The Exceedingly High Value of Seemingly Silly Trips

I’m not going to lie - I chose the book - at least initially - purely for aesthetic reasons. Among the cramped and clustered shelves of Baggins Book Bazaar - officially, The Largest Secondhand Bookshop in England and, unofficially, a business that sounds like it belongs on the High Street of Hogsmeade rather than Rochester - I wandered upstairs to the second-floor poetry section. There, I came face-to-face with timeworn tomes of storied (and, let’s face it, mostly male) poets. And that’s where this book was - this untitled, unimposing little book. Its tawny, marbled cover and gold leaf-tipped pages drew me in, but its insides kept me hooked.

The "insides" were a series of handwritten poems, all written by an anonymous romantic with pretty sick penmanship. Poems entitled "Love," "Tradition," "A Different Kind of Love," "Life Without Ye Friends," "A Cry," "A Thought," and "On Scotlands Rocky Bulwarks.” As I read, transfixed, I just knew. A childhood obsession with National Treasure and a penchant for romanticizing my own life had prepared me for this moment: this book was the artifact that would change my life, that would kickstart a globe-trotting adventure with a disgruntled yet loyal (and secretly sweet) academic. His pragmatism and intellectual expertise combined with my creativity and optimistic zeal would lead to the discovery of some long-guarded literary secret and, in the process, true love. 

*Record scratch*

Present me to past me: Ok, get real, my dude.

Currently, I’m editing this from the treadmill in my LA apartment, a whole ocean away from the UK. Although, LA is taking a page out of England’s book and downpouring today. I’m not complaining, though. Here, cozy, rainy days are a rarity, and they transform the empty plot of land outside my apartment window into a verdant, lush, uninhibited garden. This garden will (of course) dry out in the next couple of months and turn into a beige-toned mass grave of plant carcasses, but let’s not think about that right now.

Forgive me for waxing poetic - I blame the poems and today's moody weather, which, when combined, create a potent elixir for main-character syndrome. But let's focus on the book. Spoiler alert: these poems did not kickstart a globetrotting adventure, but they did kickstart this blog post, so that’s still a win. And, after traveling across the Atlantic to slot in among the other staple books in my room (Just Kids, One Hundred Years of Solitude, and Frankenstein), this handwritten collection of verse now serves as a loving reminder of my random yet noteworthy day in Rochester.

Dedication

Stranger, if the lines herein inscribed

Should meet your eye

Soon after you had imbibed

The nectar of the poets, do not sigh

and put away this little book

remember the violet heaven painted, grows

in many a mossy nook,

and though the radiant rose

climbs in the open, that all may see it

to many folk the violet is more sweet.

And I guess that's where I'm ultimately leading us with this long-winded, circuitous intro: Rochester. Well, not Rochester specifically because there’s not a ton about that town to write home about. No, I mean from a broader perspective, what I'm trying to impart is the importance of making time to visit seemingly common, unassuming places like it.

See, this was my seventh or eighth time going to England, a fact I do not take for granted. I’m extremely grateful to have the ability, freedom, and privilege to travel as much as I have. I’m also extremely grateful that my numero uno gal pal hails from the UK, giving me an excuse to cross the pond more frequently than I would have otherwise. Each time I go, I try and see something new. Sometimes I go to tourist attractions like Westminster Abbey, and sometimes I go to places like Rochester, a town with a suspiciously large amount of antique shops and, as my friend Alice noted in her pitch to visit, “It's the place where Charles Dickens wanted to be buried.” For the record, Mr. Dickens is buried in Westminster Abbey. However, Chuck's old house is located in Rochester and features an unexpectedly creepy figurine of him in his study. Also, the house managers inexplicably welcomed me and Alice with a rendition of “Barbie Girl.”

I’m losing the plot again, so let me be clear. What I’m trying to say is that, more often than not, I’ve gotten more out of going to places like Rochester than The Places You’re Supposed to See. Here’s why:

When you forgo a visit to a Place You’re Supposed to See there’s a degree of pressure that gets lifted. You’re no longer rushing from museum to museum to make your dinner reservation at The Place to Eat before capping off the night at The Show You Cannot Miss. Don’t get me wrong, these attractions are likely popular for a good reason. But I ultimately feel that when I have an itinerary that revolves around What To See, it becomes a less enjoyable and less present experience and often turns into an overly curated performance for an invisible Instagram audience…who is probably watching my story from the toilet.

When you forgo a visit to a Place You’re Supposed to See there are no expectations of what to expect and, better yet, there’s no plan. Meander down a side street just because. Try the special at the local pub. Stroll through the artisan town fair. You probably won’t ever be in this place again, so lean into it, carve out your own interpretation of it, and don’t overthink. This will make you a better traveler and will teach you the kind of experiences that are important to you.

When you forgo a visit to a Place You’re Supposed to See you can discuss the important things you might otherwise not have had time for. Crying over a boy who won’t text you back can feel a bit inconsequential if you’re doing it in front of The Birth of Venus. But if you’re picnicking in a random park or scouring a local charity shop, it’s headline news and the unapologetic focus of the day. And maybe by the time you leave, you'll also leave some of the weight of that issue behind as well.

I know that I'm not necessarily saying anything groundbreaking here and that my whole argument rests on the benefit of having been to a place more than once. But if you take anything away from this post, let it be the following:

Yes, you want to see The Places, the attractions that everyone tells you to see, but you also want to see the places that everyone glosses over because, to them, they are nothing special. To them. But those are the places that made The Places. And sometimes, you get more out of the everyday hamlets than the castle throne rooms. Although, tbh, if you’re in England, there’s a pretty good chance that you will see a castle either way. They’re everywhere. Seriously. Even in Rochester. In fact, Rochester Castle is where Anne of Cleeves first met Henry VIII. It’s also where Alice and I had an iPhone self-timer photoshoot where we pretended to be gossipy castle servants. Which had a more culturally significant impact? The jury’s still out.

Until next time,

Meredith