hidden crevasse, and then floating suspended between a kind of religious awe mixed with a tingle of unknown fear. At family gatherings we still talk about this experience with reverence.
These epiphanal moments are never planned. They wait for your arrival like an unexpected gift. The intimate glory of seeing a Renoir for the first time, even though you are surrounded by crowds of tourists, hits you with such a sudden revelation of beauty that it is hard not to shout your delight to the stranger at your shoulder.
Travel also brings unexpected personal encounters. Some turn into lifelong friendships, others are as brief as a few moments. Recently, as I traveled by train in England, Wales, and Ireland, I met an Australian medic who works for six months, saves his salary and then travels around the world the other half a year. The same day, I sympathized with a seasick ferry rider who had hiked Machu Picchu, climbed to Mt. Everest’s base camp, and who sailed his own boat – but who couldn’t stand the gentle motion of a brief sea passage between Dublin and Holyhead. Then I enjoyed a conversation with a young Irish girl named Macha. Seeking to impress her with my newly acquired medieval scholarship, I mentioned that she shared that name with a famous Celtic queen. She said majestically, as only a 12-year-old can do, "Yes, I know."
Travel allows you to find experts wherever you go. Once, in a North Carolina campground, an eight-year-old child offered me essential details about how to identify and properly study the behavior of fairies, or "wee folk," as her grandfather called them. Otherwise, I would not have known who carries the little blinking lanterns that we watch in the darkness of early summer evenings.
Some of my most valuable discoveries happen on airplane flights. An airline pilot, "deadheading" to a distant city, revealed to me how I should book the seats by the emergency exits – where extra legroom is available. However, that helpful advice was somehow balanced on the next flight when a pilot’s wife, sitting beside me, kept white-knuckling the seat in front of her every time the plane bounced.
On another flight, a young mother expertly demonstrated how to distract, yet playfully instruct a restless child so the other passengers could remain undisturbed. My most poignant experience happened on a cross-country midnight flight, when my young seat companion described how he had just endured losing a dear friend to a long AIDS illness. His calm acceptance of the grief still haunts my memory. Each of these travel encounters has enriched my life and my memories.
Travel breaks down prejudices and teaches that kindness and honesty have no national boundaries. Like Blanche in A Streetcar Named Desire, I often depend on the kindness of strangers when I am traveling. Recently, my camera and I traveled around Ireland on separate tours. I kept leaving it behind, once in a Dublin taxi, and another time in a tourist site near Clonmacnoise. Both times the drivers spent a great deal of time and effort to return the camera to me; one even arranged for the stationmaster in Athlone, Ireland to dash out to the train during the three-minute stop there, and he personally handed the camera back to me. There is an old American saying, that "To leave something behind means that you want to return there." This is certainly true of my visit to Ireland. Thank you again, Paddy Kavanaugh.
Travel entertains even while you wait, observing the swirl of people around you in airports and train stations, studying their faces and body language. Children are usually engaged in perpetual motion or, if momentarily quiet, their eyes dart or gaze steadily, constantly recording this fascinating world. Older folk also stare, but they usually look into space to avoid other eyes, remembering some past event, or trying to will the present time to pass. How strange that adults, whose future life span constantly shortens, want time to hurry by. But a child savors the present moment – eyes incessantly massaging her brain cells. I hope that wherever I travel, I can continue to massage my brain cells with the constant excitement of richly fresh discoveries.
» More reading: 8 Unforgettable Travel Experiences