Happy, Happy, Happy

If the Leaning Tower of Pisa weren’t crooked, I doubt it would be famous.  The tower is a site to see merely to say you’ve seen it——a statement that continues to puzzle me.  Somebody would say:  “You can’t go to Pisa and not see the Leaning Tower.”  I suppose the lopsided structure is an odd spectacle, but one can only stare at a distorted building for so long before the novelty wears off.  

Overall, Pisa has little to offer, and even the tower is slightly disappointing.  It is fascinating to think, however, that a miscalculation or an incorrect measurement has produced a phenomenon which desperate hawkers cling to in order to scrounge up enough money to eat.  One man’s mistake made centuries ago has now enabled African immigrants to sell fake sunglasses and knockoff purses at this popular site. 

The budding eco-system that sprouts from ancient monuments is quite depressing.  Ingenious works produce ignoramuses who aggressively sell cheaply-made and useless souvenirs like a Leaning Tower night light for 30 euros.  Other products available for purchase include gelatinous balls that splat on the ground and then reform once more.  I’ve also seen plastic birds that flap their wings and take flight from the wind before nose-diving into the concrete and self-destructing.  Tawdry merchandise and pointless toys surround iconic monuments like pesky mosquitoes buzzing around frequented watering holes.

Just as there’s a wide variety of people who become magnetized to these hubs, I have learned one can encounter a vast range of emotions while embarking on an exotic, exciting journey.  Before leaving home, many friends expressed their envy and asserted that I would have a great time.  This has most assuredly come to fruition.  However, if I were asked to summarize my trip in one word, the task would be impossible, for one feeling is not sufficient to truly describe such a long quest. 

After being mildly distracted by the Leaning Tower of Pisa, I sat down at a café and chatted briefly with Kat, our spunky and gorgeous tour manager from Australia.

“Are you having a good time?” she inquired.

“Yeah...yeah, I am,” I said calmly. 

 

“You don’t seem too excited.”

I began telling her that I am not often outwardly ecstatic but inwardly pleased, but her cell phone rang and I never finished my explanation. 

I told my friend Laura about this encounter, and she told me that in New Zealand a forced state of happiness is associated with exuberant American entertainment.  There is this sentiment that one cannot possibly be unhappy in Disney World, a dream-like utopia.  Contiki promises a similar state of constant perfection, but to maintain that level of excitement is impossible.  Like the hawkers who congregate near famous structures, ugliness lingers in the shadow of beauty. 

I was freezing in Paris.  I slept in an unorthodox outfit that included jeans, a nice sweater, and a rain jacket because they were the warmest clothes I packed.  In the morning, I dreaded leaving my tent.  To make matters worse amidst the frigidity, each morning my bladder hurt because I delayed the five-minute walk to the bathroom in the chilly darkness.  Often I was disgusted by the campsites' dirty bathrooms devoid of toilet paper or hand soap.  And in nearly every city I’ve been annoyed by the pestering street merchants shoving impractical junk in my face. 

But if I were happy all the time, this trip would be dull.  The uncomfortable moments make the comfortable moments even better.  I wouldn’t want to go on a perfect, pampering holiday.  In between bouts of happiness, I’d rather be annoyed, confused, lost, cold, sunburned, itchy from bug bites, dirty, sleep-deprived, and, always, I wish to be inflicted with just a touch of homesickness.  I much prefer to oscillate between perfection and imperfection.  Otherwise, the journey wouldn’t change me.  There would be no conflict to overcome, and life would be stagnant.  Blissful, but stagnant.