The second-worst travel experience I ever had was on a misbegotten trip to a marvelous place that I had gone to for all the wrong reasons. The trip was a few years ago; the place was Bhutan; the reason was love, or what I had mistakenly identified as love, which is probably, technically speaking, the greatest and also the stupidest reason ever to go anywhere. It was not my first time in Bhutan. I had gone there about six months earlier for a story about couples who were attending Bhutanese fertility festivals in hopes of heading home with the ultimate family souvenir. The timing happened to be quite awkward for me — I was writing about happy families fulfilling their dream of having children, but the trip itself, coincidentally, marked the beginning of the end of my marriage. My then-husband had planned to come to Bhutan with me, and we figured a trip somewhere interesting and beautiful might extend the lease on our relationship; instead, I headed off with the fertility group, and he stayed back in New York to start clearing out his half of the apartment. I was pretty blue, but after a few days in Bhutan — where, by the way, most houses are decorated with large, celebratory paintings of penises — I fell madly in love with the tour guide and I started to enjoy the trip a whole lot more. When I returned to New York I was ecstatic. I was convinced that Tshering was my soul mate, notwithstanding the fact that he lived on the other side of the Earth, was somewhat age-inappropriate, and shared with me no cultural, social, intellectual, or religious common ground. Still, I adored him, and I think he adored me, and over the next few months we burned up hundreds of dollars on long-distance phone calls (this was in the pre-Vonage age), planning our future together (doesn’t everybody live part- time in Manhattan and part-time in the Himalayas?), trying to figure out how to wangle a visa for him, and reminiscing about every detail of our long (two- week) shared personal history.
Finally, the phone calls didn’t feel satisfying enough and Tshering’s visa wasn’t forthcoming, so I mustered the frequent-flyer miles and the nerve to go back to Bhutan to visit him. My trip itself was a trial: the flight from Bangkok to Bhutan was diverted to Calcutta because of fog or smoke or something, so we were led off the plane, stripped of our passports, and locked in a Grade D Calcutta airport hotel. We weren’t allowed to leave the premises because we didn’t have visas to enter India, and no one would say when we might hope to get to Bhutan. The owners of the hotel — twin men with what looked like twin wives — doled out skimpy portions of rice for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and seemed not happy to have us as guests. We had no idea when or how we were going to leave — in fact, we were warned that we were probably going to have to finish the trip over land, a three-day haul via Indian Air Force transport vans, crossing through Assam, which was convulsing with civil war. I was one of only two Americans in the stranded group; the other was a guy who owned a fishing lure company in Minnesota, being flown to Bhutan by the king, who wanted some special flies tied for a spring trout outing.
Finally — probably the hotel was running out of rice and the owners had resolved to get rid of us — our flight was cleared for departure and we made it to Bhutan, and I had what I realize now was the inevitably strained reunion with Tshering. Anyone who has ever fallen in love while traveling — I think it’s safe to say it is not a small group — has probably gone through this same jarring experience: the person you so effortlessly and ebulliently connected with while you were traveling requires a little more effort and inspires a little more awkwardness when you see him or her again, and ordinary life intrudes. Tshering and I were fumbling and shy with each other, and I had moments of wondering what on earth I was doing, but what else could we do? We headed off through the ragged gorgeousness of Bhutan, and after a few days the same giddiness we’d felt the first time around started to return. What is it about traveling that inspires that feeling? Is it that when you’re with someone and you’re not at home, you’re in a sort of bubble together, floating through the world, peering out at it together, bound to nothing — jobs, chores, social obligations, dry cleaning that needs to be dropped off — but each other? Is it that when you travel you can invent yourself anew, and the new person you become is freer and more engaged and more engaging than the persona you left at home? And even if you’re not in love, is this still what makes travel so seductive — the creation of a new buoyant version of yourself, unpunctured by the familiarity of people who know you and know that you have another self? Whatever it is that makes it feel this way, travel is utterly romantic and the experience of it is the experience of life idealized, and it makes you feel romantic, and romance- able, and this transformation seems more what makes it magical than any particular lovely landscape or fascinating culture you might encounter. Even bad experiences when you travel seem almost mythical — they are bad experiences, but also stories that you will tell around a table sometime later, exotic and fascinating in their badness.
Five days into my trip, Tshering and I arrived in Thimphu, the capital of Bhutan — a town on a mountainside with a scattering of little shops and a paved road or two. It was a Saturday night, as I recall. I thought we might rest a while and then go out for yak tea and some sightseeing. We arrived at the guesthouse, and as I tossed my suitcase on the bed, I noticed that Tshering was lingering in the doorway with an odd look on his face. I asked him why he wasn’t coming in, and he finally muttered that he needed to tell me something. He had a girlfriend. And not only did he have a girlfriend, he had a girlfriend whose family owned the guesthouse we were in, and therefore he couldn’t be seen with me since . . . well, for all the obvious reasons. He was depositing me in the room and would join me in a day or so. And then he left.
There are always moments during travel when you feel lonely, even when you’re traveling with the closest of friends, but those moments are usually subsumed quickly by the moments of delight and fascination and excitement and marvel. This was not one of those moments. I have never, ever felt so profoundly alone. I was in a country where I knew absolutely no one at all except for the jerk who had just ditched me, where I was as far away from home as it was possible to be and still be on Planet Earth; I was in a small country — fewer than a million people — where everyone really and truly knows everyone, where there are practically no strangers and certainly no culture of comfortable stranger-hood, no cafés or pubs where you might unobtrusively spend a day or two people-watching and nursing a cup of coffee. There isn’t even any coffee. There weren’t any other tourists — Bhutan has always limited its visitors to a thousand or so a year and makes sure they are scattered about, and what’s more, I was there during the off- season. I have always winced at the sight of tour buses, but for the first time in my life I really would have welcomed one, and would have been very happy if I could have insinuated myself into a big, loud band of, say, Texans on a tour of Bhutanese souvenir shops . . . anything. Usually when I’m on the road and feeling low, if I can’t go to a café, I hole up in my room for a few hou...