The difference between “travelers” and “tourists” is huge. As travelers, my wife and I found that special bistro in Paris; that pub in London that isn’t written about in any travel book; a 250-year-old farmhouse in a village near Pisa, Italy, where we stayed for weeks; a house in Thailand that was made completely from teak, and a quiet patio restaurant in Switzerland overlooking a valley right out of “The Sound of Music,” complete with a valley floor of yellow flowers and the sound of cow bells.
One of the biggest pluses of being a traveler is meeting the local people as neighbors, not as a “tourist.”
Though we like to travel independently, in some countries we have taken tours instead because of language difficulties, and they worked out well. One group tour we took was in China a couple years ago.
Our day usually began with a tour of a city, museum or interesting site, followed by lunch, then what I called “the factory of the day.” The factory might have made umbrellas, silk goods or jewelry.
At the end of the factory tour, the group would exit through the gift shop, where we had a 30-minute “opportunity” to buy something — something which, when you returned home, you wondered why you bought it.
One day, I asked the tour guide what time the factory tour would end, then told him my wife and I would meet him back at the bus at that time. A block away from the factory was the China we wanted to see.
We plunged into the village life and the fast-moving river of people. There were bicycles, cars, vans, buses and pedestrians all fighting for the same space.
Vendors were selling exotic foods, and we bought from several of them, not knowing what we were eating (which was probably just as well). The food was boiled, baked or fried and prepared with wonderful spices and herbs.
There was a woman at a flower market selling garlands of flowers ablaze with color. With a barber chair on the sidewalk, a barber was busy practicing his trade. A street tailor used a sewing machine operated by a foot treadle. A sidewalk artist sat sketching people.
Live ducks, chickens and snakes were being sold from cages, and fresh fish were displayed on top of an ice-filled barrel. Colorful piles of fruits and vegetables were piled high on makeshift stands.
An old man was dyeing material in large vats, and his hands and shoes showed the years of his trade. Showing me a picture of a young man, he pointed to the picture and then to himself; the picture was dated 1930.
My wife has red hair, fair skin and vibrant green eyes, so she stood out in the village. A young man of 20-something approached her and asked if she spoke English. He was studying English in school and was having a problem with a lesson. Within 15 minutes, my wife was surrounded by students and conducting an English class.
Some women handed her their infants to hold and, motioning with their cameras, asked if they could take her picture with each child. I enjoyed looking at the interesting faces of the people and asked, in pantomime, if I could take pictures of them; they graciously nodded ‘Yes.’
Several people gave me pieces of paper with written Chinese characters. Later I found out that these were their names and addresses. Not knowing who was who on my return to the States, I sent them all copies of the pictures I had taken of the villagers that day.
We also walked by a school, surrounded by a metal fence, where 30 pre-teenage children in school uniforms were doing exercises under the direction of an instructor. I smiled at the students and they smiled back. Their instructor, annoyed at the break in discipline, blew his whistle and they stopped smiling.
When there was recess, the children ran out to see me. They looked up at me, smiling, and I said several times, slowly, enunciating each word, “M-Y N-A-M-E I-S R-O-N.” They repeated what I said with much laughter.
I continued the lesson, repeating other phrases that they parroted, while they all tried to get as close to me as possible. Of all the pictures I have of sights and people throughout the world, the one with those children surrounding me and smiling is one of my favorites.
RON TRAZENFELD
Miami, FL
