No Small Wander

I’ve been thinking about libraries recently.

There’s a special kind of person (I married one of them!) who dreamt of having a library in their house when they were a kid. Whether it was watching The Pagemaster, or Beauty and the Beast, or even the descriptions of libraries in the Harry Potter books, there was something so deliciously romantic about having a room just for books. Brown wood, rolling ladder, floor-to-ceiling books—that’s the dream!

When I was a kid—even a teen—books were an escape. The turn of the page meant leaving my world behind, and entering a new one instead. It meant babysitting shenanigans, kids dealing with dysfunctional families, and worlds where magic was possible. It wasn’t always pleasant, but it was always thrilling.

Now, I live in London—so my book storage is comprised of double-filled shelves, drawers, and piles on my beside table. But a lot of the books I have now are non-fiction; books about history, cultural criticism, work advice. I stopped reading fiction as much, and I’m now realising. Somewhere, I stopped getting joy escaping into fictional worlds.

In a way, this makes me sad. I think of 10-year-old Charlotte who was so happy to spend an afternoon curled up with a book, and I wonder when life’s simple pleasures lost their lustre.

But there’s another part of me that recognises that childhood readers becoming travel enthusiasts makes a lot of sense. We don’t stop craving adventure, and when we grow up, we have the agency to make those adventures happen for ourselves.

Growing up, I think I needed the escape that books brought as a kid who didn’t get to do the things she wanted to do. I’m not saying I had a bad childhood—I think every kid with a big imagination dreams beyond what they’ve got. For me, it was magic, and acting in plays, and trips to theme parks. For other kids it was probably going to skateboarding championships, or learning to dance, or getting to play guitar with their favourite band.

But reality doesn’t add up to that, especially as a kid. So we dream! We dream of these things, and we find stories that speaks to us that mirrors this. And these stories are the vessel that tells us, your curiosity is worth exploring.

When we grow up, it’s different. Rather than romance books with perfect love interests, we get strings of so-so dates through swiping on Hinge. Instead of glamourous jobs at magazines, we do what we can to make ends meet.

The meanings we make in life are so rarely as simple and linear as they are in fiction. And sometimes, the meanings and memories we take away from life’s experiences can pale in comparison. Who doesn’t want the perfect clarity that comes with a three-act story structure? Who doesn’t want to know empirically, who’s good and evil? That things will work out in the end?

I think that there’s a part of all of us, deep down, that would like the assurance a well-told story gives us in our real lives. But life is too complicated for that. So we try to come up with ways to write our own stories; to make our dreams a reality. For some of us, those dreams have to do with careers, partners, friendships, money, or purpose. But I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the biggest dreamers I know also love to travel. Instead of trying to escape to different worlds, they look to explore new locations as a way of life.

Although I’m a little sad that I’ve lost my passion for fiction, it makes me happy to think that I’m building a life full of the dreams I once had. Replacing imaginary worlds for real-life locations is a trade I’m glad I’ve made!

Did you read a lot as a kid? Did it impact the way you travel? I hope you’ll let me know in the comments. And as always, happy travels!