Around the turn of the century (the 20th, to be clear), the writer G.K. Chesterton was packing for an overseas trip when a friend dropped by.

“Where are you going?” was the friend’s innocuous question. He might have expected any number of answers, but he was hardly prepared for the one that Chesterton gave him: “Battersea.”

Battersea, you see, is a district in London, and the place where Chesterton lived and where they were presently having this conversation. With a tone that was probably more than a little sardonic, the friend replied, “I supposed it is unnecessary to tell you that this is Battersea?”

To which Chesterton retorted, knee-deep in half-packed luggage at this point:

“It is quite unnecessary…and it is spiritually untrue. I cannot see any Battersea here; I cannot see any London or any England. I cannot see that door. I cannot see that chair: because a cloud of sleep and custom has come across my eyes.

“The only way to get back to them is to go somewhere else; and that is the real object of travel and the real pleasure of holidays. Do you suppose that I go to France in order to see France? Do you suppose that I go to Germany in order to see Germany? I shall enjoy them both; but it is not them that I am seeking. I am seeking Battersea.

“The whole object of travel is not to set foot on foreign land; it is at last to set foot on one’s own country as a foreign land.”

Chesterton then threatened to throw a bag at his friend’s head if he dared to point out another obvious fact: there’s something a bit contradictory about needing to leave home in order to go home.

“I did not make the world, and I did not make it paradoxical,” were his final words on the matter. “It is not my fault, it is the truth, that the only way to go to England is to go away from it.” ¹

Chesterton’s remarks may be amusing, even playful, but I believe they contain a deep truth we rarely consider.

Home and “Away” Are Two Sides of the Same Coin

Most of us see travel as a way to understand another place, not the place we (think we) already know and understand. Chesterton points to a fact that is obvious, yet few of us consider: Wherever we go, we are changed forever.

If you think about it, it’s a bit like that old chestnut from the Pre-Socratic philosopher Heraclitus: you can’t step into the same river twice. Well obviously, you might reply, wondering why this matters. It matters because Chesterton is suggesting that we need to be intentional about travel. It’s not enough to just learn about the Great Pyramid of Giza by going off to see it — we also should consider what we can learn or notice about our place of origin when we return to it.

I experienced a heavy dose of Chesterton’s paradoxical advice when I lived abroad in South Korea.

When I left the United States, all I could think about was going and staying somewhere new and different. I was so ready to embrace the change of sights, sounds, tastes, colors, and flavors that I made the trip an open-ended one: why come home at all unless I had a good reason to do so? Perhaps Korea would become my new home. And in a sense, it was — for almost five years.

When I finally did return to Arizona, I was shocked by how familiar and foreign it was at the same time. The blue skies seemed more saturated. The mountains were more geometric-looking. I noticed how restaurant staff were much more interactive — how the experience of eating out in a restaurant in America was more of a ritual than a convenience. And these were just some of the most mundane examples.

Perhaps the strangest thing about living abroad was that it turned me into a homebody. I have since come to love the flora, fauna, sights, sounds, and way of life here in the sweltering Phoenix metropolis more than I ever thought possible. Somehow, during the four and a half incredible years I spent in the suburbs of Seoul, it was the Arizona desert I was seeking all along.

The Case for Armchair Travel

My experience is not everyone’s; in fact, it’s probably a little unusual. The main point is to see your own home (or the place closest to such a thing as “home”) through different eyes, even if just for a few moments.

But what about those who aren’t able to get on a train or plane and see another corner of the world (or even their own country)? Travel is a privilege that most on this planet don’t enjoy; does a lack of travel stunt their personal growth?

I argue the answer is “no.”

Physical travel itself has both benefits and pitfalls; it’s not transformative on its own. The required ingredients are openness and curiosity. Even the most dramatic new scenery won’t move us if we’re wearing dark-tinted lenses. Travel per se does not automatically make us better people.

On the other hand, we can view both new and old places with new eyes without leaving our front doorsteps if we make the effort. We don’t have to physically plant our feet in a foreign land to learn about it, and then learn about ourselves.

“There is, for the traveler at least, the sense that learning about home and learning about a foreign world can be one and the same thing.“

Even a hundred years ago this would have been more challenging, but with the Internet and other forms of media, we can vicariously visit almost any place on earth: from the streets of Lagos to a remote village in the Himalayas.

Of course, virtual travel has its own pitfalls: we can take it for granted and feel detached from what we’re viewing. We still have to do the work of seeing and learning. But technology has become much more of an equalizer in our modern times. Not to mention there are opportunities to “travel” even in our own neighborhoods, in places we may normally not visit.

Travel enthusiast Pico Iyer puts it beautifully in his essay “Why We Travel”:

Besides, even those who don’t move around the world find the world moving more and more around them. Walk just six blocks, in Queens or Berkeley, and you’re traveling through several cultures in as many minutes; get into a cab outside the White House, and you’re often in a piece of Addis Ababa. And technology, too, compounds this (sometimes deceptive) sense of availability, so that many people feel they can travel around the world without leaving the room — through cyberspace or CD-ROMs, videos and virtual travel. There are many challenges in this, of course, in what it says about essential notions of family and community and loyalty, and in the worry that air-conditioned, purely synthetic versions of places may replace the real thing — not to mention the fact that the world seems increasingly in flux, a moving target quicker than our notions of it. But there is, for the traveler at least, the sense that learning about home and learning about a foreign world can be one and the same thing. ²

Whether you choose to board a plane or drive to a part of town you rarely go to — or watch a documentary from the comfort of your home — the most important thing is that you are taking mental steps to see a new place.

And in the process, “the cloud of sleep and custom” that Chesterton so eloquently refers to will also evaporate and you will see old places, and yourself, anew.

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Read Next: Should You Live a “Psychologically Rich” Life? →

1. From G.K. Chesterton’s essay The Riddle of the Ivy
2. Iyer, P. (2000, March 18). Why we travel. Pico Iyer Journeys.