The Northern Lights Taught me About Tourism

I woke up with the rest of the bus when we stopped somewhere in the frosting darkness two hours north of Reykjavik. Being on a tour makes me feel like a spy, but I don’t tell them I’m a colleague. Instead, I give attention and appreciation for whatever they have to share with us. I managed for most of the guy’s lecture on exactly what causes the aurora borealis and why that night would be a good one for seeing them, but I confess that I nodded off somewhere among the ions. But now it was time to get out and see them.

Six busloads of tourists disembarked, slipping on the ice and looking the wrong way, then slowly percolated up the hill after those of us who knew to look north. I reached the top of the icey wooden stairs and crunched onto the black gravel rim of an extinct volcanic crater. The night was perfectly sharp without being aggressive, and a range of striking mountains slithered along the horizon.

On the stairs and around the crater’s rim cameras were pointing in the air, pausing, then sinking to chests so everyone could check. The electric blue light revealed eagerness slipping to confusion, and the faces turned to each other. “Did you get anything?”

Nope. The lights declined to perform during our two hour window.

Most of the crowd was back at the buses by the time a guide shouted “People on the mountain come down! We’re leaving!” Descending ice stairs is harder than going up, which didn’t help the mood of the frustrated viewers, and the ride back was a blend of sleepy silence and muttered complaints. But sitting in the sulky darkness, I considered a modern travel privilege/problem:

We live in an era of well marketed peak experiences. Saturated images of jungle temples, creatures on the ocean floor, and the ethereal green curtains of the aurora borealis are just the beginning. This is an incredible gift, but two of its lessons were on my mind.

One: people, especially those with short vacation times/funds, are not going to risk spending them somewhere other than the familiar peak experiences. What if they go somewhere, and it’s just good? That could be worse than going somewhere famous and seeing nothing at all. Go home and say the aurora wasn’t out, people say “bummer.” But go somewhere new and come back with anything less than euphoria, people may say “Why did you go there?”

This helped me understand why the most common thing I hear from tourists is that they don’t like the crowds, don’t want to do touristy things, and want to have personalized experiences…but so few are willing to try for it. If you have one shot, why would you take a risk? But the risk of disappointment, whether in a touristy place or elsewhere, has a remedy, the second lesson on my mind.

Marketing shows a mere slice of what’s wonderful in a place. If we get stuck on that smidgeon, we lose. The bus grumblers were pissed they hadn’t seen the aurora. I had felt the serene Icelandic night on my cheeks and reconnected with that intangible something that makes this place so unique, its history so brave, and their music so ethereal. (I never understood that Sigur Ros isn’t funeral dirges until I spent a couple weeks in Iceland.)

So go to Iceland. Or Romania. Or a famous European capital, or someplace neither of us had heard of yesterday. Love it. Be enticed by the images you see beforehand, then leave them behind and arrive with your mind clear and eyes open. Maybe you’ll see the Sistine Chapel with a zillion other people, or stand alone in front of an eerie Dali (on my Benelux tour). Both can be wonderful experiences with the right frame of mind. You can eat fish and chips in London like you’ve always heard about, or discover for yourself the savor of ciorba raduteana in Transylvania. Stand amazed in the salt mines of Turda or feel miniscule under the aurora borealis. Explore Venice or…_____.

Whatever you do, do it with attention and gratitude. Just try to stay awake.