I got into music with the will
To light up many hearths like Che could do,
To circulate ideas, to advance utopia
Alternating barricades, sharp thought, and poetry.
Mc Solaar, Guérilla
Subscribing without a fight to the slightest line of my itinerary sometimes feels like an illusion. Because there are countries where, despite the fever and enthusiasm, despite the triumphant revolution, certain elements block my path. And if I had planned, for F. and me, a beautiful ascent up Tabouret Hill (Loma del Taburete, 453m), it was without accounting for vegetation as dense as it was thorny, which barred our way after just a few quarters of an hour of walking. Exhausted, I had to face the facts: we wouldn’t go any further. I needed to come up with some kind of Plan B.
But what is this country, an unwitting laboratory of the worst that white civilization has done during its reign? What is this magnificent place—yet another—entrusted to the care of oblivion, just 150 km from the land of freedom? According to Donald Trump, a country supporting terrorism; according to the locals, the vast battlefield of 20th-century ideologies; according to the average tourist, a hot country, a beautiful country, a country where the last illusions of a lost paradise are dying.
On the other side of Havana Bay, we love that statue of Christ blessing the city. There’s something gentle, soothing, in that patriarchal gesture. You’d almost be tempted to forget that at the dawn of the 16th century, those who claimed to represent the Church had no scruples about eradicating the Ciboney and Taíno populations. Worse, you’ll find magnificent this cathedral dedicated to the Virgin Mary, right in the heart of the old city. Under the guise of a civilizing necessity, Havana became, like so many other places, the gilded seat of European pretensions, at the expense of local populations doomed to extermination, then enslaved populations—more or less indigenous—who, you can imagine, didn’t often set foot in this holy place.
Lost in my thoughts, I try to push through this tangled vegetation. Nature reclaims its rights; nature abhors a vacuum. Yes, the well-trodden path of revolution couldn’t stay free of weeds! The road is buried. We give up and turn back, until that fork I’d noted before leaving, which would let us reach the top of the hill by skirting its northern slope.
So the white man arrives, settles, and gets rid of everything that bothers him. He has two unstoppable forces at his disposal: gunpowder and the spiritual certainty of being on the side of an all-powerful god. While the first gives him an unmatched material advantage over his new enemy, the second lets him use the first without feeling too guilty. That’s the magic of this supreme Church: it condemns all forms of pleasure—calling them impurity—while promoting plunder and crime under the cover of evangelization.
Walking through the city, you find a bit of Algiers, except that here, the decay is almost irreversible. You feel the splendor of the past, a disconcerting image of all vanity, from an era when men knew how to build beauty—especially if they didn’t have to share it. We’ll debate the benefits of colonialism for a long time, while glossing over the fact that those benefits often stopped at the city limits, limits all too obvious to the indigenous people. Havana isn’t just one or a few buildings; it’s an impressive collection of works of art built one after another, in what I think was a spirit of healthy competition. Yes, you find Algiers in this exuberance. As if these distant cities were the receptacle of everything that was best in the lands of origin. Atlantes and lintels, golds, blues, ogives, and monumental windows—exceptional architecture in an exceptional place.
Some streets are clean, swept with care; others are not, scattered here and there with potholes filled with water. A rather persistent smell of urine invades us regularly. We move on. And we look up: Havana is visited with your nose in the air. Because the beauty is truly up there, on those magnificent balconies and terracotta arches. Also because it’s not impossible that a piece of that balcony might suddenly detach, hurling our ends into an overseas tragedy we’d rather avoid. On the ground, here and there, rubble. Inexorably, this city is returning to dust.
My Plan B turns out to be no more successful than the first attempt. After a cheerful progression of a few hundred meters, same outcome, same struggle—the vegetation opposes any revolution: impossible to go around the hill! Once again, we have to turn back. We’ll try Plan C. I reassure myself by convincing myself to stay in the logic of this country: Cuba has been searching for itself for five centuries.
Coffee, tobacco, and sugarcane—the green gold of the colonies—so that money could flow and Europe could enjoy itself. Cuba’s history isn’t original. In reality, all the hot lands at these latitudes suffer the same fate: to serve the white man. While waiting for the awakening of consciences, UN Resolution 1514 and more or less affirmed revolutionary desires. Except that—and this reflection is just my own—if the awakening of consciences and the revolutionary will don’t play into what Resolution 1514 hides, there’s a good chance the said state will become a pariah. Those who don’t follow the American doctrine risk a lot; those who decide to follow Moscow risk everything. Independence was only the barely discreet instrument of American views. Patrice Lumumba will gladly enlighten us on the subject.
Turning back is good. Setting up Plan C is better. I won’t deviate from my goal: we will reach the top of Tabouret, whatever the cost! Near a small country road, I hesitate to change the program. Time is ticking—is it really reasonable to attempt the ascent? Then a tricycle taxi appears, a kind of tuk-tuk powered by an electric moped. I take it as a sign from fate, and we board for the starting point of Plan C.
In Cuba, even before Resolution 1514, independence was assured by a pawn of the United States, Fulgencio Batista. There’s no need to go over the whole history here; we’ll just remember that if you know how to give without counting to your former masters, you can enjoy a facade of freedom. Fidel Castro, on the other hand, didn’t know how to give. It never even occurred to him. That’s why the United States harbors such terrible hatred for this rebellious state, opposed to capitalist values and political prostitution. From there to slowly killing its people for nearly seventy years, one can legitimately cry injustice. But there are other priorities. Oh yes! Greenland...
Do Cubans eat their fill? Does seeing overweight people mean opulence? Food grows, no doubt about it. The soil is fertile, the climate favorable. No, what shocks here is the absolute precarity, the feeling of a people living in survival mode, and the decay of both goods and hope. Where to go? What’s the point? The stubbornness of the United States in wanting to impose its views on the Cuban government is felt much more by an overwhelmed people than by those few elites—caricatures of communism—who instill their vision of happiness with a crowbar. The embargo imposed in 1960; the false-flag attacks—American planes flying the colors of the Cuban revolution during the Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961—the exasperation of placing Cuba on the list of countries supporting terrorism. More recently, Donald Trump decided to heavily tax countries supplying Cuba with fuel. The last time I saw such long lines near gas stations was during my first trip to Romania... in 1991. It’s not for me to judge whether Raúl and his clique are playing fair by thumbing their noses at the West. I don’t hold the ins and outs of this war of egos that keeps the world’s great powers awake. I only caught a glimpse of the poverty of an island in 2026, while we in Europe are buried under an avalanche of the useless and superficial.
At the start of the San Juan baths, we find the trailhead. It climbs steeply. But the weather is relatively mild, thanks to a cold wave hitting higher up in the United States. Dallas is under snow; we’re walking in 16°C, a stroke of luck. We climb over rocks, under fairly decent vegetation, sometimes low but passable. And we succeed in the ascent in an hour. Up there, the top of the hill is somewhat maintained, at a minimum, but maintained, as if to honor Che through an awful monument erected in his glory—a stubborn specimen from those years when good taste was inversely proportional to the delusional ideas of those being honored. Birds of prey (raptors?) circle overhead; the monument is dying, crumbling, falling into ruin. *Hasta siempre*—forever—will be for the words. Nature, erosion, life itself will have the last word over all revolutions.
Back at the foot of the hill, just before a memorable swim, we talk with a family living there in miserable shacks whose stability wasn’t unlike that of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. The grandmother holds an animal, a rodent, by its feet. The grandfather has just killed it; she’s plucking its fur. A few steps away, water boils in a pot. She plunges the beast into the container. Tonight, the family will eat ragondin stew. Further on, another shack where, in a disorder rivaling the filth, a mother breastfeeds while sitting on the edge of a bed. Then, on the way down, we’ll meet a middle-aged man carrying a large jerrycan of water on his shoulder. Are these people happy here, far from the cities and their stakes? Is it too much to ask that they at least have access to electricity, running water, and decent, safe housing?
Outside the old city, Havana reveals wide avenues serving imposing institutions here and there. But whether in the colorful alleys of the old town or on the majestic and austere Plaza de la Revolución, the same feeling moves me: sadness. Seeing that only chaos has come from ideas crushes me. We praise, we sing the revolution—above all, we impose it in people’s minds as a necessity, when it’s nothing of the sort. Revolution is just the fruit of a few tortured minds who, once in power, do nothing better than all those before them. Enjoy power. Impose their views. It’s just a matter of color. Fidel saw red and knew how to persuade—or silence forever—his many detractors. The West sees everything in white, through the prism of human rights, and also knows how to persuade and silence its slightest detractors forever.
Paradoxically, Cuba survives largely thanks to tourism, a key element—let’s not be afraid to say it—of capitalism. And when a few players pick up the crumbs from transactions, the lion’s share and the foreign currency go to the government. So we won’t go to Varadero, the high place of relaxation overrun by Canadians. Instead, we’ll limit ourselves to crossing the ocean 30 minutes from the capital, at Santa María del Mar, to get an idea of cheaper tourism and to splash around for a few minutes in turquoise water invaded by sargassum. At the heart of the tourist season, we’ll meet few people. Like Havana, and according to its inhabitants, the high season is rather dead. But we won’t have come for nothing: we particularly love this return where, feverish, the taxi driver pushes his Moskvitch 2140 to the max on the highway, singing karaoke versions of hits at the top of his lungs from an onboard DVD player. East/West, the culture clash with a hint of Latino.
It’s time to leave this country of resourcefulness where extremes are very present. We’re leaving a 5-star hotel in front of yet another crumbling building. We’ve known restaurants at 40,000 pesos while in the street people eat for 400. We’ve seen those countless cars from another era and another culture—Pontiac, Lada, Chevrolet, Moskvitch—being overtaken by gleaming Mercedes and other Porsche Cayennes, the prerogative—if it still needed to be demonstrated—of the newly rich in search of recognition. Boarding the plane, we also understand that we’re not just traveling with tourists: there’s undoubtedly a rich and prosperous diaspora, just as there are relatively wealthy Cubans—well, wealthy enough to travel comfortably in the front of the aircraft. Meanwhile, on all the country’s roads, other Cubans try hitchhiking, their wives and children perched on a suitcase by the roadside. The father holds out his arm and holds a few bills in his hand like a card game. Where are they going? Who will pick them up?
Behind me, the gold of the Capitol. I’m told this gold comes from Russia. Like Marx and Lenin’s smoky theories? Like Stalin’s subtle and delicate paternalism? Let’s bet that, like the other buildings crumbling around it, the Capitol will also collapse one day, to avenge the Indians who perished from the diseases and guns of the whites, to avenge the Africans who obliterated their lives so Europeans could enjoy themselves, finally, to avenge all this abandoned people, left to the arbitrariness of democratic or non-democratic elections.
A sign in the street: We understand history. This is the revolution!
We understand history. That’s the revolution.
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Hey there, VF crew!
After wrapping up our travel journal on Java (link below), we’re now diving into our recent adventure in Puglia! Happy reading... Off we go on an adventure in Java (and a bit of Bali) | Travel journal > Indonesia | Voyage Forum
Day 1 - October 19
When you tell your friends and family you’re itching to escape to the other side of the planet to mingle with the Mongols, you can usually expect a barrage of questionable jokes and terrible puns. For this new adventure, it’s a different destination but the same old story—this time, we’re visiting the "pouilleux" (the "scruffy" ones). We’re taking off straight for Puglia! If you need a cheat sheet to remember where this oddly named place is on a world map, just think of it this way: Puglia is the maiden name on the ID card of the heel of the Italian boot! Personally, I prefer to remember it as the land of creamy burrata, the smell of focaccia fresh from the oven, orecchiette shaped by mamas, golden olive oil that shines like the sun (which beams down here 300 days a year), amaretto that makes you happy, and those famous trulli—those little hobbit-like dry-stone houses straight out of a movie set...
But I’ll stop spoiling the rest of our trip and focus on a factual rundown of this first Puglian day. So, are you joining us on this new adventure beyond our Gallic borders? Either way, Sasha (my youngest) and Luna (Flo’s daughter) didn’t need much convincing to stick with us and keep up the pace!
Our plane drops our little crew in Bari, the site of a famously tragic battle lost in 1991. But revenge is sweet! After renting a motorized carriage, we escape the landing zone and head to our military base of operations: Ostuni, a strategic little town where we’ll set up camp for the next four days. Why Ostuni? First, for its central location, which lets us explore a region packed with must-see gems. Second, for its vibe and beauty, which have earned it quite the reputation. Perched high on a hill, the *città bianca* (the "White City") lives up to its nickname. It literally dazzles visitors. The reason? The whitewashed facades of its houses, a testament to the region’s rich architectural heritage.
We arrived late last night, so only the two bravest soldiers volunteered to scout ahead at dawn, while the younger recruits stayed behind—for now. But not for long! After the first wave of streets and the next round of exploration, headquarters made the inevitable call to retreat. Reinforcements were needed! A few strategic errands, a breakfast ration, and our battalion marched in tight formation, flag held high, to conquer Ostuni the White! *Charge!* In my squadron leader’s memoirs, I’ll write that I didn’t expect Ostuni to put up such a fight. What I thought would take two hours to conquer turned into a humbling experience—we could only bow in respect to its beauty, its relentless charm. The alleys are whiter, more labyrinthine, narrower, and more photogenic than the last. *Veni, vidi, vici*—but what an entrance, my troops!
After wrapping up our travel journal on Java (link below), we’re now diving into our recent adventure in Puglia! Happy reading... Off we go on an adventure in Java (and a bit of Bali) | Travel journal > Indonesia | Voyage Forum
Day 1 - October 19
When you tell your friends and family you’re itching to escape to the other side of the planet to mingle with the Mongols, you can usually expect a barrage of questionable jokes and terrible puns. For this new adventure, it’s a different destination but the same old story—this time, we’re visiting the "pouilleux" (the "scruffy" ones). We’re taking off straight for Puglia! If you need a cheat sheet to remember where this oddly named place is on a world map, just think of it this way: Puglia is the maiden name on the ID card of the heel of the Italian boot! Personally, I prefer to remember it as the land of creamy burrata, the smell of focaccia fresh from the oven, orecchiette shaped by mamas, golden olive oil that shines like the sun (which beams down here 300 days a year), amaretto that makes you happy, and those famous trulli—those little hobbit-like dry-stone houses straight out of a movie set...
But I’ll stop spoiling the rest of our trip and focus on a factual rundown of this first Puglian day. So, are you joining us on this new adventure beyond our Gallic borders? Either way, Sasha (my youngest) and Luna (Flo’s daughter) didn’t need much convincing to stick with us and keep up the pace!
Our plane drops our little crew in Bari, the site of a famously tragic battle lost in 1991. But revenge is sweet! After renting a motorized carriage, we escape the landing zone and head to our military base of operations: Ostuni, a strategic little town where we’ll set up camp for the next four days. Why Ostuni? First, for its central location, which lets us explore a region packed with must-see gems. Second, for its vibe and beauty, which have earned it quite the reputation. Perched high on a hill, the *città bianca* (the "White City") lives up to its nickname. It literally dazzles visitors. The reason? The whitewashed facades of its houses, a testament to the region’s rich architectural heritage.
We arrived late last night, so only the two bravest soldiers volunteered to scout ahead at dawn, while the younger recruits stayed behind—for now. But not for long! After the first wave of streets and the next round of exploration, headquarters made the inevitable call to retreat. Reinforcements were needed! A few strategic errands, a breakfast ration, and our battalion marched in tight formation, flag held high, to conquer Ostuni the White! *Charge!* In my squadron leader’s memoirs, I’ll write that I didn’t expect Ostuni to put up such a fight. What I thought would take two hours to conquer turned into a humbling experience—we could only bow in respect to its beauty, its relentless charm. The alleys are whiter, more labyrinthine, narrower, and more photogenic than the last. *Veni, vidi, vici*—but what an entrance, my troops!
hi there
Here’s the cruise schedule for 2026.
It’s a great way to get ideas and maybe even meet up with other members.
2 essential rules:
1) never "quote" the calendar when replying—this’ll avoid any confusion 2) follow the format below DD/MM - username / SHIP IN CAPS / number of days / cruise title / departure port DON’T FORGET THE SPACES between the / /
REMINDER Despite my requests, few people follow the requested format. Cruises that stray too far from it won’t be listed anymore—sorry!PLEASE respect the templates! COPY AND PASTE THE FORMAT BELOW AND REPLACE WITH YOUR DETAILS IF YOU’RE STRUGGLING DD/MM - username / SHIP IN CAPS / number of days / cruise title / departure port DON’T FORGET THE SPACES between the / / It takes time to fix mistakes, so THANKS TO EVERYONE for your help!
YOUR TURN 😉
NUMBER OF CRUISES 2026: JANUARY FEBRUARY MARCH APRIL MAY JUNE JULY AUGUST SEPTEMBER OCTOBER NOVEMBER DECEMBER
1) never "quote" the calendar when replying—this’ll avoid any confusion 2) follow the format below DD/MM - username / SHIP IN CAPS / number of days / cruise title / departure port DON’T FORGET THE SPACES between the / /
REMINDER Despite my requests, few people follow the requested format. Cruises that stray too far from it won’t be listed anymore—sorry!PLEASE respect the templates! COPY AND PASTE THE FORMAT BELOW AND REPLACE WITH YOUR DETAILS IF YOU’RE STRUGGLING DD/MM - username / SHIP IN CAPS / number of days / cruise title / departure port DON’T FORGET THE SPACES between the / / It takes time to fix mistakes, so THANKS TO EVERYONE for your help!
YOUR TURN 😉
NUMBER OF CRUISES 2026: JANUARY FEBRUARY MARCH APRIL MAY JUNE JULY AUGUST SEPTEMBER OCTOBER NOVEMBER DECEMBER
Before I begin, I’d like to thank Michèle Buisson and her "Misha’s travel journals," which really helped me plan this trip. It’s tough to find information about this part of India, which is quite different from the "more traditional India." I’m so grateful to her for introducing me to a family who hosted me for 4 nights and 3 days. I can’t wait to return the favor and welcome you all to my place in early July!
Thursday, March 20th. The alarm goes off super early, but I’m already awake—I was too worried I’d sleep through it. I leave the house at 4:00 AM. The rain has stopped, and at this hour, there aren’t many trucks on the road. I arrive at Barcelona Airport easily by 6:20 AM, let the valet know I’m there, and he quickly picks up my car. This time, I’m flying with Etihad Airways again. I booked the ticket during my trip to Cambodia: Barcelona/Kolkata, Delhi/Barcelona for 567 €. At that price, I didn’t hesitate for long—I knew I had to take it. And I’m glad I did because, by the time I returned, the price had gone up to 700 €. I can already hear the reactions: "Wow, how’d you get a ticket for that price? What site did you use? You’re amazing, MarieJo!" One thing’s for sure—I’m really happy with this deal. The flights from Barcelona to Abu Dhabi and Abu Dhabi to Kolkata go smoothly, and we arrive on time at 2:55 AM. There aren’t many people at immigration, so I get through quickly. My luggage isn’t on the carousel yet. After collecting my bag, I check in for my next flight with IndiGo, a 5:40 AM flight to Guwahati, arriving at 7:00 AM. I’m starting to feel pretty tired, so I take a taxi from the airport to Gruham Sojourn Homestay. The house is upstairs, and the neighborhood seems quiet, with restaurants lining the street. The room won’t be ready until 10:00 AM, so I rest on the bench in the meantime. Once in the room, I take a shower—it really helps me feel refreshed. I need to exchange some euros, so I look up a nearby exchange bureau on Google and head out to find it. I locate it easily, and the staff are super friendly. I get a great rate (1 € = 90 INR). I wander around the neighborhood. The train station isn’t far, and small markets line the streets. I head back to my area, walking along the main avenue. About 500 meters from my street, I discover a museum. The visit is fascinating—I see the famous Majuli masks, among other things.
I’m not far from the Brahmaputra River, and the temptation to visit is too strong to resist. I’d hoped to find a promenade along the river, but that doesn’t exist here. I walk back calmly and notice several restaurants in my street. On the doorstep of my accommodation, I spot a pastry shop with cakes that look more like the ones we have in France than the typical ones here in India. A visit is a must, and I’m not disappointed!
Tonight, I’m dining at a restaurant in the street. The menu is a bit disappointing—burgers, pizzas, pasta—nothing very Indian. So, I’ll go with tomato pasta.
Thursday, March 20th. The alarm goes off super early, but I’m already awake—I was too worried I’d sleep through it. I leave the house at 4:00 AM. The rain has stopped, and at this hour, there aren’t many trucks on the road. I arrive at Barcelona Airport easily by 6:20 AM, let the valet know I’m there, and he quickly picks up my car. This time, I’m flying with Etihad Airways again. I booked the ticket during my trip to Cambodia: Barcelona/Kolkata, Delhi/Barcelona for 567 €. At that price, I didn’t hesitate for long—I knew I had to take it. And I’m glad I did because, by the time I returned, the price had gone up to 700 €. I can already hear the reactions: "Wow, how’d you get a ticket for that price? What site did you use? You’re amazing, MarieJo!" One thing’s for sure—I’m really happy with this deal. The flights from Barcelona to Abu Dhabi and Abu Dhabi to Kolkata go smoothly, and we arrive on time at 2:55 AM. There aren’t many people at immigration, so I get through quickly. My luggage isn’t on the carousel yet. After collecting my bag, I check in for my next flight with IndiGo, a 5:40 AM flight to Guwahati, arriving at 7:00 AM. I’m starting to feel pretty tired, so I take a taxi from the airport to Gruham Sojourn Homestay. The house is upstairs, and the neighborhood seems quiet, with restaurants lining the street. The room won’t be ready until 10:00 AM, so I rest on the bench in the meantime. Once in the room, I take a shower—it really helps me feel refreshed. I need to exchange some euros, so I look up a nearby exchange bureau on Google and head out to find it. I locate it easily, and the staff are super friendly. I get a great rate (1 € = 90 INR). I wander around the neighborhood. The train station isn’t far, and small markets line the streets. I head back to my area, walking along the main avenue. About 500 meters from my street, I discover a museum. The visit is fascinating—I see the famous Majuli masks, among other things.
I’m not far from the Brahmaputra River, and the temptation to visit is too strong to resist. I’d hoped to find a promenade along the river, but that doesn’t exist here. I walk back calmly and notice several restaurants in my street. On the doorstep of my accommodation, I spot a pastry shop with cakes that look more like the ones we have in France than the typical ones here in India. A visit is a must, and I’m not disappointed!
Tonight, I’m dining at a restaurant in the street. The menu is a bit disappointing—burgers, pizzas, pasta—nothing very Indian. So, I’ll go with tomato pasta.
“Slow travel” is a concept that some tout as a philosophical revolution in travel. But on closer inspection, it’s nothing more than a marketing repackaging of an age-old practice.
This term is wrapped in an aura of intellectualism. It promises to reinvent the experience of travel by valuing slowness, contemplation, and cultural immersion.
The term “slow travel” claims to bring depth to travel, but it often relies on clichés.
Taking your time, meeting locals, avoiding quick visits—these practices have always existed and are nothing revolutionary.
Before the era of airplanes, high-speed trains, and express stays, traveling necessarily meant taking your time. Pilgrims, merchants, and explorers already practiced a form of “slow travel,” without hashtags or self-proclaimed spiritual guides.
Crossing lands on foot or by horse required total immersion in the landscapes, cultures, and unpredictability of the journey. Yet, no one attributed philosophical intentions to them: it was a necessity.
Slow travel, in its current version, may be less a philosophy than a reflection of the contradictions of an affluent class searching for meaning in a world they help overload.
So-called “slow” travel is presented as a privileged way to understand a culture, but this claim is debatable. A region never represents an entire country.
Immersing yourself in a community doesn’t guarantee a complete or more authentic understanding than any other way of traveling.
Slowness in itself doesn’t guarantee depth or ethics. You can immerse yourself in a place over a weekend, just as you can spend months in a country without grasping its subtleties.
By positioning itself as an antidote to “fast” tourism, slow travel fetishizes a temporality that only makes sense if it’s accompanied by real openness and an effort to integrate.
But this over-intellectualization often masks a desire to belong to a trend or a need to stand out socially.
Behind this posture sometimes lies a whim: the urge to reinvent one’s life elsewhere in an idealized form. But this quest for elsewhere remains fundamentally a way to escape or respond to unease, rather than a true commitment to the cultures visited.
When we talk about “encounters” while traveling, we often forget that these exchanges are facilitated by biased contexts. As a traveler, you’re seen as a temporary visitor, unattached, and that changes the dynamic.
Locals, whether curious or used to tourists, adopt a different stance than they would with a neighbor they see daily.
This interaction is also tinged with asymmetry: the traveler has the luxury of time and availability, while in daily life, personal concerns often take precedence over the desire to connect.
The flip side is that the openness displayed while traveling is often a facade. We boast about chatting with a fisherman or sharing a meal with a local family, but how many of these encounters lead to a real understanding of cultural differences or sincere reflection?
Once home, these moments become anecdotes, social trophies to show off, without fundamentally changing our relationship with others in our daily lives.
By imposing a definition, we push people to adapt their practices to fit an idealized model. This can lead to a paradoxical standardization: “slow travel” becomes a checklist of behaviors (meetings, immersion, slowness).
The “bobos” (bourgeois-bohemians), often in search of meaning in a world saturated with options, believe that giving a name to a practice grants it legitimacy or moral value. But this obsession with framing and theorizing travel only drains it of its spontaneity.
Someone who grew up at the crossroads of multiple cultures, on the other hand, doesn’t feel this need. For them, traveling isn’t a philosophical project but an intrinsic part of their life.
The very concept of “slow travel” can seem absurd: why glorify what’s simply natural?
Why try to turn into an ideology what should be a personal, intimate experience, free from semantic constraints?
Ultimately, this need for labeling, this frantic quest to name every gesture, reveals a society craving simplicity.
Travel, in its purest form, doesn’t need justification or slogans. It doesn’t need slowness or speed: it’s simply lived.
Perhaps the real challenge is to unlearn this Western habit of conceptualizing everything that should simply be felt.
For many, travel is a parenthesis, a temporary break from daily life. But if we reject this distinction between “home” and “elsewhere,” every human life becomes a continuous journey through varied environments.
From this perspective, “slow travel” loses all meaning, because living somewhere—whether for a week or five years—is part of the same experience of adaptation.
So, we ask the fans of marketing slogans: is travel a parenthesis or a journey?
“Slow travel” is often driven by a Western eco-bobo ideology, tinged with post-colonial guilt. This discourse promotes a supposedly virtuous way of traveling while forgetting that these practices remain a privilege.
Far from deconstructing power dynamics, it sometimes reinforces them by glorifying a different kind of consumption, still centered on comfort.
There’s also a condescending side to this rhetoric. By idealizing slowness, slow travel advocates imply that those who travel quickly or on a budget are less “authentic” in their approach.
Yet, isn’t that a form of contempt? Do those who leave for a well-deserved week after months of hard work deserve less consideration?
Concepts like “slow travel” or “sustainable tourism” seem hollow when reduced to marketing slogans or standardized behaviors. They confine travel to preconceived frameworks, stripping it of its spontaneous and unpredictable dimension.
Instead of categorizing, it would be more relevant to recognize the plurality of human experiences without trying to define them.
Slow travel doesn’t invent anything. It simply puts into words—and often slogans—what travel has always been for those who practice it with intention.
Maybe we should stop trying to theorize every movement and simply rediscover travel for what it is: a human experience, sometimes slow, sometimes fast, but always personal.
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This term is wrapped in an aura of intellectualism. It promises to reinvent the experience of travel by valuing slowness, contemplation, and cultural immersion.
The term “slow travel” claims to bring depth to travel, but it often relies on clichés.
Taking your time, meeting locals, avoiding quick visits—these practices have always existed and are nothing revolutionary.
Before the era of airplanes, high-speed trains, and express stays, traveling necessarily meant taking your time. Pilgrims, merchants, and explorers already practiced a form of “slow travel,” without hashtags or self-proclaimed spiritual guides.
Crossing lands on foot or by horse required total immersion in the landscapes, cultures, and unpredictability of the journey. Yet, no one attributed philosophical intentions to them: it was a necessity.
Slow travel, in its current version, may be less a philosophy than a reflection of the contradictions of an affluent class searching for meaning in a world they help overload.
So-called “slow” travel is presented as a privileged way to understand a culture, but this claim is debatable. A region never represents an entire country.
Immersing yourself in a community doesn’t guarantee a complete or more authentic understanding than any other way of traveling.
Slowness in itself doesn’t guarantee depth or ethics. You can immerse yourself in a place over a weekend, just as you can spend months in a country without grasping its subtleties.
By positioning itself as an antidote to “fast” tourism, slow travel fetishizes a temporality that only makes sense if it’s accompanied by real openness and an effort to integrate.
But this over-intellectualization often masks a desire to belong to a trend or a need to stand out socially.
Behind this posture sometimes lies a whim: the urge to reinvent one’s life elsewhere in an idealized form. But this quest for elsewhere remains fundamentally a way to escape or respond to unease, rather than a true commitment to the cultures visited.
When we talk about “encounters” while traveling, we often forget that these exchanges are facilitated by biased contexts. As a traveler, you’re seen as a temporary visitor, unattached, and that changes the dynamic.
Locals, whether curious or used to tourists, adopt a different stance than they would with a neighbor they see daily.
This interaction is also tinged with asymmetry: the traveler has the luxury of time and availability, while in daily life, personal concerns often take precedence over the desire to connect.
The flip side is that the openness displayed while traveling is often a facade. We boast about chatting with a fisherman or sharing a meal with a local family, but how many of these encounters lead to a real understanding of cultural differences or sincere reflection?
Once home, these moments become anecdotes, social trophies to show off, without fundamentally changing our relationship with others in our daily lives.
By imposing a definition, we push people to adapt their practices to fit an idealized model. This can lead to a paradoxical standardization: “slow travel” becomes a checklist of behaviors (meetings, immersion, slowness).
The “bobos” (bourgeois-bohemians), often in search of meaning in a world saturated with options, believe that giving a name to a practice grants it legitimacy or moral value. But this obsession with framing and theorizing travel only drains it of its spontaneity.
Someone who grew up at the crossroads of multiple cultures, on the other hand, doesn’t feel this need. For them, traveling isn’t a philosophical project but an intrinsic part of their life.
The very concept of “slow travel” can seem absurd: why glorify what’s simply natural?
Why try to turn into an ideology what should be a personal, intimate experience, free from semantic constraints?
Ultimately, this need for labeling, this frantic quest to name every gesture, reveals a society craving simplicity.
Travel, in its purest form, doesn’t need justification or slogans. It doesn’t need slowness or speed: it’s simply lived.
Perhaps the real challenge is to unlearn this Western habit of conceptualizing everything that should simply be felt.
For many, travel is a parenthesis, a temporary break from daily life. But if we reject this distinction between “home” and “elsewhere,” every human life becomes a continuous journey through varied environments.
From this perspective, “slow travel” loses all meaning, because living somewhere—whether for a week or five years—is part of the same experience of adaptation.
So, we ask the fans of marketing slogans: is travel a parenthesis or a journey?
“Slow travel” is often driven by a Western eco-bobo ideology, tinged with post-colonial guilt. This discourse promotes a supposedly virtuous way of traveling while forgetting that these practices remain a privilege.
Far from deconstructing power dynamics, it sometimes reinforces them by glorifying a different kind of consumption, still centered on comfort.
There’s also a condescending side to this rhetoric. By idealizing slowness, slow travel advocates imply that those who travel quickly or on a budget are less “authentic” in their approach.
Yet, isn’t that a form of contempt? Do those who leave for a well-deserved week after months of hard work deserve less consideration?
Concepts like “slow travel” or “sustainable tourism” seem hollow when reduced to marketing slogans or standardized behaviors. They confine travel to preconceived frameworks, stripping it of its spontaneous and unpredictable dimension.
Instead of categorizing, it would be more relevant to recognize the plurality of human experiences without trying to define them.
Slow travel doesn’t invent anything. It simply puts into words—and often slogans—what travel has always been for those who practice it with intention.
Maybe we should stop trying to theorize every movement and simply rediscover travel for what it is: a human experience, sometimes slow, sometimes fast, but always personal.
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I'm looking for any recent info (2024) on entering Myanmar from Ranong in Thailand, as well as the journey up to Mawlamyine. Are there any restricted areas?
After my trip to Oregon in 2018 (see Travel Journal "Oregon and Only Oregon"), I vaguely intended to return to the West (the western USA, of course—the west of France is where I almost live) someday, later... with no specific date or plan.
November 2018, I stumbled upon a promotion for round-trip flights from Paris to San Francisco. Well, I *stumbled*—they must’ve collected some "data" on me to make sure this deal crossed my path. And it worked! My ESTA was still valid, and two days later, it was decided: May 13, 2019 (departure from Paris) to June 15, 2019 (return to Paris).
The travel style? Just like last year: low-budget trip, rental car, and accommodation only in campgrounds, with no reservations to stay as free as possible.
Exceptions? 3 nights in a youth hostel upon arrival in downtown San Francisco, and 1 night on the way back (right before flying) in Montara, near Pacifica—a spot that seemed well-located for driving back to the airport in the middle of the night.
Now, to sketch out the rough itinerary. Here’s what it looked like after the trip:
Westernmost point: Montara Lighthouse on the coast, 30 km south of San Francisco (California); Easternmost point: Zion National Park (Utah). Northernmost point: Reno (Nevada). Southernmost point: Spring Mountain Ranch State Park in Blue Diamond, near Las Vegas (Nevada).
Another view:
I’ll be spending 33 days in this little area! I’m a slow traveler.
Meanwhile, I realized that in some places I wanted to visit (Las Vegas and National Parks), it was better to book ahead. So, I added to my reservations: - 2 nights in a hostel in Las Vegas - 6 nights of camping in the national parks (2 at Zion NP, 2 at Yosemite NP, 2 at Sequoia-Kings Canyon NP). Between all these dated stops, it’s a choose-your-own-adventure from the ideas I found.
I’m also a slow writer—slow writer, slow traveler—so it’ll take me a while to wrap this up. I’ll start tomorrow.
November 2018, I stumbled upon a promotion for round-trip flights from Paris to San Francisco. Well, I *stumbled*—they must’ve collected some "data" on me to make sure this deal crossed my path. And it worked! My ESTA was still valid, and two days later, it was decided: May 13, 2019 (departure from Paris) to June 15, 2019 (return to Paris).
The travel style? Just like last year: low-budget trip, rental car, and accommodation only in campgrounds, with no reservations to stay as free as possible.
Exceptions? 3 nights in a youth hostel upon arrival in downtown San Francisco, and 1 night on the way back (right before flying) in Montara, near Pacifica—a spot that seemed well-located for driving back to the airport in the middle of the night.
Now, to sketch out the rough itinerary. Here’s what it looked like after the trip:
Westernmost point: Montara Lighthouse on the coast, 30 km south of San Francisco (California); Easternmost point: Zion National Park (Utah). Northernmost point: Reno (Nevada). Southernmost point: Spring Mountain Ranch State Park in Blue Diamond, near Las Vegas (Nevada).
Another view:
I’ll be spending 33 days in this little area! I’m a slow traveler.
Meanwhile, I realized that in some places I wanted to visit (Las Vegas and National Parks), it was better to book ahead. So, I added to my reservations: - 2 nights in a hostel in Las Vegas - 6 nights of camping in the national parks (2 at Zion NP, 2 at Yosemite NP, 2 at Sequoia-Kings Canyon NP). Between all these dated stops, it’s a choose-your-own-adventure from the ideas I found.
I’m also a slow writer—slow writer, slow traveler—so it’ll take me a while to wrap this up. I’ll start tomorrow.
It's all in the title—I'm 70, and I've been traveling by bike (tent and camp stove) for five years now. Statistically, how many more years do I have left to plan my destinations and see (almost) everything?
Question is half realistic, half humorous.
To keep it simple: how old are you, fellow senior cyclists still on the road? And what are your biggest challenges?
Personally, I'm in good physical shape, though my cruising speed has dropped from 3–4 km/h over the past five years.
But arthritis (hip) is starting to make it tricky to swing my leg over the frame.
As soon as I return to France, I catch myself thinking, "it’s better elsewhere."
Wherever we’ve been, I feel this lightness of living—less restriction, less pressure, less sadness—and I start dreaming of somewhere else, of living somewhere else, a simpler life, more authentic, with colors everywhere: markets, clothes, homes...!!! Meeting kindred spirits, genuine people, gentle and kind, and letting go of all this modernism, this technological rat race, the indifference toward others, the confinement, the racism against the elderly in France, against the poor, the weak, the beautiful... fleeing the news, politics, jealousy, meanness, stupidity, greed... And in my moments of clarity, I tell myself that every country, every city has its pros and cons, and that maybe the best of all worlds isn’t down here. But I also remind myself that you have to know how to COME BACK in order to LEAVE again... yet still...!!! IS IT REALLY BETTER ELSEWHERE?😏😏😏
This trip had been on my mind for about fifteen years.
But the discomfort of overnight stays, the difficulty of communication, and the prices of the few car rental options kept making me postpone the project.
And then, everything suddenly fell into place—I told myself, it’s time!
The preparations took longer than usual; the destination is still far from mainstream.
A bit of Kazakhstan? Not in the end.
The south or not the south? Yes, in the end.
Pre-book or go with the flow? Only two stops were a leap into the unknown.
To help me find the ideal route, I made great use of this forum (thanks to everyone for patiently answering my questions!), pored over travel journals and blogs (Christian, Jeff), zoomed in on Google Maps and Yandex, and bought the guide published by OunTravela about this destination (the guide has been updated since).
---/---
You’ve got your passport, international driver’s license, bank cards, and euros?
Off we go to Lyon—just one night left before our early morning flight.
Tomorrow night, we’ll be sleeping in Bishkek! (Steak for my partner’s mischievous nephews...)
You’ll find here a post with some practical information.
And here, the version of the travel journal without comments.
---/---
As a supplement, the route track. Not necessarily ultra-accurate since Google has serious gaps for this destination...
From Bishkek to Karakol:
From Karakol to Kochkor:
From Kochkor to Baetov:
From Baetov to Kara-Köl:
From Kara-Köl to Bishkek:
But the discomfort of overnight stays, the difficulty of communication, and the prices of the few car rental options kept making me postpone the project.
And then, everything suddenly fell into place—I told myself, it’s time!
The preparations took longer than usual; the destination is still far from mainstream.
A bit of Kazakhstan? Not in the end.
The south or not the south? Yes, in the end.
Pre-book or go with the flow? Only two stops were a leap into the unknown.
To help me find the ideal route, I made great use of this forum (thanks to everyone for patiently answering my questions!), pored over travel journals and blogs (Christian, Jeff), zoomed in on Google Maps and Yandex, and bought the guide published by OunTravela about this destination (the guide has been updated since).
---/---
You’ve got your passport, international driver’s license, bank cards, and euros?
Off we go to Lyon—just one night left before our early morning flight.
Tomorrow night, we’ll be sleeping in Bishkek! (Steak for my partner’s mischievous nephews...)
You’ll find here a post with some practical information.
And here, the version of the travel journal without comments.
---/---
As a supplement, the route track. Not necessarily ultra-accurate since Google has serious gaps for this destination...
From Bishkek to Karakol:
From Karakol to Kochkor:
From Kochkor to Baetov:
From Baetov to Kara-Köl:
From Kara-Köl to Bishkek:
April 11 – Day 1
It was winter, a winter with beautiful weather, A season that only exists in the southwest of America, I remember very well what I told you that morning A month ago... A century ago, an eternity ago... We’ll go... wherever you want, whenever you want...
Well, yeah, back from our adventure in our enchanting American West just a month ago, we’re already taking a bite out of one of its lesser-known competitors. "Flo, if you had to pick just one reason to justify your love for the U.S., what would it be?" The greasy, dripping burgers? No, I don’t think I’m going out on a limb by saying it’d be the wide-open spaces... And that’s exactly what our new quest is taking us to—a land on the other side of the globe where the horizon also seems endless, where silence tastes like salty wind and sand, where freedom is measured in kilometers of desert tracks, where the GPS is mostly there to confirm you’re lost in the middle of nowhere... Add to that magic formula the fact that you’ll see more zebras, giraffes, wildebeest, and elephants than people per square kilometer, and you can imagine us setting foot in Southern Africa for the first time, more precisely at the small airport in Windhoek, capital of... of...? Brush up on your geography, damn it! We’re landing in Namibia!!!
To be honest, Namibian landscapes have been flirting with me for ages. So how did I resist this island of temptation for so long? First, the budget. Let’s just say that for the same amount of effort (and kidneys), the bank lets you choose two other adventures almost anywhere else on the planet. Then there were my girls. Yeah, back then, they were too little to dose up on Malarone, the only malaria remedy at the time... Long story short, ten years later, all the planets have aligned. First, I won the Euromillions! Well, almost... Let’s just say my girls are now old enough... not to take Malarone, but to stop following me on all my adventures! Jackpot! "Flo, how about a little two-person caprice, just the two of us, tackling the Namibian tracks?"
As we landed on the runway, first wow effect: The horizon is immense. It’s flat as can be, incredibly flat... So much flat space! Did I mention it was flat?... Looking into the distance, it feels like your gaze could circle the Earth without hitting a single obstacle—until you end up staring at your own backside. "Oh, what a nice view!" Well, it’s the first time I’ve seen my butt from this angle! Touching moment... Sorry, I’m rambling—must be the exhaustion from the three-flight marathon we just powered through via Ethiopia and South Africa... And yet, no time to philosophize about my anatomy. As usual, we want to rack up our first kilometers to be front and center at dawn tomorrow. After wrapping up the tedious Namibian immigration formalities and meeting the 4x4 that’ll be our companion day and night for the next fifteen days, we’re off! We’re not exactly fresh, but we’re ready to tackle the next five hundred kilometers in night mode, cruise control set due south! Just outside Windhoek, the local wildlife—a jackal—welcomes us with a smile: "Welcome to Namibia!" That’s what it said! Honest... Okay, first endless straight road, first flaming sunset, first corrugated dirt track, first Milky Way with zero light pollution... You get it—it’s definitely the day of firsts... First night camping, too, in the big trunk of our Toyota Fortuner parked by the side of the track... The real adventure, the kind that smells under the arms, can finally begin...
It was winter, a winter with beautiful weather, A season that only exists in the southwest of America, I remember very well what I told you that morning A month ago... A century ago, an eternity ago... We’ll go... wherever you want, whenever you want...
Well, yeah, back from our adventure in our enchanting American West just a month ago, we’re already taking a bite out of one of its lesser-known competitors. "Flo, if you had to pick just one reason to justify your love for the U.S., what would it be?" The greasy, dripping burgers? No, I don’t think I’m going out on a limb by saying it’d be the wide-open spaces... And that’s exactly what our new quest is taking us to—a land on the other side of the globe where the horizon also seems endless, where silence tastes like salty wind and sand, where freedom is measured in kilometers of desert tracks, where the GPS is mostly there to confirm you’re lost in the middle of nowhere... Add to that magic formula the fact that you’ll see more zebras, giraffes, wildebeest, and elephants than people per square kilometer, and you can imagine us setting foot in Southern Africa for the first time, more precisely at the small airport in Windhoek, capital of... of...? Brush up on your geography, damn it! We’re landing in Namibia!!!
To be honest, Namibian landscapes have been flirting with me for ages. So how did I resist this island of temptation for so long? First, the budget. Let’s just say that for the same amount of effort (and kidneys), the bank lets you choose two other adventures almost anywhere else on the planet. Then there were my girls. Yeah, back then, they were too little to dose up on Malarone, the only malaria remedy at the time... Long story short, ten years later, all the planets have aligned. First, I won the Euromillions! Well, almost... Let’s just say my girls are now old enough... not to take Malarone, but to stop following me on all my adventures! Jackpot! "Flo, how about a little two-person caprice, just the two of us, tackling the Namibian tracks?"
As we landed on the runway, first wow effect: The horizon is immense. It’s flat as can be, incredibly flat... So much flat space! Did I mention it was flat?... Looking into the distance, it feels like your gaze could circle the Earth without hitting a single obstacle—until you end up staring at your own backside. "Oh, what a nice view!" Well, it’s the first time I’ve seen my butt from this angle! Touching moment... Sorry, I’m rambling—must be the exhaustion from the three-flight marathon we just powered through via Ethiopia and South Africa... And yet, no time to philosophize about my anatomy. As usual, we want to rack up our first kilometers to be front and center at dawn tomorrow. After wrapping up the tedious Namibian immigration formalities and meeting the 4x4 that’ll be our companion day and night for the next fifteen days, we’re off! We’re not exactly fresh, but we’re ready to tackle the next five hundred kilometers in night mode, cruise control set due south! Just outside Windhoek, the local wildlife—a jackal—welcomes us with a smile: "Welcome to Namibia!" That’s what it said! Honest... Okay, first endless straight road, first flaming sunset, first corrugated dirt track, first Milky Way with zero light pollution... You get it—it’s definitely the day of firsts... First night camping, too, in the big trunk of our Toyota Fortuner parked by the side of the track... The real adventure, the kind that smells under the arms, can finally begin...