The Intentional Tourist

My recent, six-day vacation in Manchester, England was the first time I’d traveled by myself outside of the U.S. since college. My vision was to be the anti-tourist, to get a taste of what it would be like to live in Manchester. No guidebooks; just word of mouth and a little googling. No hotels; I’d stay in an apartment through Airbnb. No all-day bus tours of famous sites; I would walk everywhere and take the time to relax and chat with people or read a book.

By the end of my trip, I had visited a dozen pubs. I spent hours browsing a used bookstore and left with as much as I could carry. I got a massage and a haircut. I ate a different cuisine every day. I went to two concerts, a movie, a museum, and a nearly 400-year-old public library. I took at least a hundred pictures.

The irony is, aside from exploring the 17th-century library, I could have done most of these activities in my own neighborhood. But I don’t. I tend to rotate between the same 2-3 bars and restaurants every week. In the past four months, I’ve been to two local bookstores, seen two movies, visited the local library twice, and been to one museum. I haven’t been to a concert in months. I’ve moved four times since my last haircut and massage. Most of my pictures are of meals I’ve cooked at home.

If I had truly wanted to simulate what it would be like for me to live in Manchester, I would have had groceries delivered to the Airbnb and spent most of the week indoors, working and eating and watching videos.

But I couldn’t. By the time I stepped off the train to Manchester and stopped at a coffee shop, I was already writing down all of the things I wanted to see and do. And aside from one place that closed early, I did everything on my list.

How can I have a busy agenda every day for a week and manage to get it all done, yet at home, I can go for days without setting foot outside my place?

For years, I’ve rebelled against the idea of being a tourist. I see tourists as largely ignorant, obnoxious, disrespectful people who treat other people’s neighborhoods and workplaces like their personal amusement parks.

But there’s another side to tourism. Tourists appreciate what locals take for granted. What tourists will travel thousands of miles to see, many locals just see as another silhouette in their skyline.

And while I may not want to think of myself as a tourist, my trip to Manchester taught me something about myself: time matters more to me when I travel. Every day when I woke up, I was reminded of the fact that I might never come back to Manchester. That realization propelled me out the door and fueled my need to explore.

At home, I take nearly everything for granted because there’s always tomorrow. I can visit the library tomorrow. I can exercise tomorrow. I can contact that person I care about tomorrow. I can work on my novel tomorrow.

I’ve spent most of my life waiting for tomorrow.

But whether it’s spent on another continent or in my home, every day that passes is a day I won’t get back.

Maybe it’s time to embrace my inner tourist. How would I approach the next week if it was all the time I had to visit this life?