Summer always reminds me of the sheer joy of traveling whether to new places, or to nearby venues or even back to favorite spots.
All my life I have disagreed with Henry David Thoreau who thought it wasn’t “worthwhile to [travel] around the world to count the cats in Zanzibar.” The joy of travel has been in my blood since I was a child when our family summer vacation was a trip to visit our Canadian family. Our favorite stops included the gorges in Ithaca, the Thousand Islands, and Niagara Falls, especially when they were lit up with rainbow colors at night. Each of these places were natural works of art, although at the time I didn’t think of it that way. They were simply beautiful.
Later I realized that Mark Twain, was right. Travel is “fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.” He suggested that it “would be well if an excursion could be got up every year and regularly inaugurated.” I agreed wholeheartedly so in my early twenties I took my first solo trip to Europe eager to explore the world.
In Amsterdam’s Rijksmuseum I was awed by paintings that reflected the country’s history and culture in vivid portraits and painted landscapes that brought to life the homes and people of a country I knew little about. London’s National Gallery introduced me to England’s history and the people who experienced it via exquisite art, while Paris offered an endless array of gorgeous art and sculpture. In Florence, I marveled at Michelangelo’s David and contemplated perfection in his veined hands.
It wasn’t only museums that educated me as I traveled for work and pleasure. Sometimes I saw a landscape that Anzel Adams might have photographed. Other times it was a place that became a living museum, introducing me to the culture and traditions of a country. In Portugal wall tiles were beautiful works of art. I visited a small Peruvian village reknown for its hand-woven tapestries. Guatemalan women wore their beautiful weaving and embroidery, and South African beaded works were worn or displayed in gift shops.
One day in France my husband and I stopped in a gallery in the ancient town of Vesely. The owner told us that his father had sculpted an extraordinary exhibit in a park we’d seen. Hand-carved wooden figures, called The Slaughter of the Innocents, commemorated the French deaths of WWII. He lives in Auxerre,” his son told us, next to the Cathedral. Auxerre was our next stop and that is how we came to meet Francois Brochet, whose powerful work was moving. An elegant man with the hands of a sculptor, I loved the soulfulness of his art. Before we parted Francois escorted us to his garden to reveal more sculptures. Pointing at the blue sky above the hedgerow, the cathedral loomed. “You see,” he said, “I don’t need to go far for inspiration. It is here in my backyard.”
Another travel event occurred in the northern region of Romania called Bucovina, which once belonged to Ukraine, where my grandparents had emigrated from to escape early 20th century pogroms. Bucovina is known for its painted monasteries. Bible stories are painted inside and out because 15th century peasants weren’t allowed inside churches. We were staying in a host home and in the morning their English-speaking daughter took us to the village. The little houses were painted in various colors and horse-drawn carts clopped across the cobblestone streets making their way among outdoor markets. It was a live portrait full of history, culture and village life.
An elderly woman emerged from the fog wearing a babushka, apron, and big black shoes. She looked like my grandmother whom I’d never met but had seen in pictures. I suddenly burst into tears. Here I was in what could have been the shtetl where my ancestors lived and my mother was born. So began a pilgrimage connecting me to my parents’ birthplace, for the woman in the village was our host family’s grandmother. Suddenly we too were family, eating Romanian mamalika in the kitchen, enjoying photos, and listening to stories of dictator Ceausescu time. Our parting was emotional. I had visited somewhere I’d never imagined and experienced a living portrait of painted monasteries, village landscapes, and a family whose home might have been my ancestors.
Museums share stories that help us understand other cultures, often while providing historical context that informs our worldview, but nothing compares to the living art all around us, especially as we explore and experience new places and people. I have been blessed to travel on every continent and each new place offers a new palate, a new picture, and a new perspective. As I grow older, I embrace those opportunities and memories.
I can’t imagine having missed it all. Nor can I imagine how Henry David Thoreau, and others like him, consider it useless. To my mind, Hans Christian Andersen said it best and most succinctly: "To travel is to live."
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Author note: This essay is adapted from one that appeared in Artscope Magazine, May 2025.
Elayne Clift travels from Brattleboro, Vt. Her book “Around the World in 50 Years: Travel Tales of a Not So Innocent Abroad” was published by Braughler Books in 2019.