I'm on a Greyhound bus back to Sydney right now, and many incidents are converging into a recurring, depressing thought: I find travelling empty, sad. I've been thinking about it because I'm going to Japan again early next year with my family (I dread the prospect of skiing and its associated expectations), and, possibly, if I'm mentally stable enough (lol), I'm going on exchange to Shanghai next semester. I've been reading a collection of Susan Sontag's Stories, and right now - I haven't even finished it, I put it down to write here - it's vaguely saying the things I feel. I cannot really quote, because of the way she constructs an atmosphere, but I'll try:
"Worth a detour? Worth a trip! It's a remarkable collection... The baron's zeal in explaining.... A necessary homogeneity.. Or else some stark, specific event.. I want to go back to that antique store.... You're hard to please... There's nothing left but to wait for our meals, like animals."
"Do you remember what you saw? Not much. It's too sad. I can't love the past that's trapped within my memory like a souvenir."
"'The treatment of space in Mannerist architecture and painting shows this change from the 'closed' Renaissance world order to the 'open', 'loose', and deviating motions in the Mannerist universe'. What are you trying to tell me?"
"Sometimes I did love him. Still, in a certain hour of mental fatigue... At the mercy of [my] moods."
This made me think of something I had written for a reflection when I was doing a short summer course Japan with uni. It's quite precocious now - remember, I wrote it nearly two years ago - but I think it still fits:
As I walked around Asakusa, it became clear to me that there were two distinct and disparate groups of people flocking to it - those who were there for religious purposes, and those who were propelled there by assertions that it was a "must see", from websites, or friends, or pieces of paper not unlike the one we received earlier in the afternoon. An experience that was an integral piece of the "Japan Holiday" collection.
Of course, I belonged to the latter group. While I was not attracted to the literal corridor of commodification that prefaced the shrine, I noticed that many other tourists were. Happily, they bought souvenirs, or took photos with kimono-ed, very bored, girls who were passing time on their iPhones, and took pictures of every building, information board, or (kawaii!!) pigeon in sight. It would be easy to claim a moral high ground by not conforming to this tourist stereotype, walking straight through to the temple, looking closely at the ornate decorations, the feats of architecture, thinking about the years of history that culminated in this place. And yet, I cannot, because the experience left me feeling somewhat empty, and I probably "got as much out of it" as your average tourist - even less, because at least they left with a keychain.
The truth is, that because I felt no religious or spiritual connection to Asakusa, I knew even as I was standing in it, that I would forget it soon. Maybe I would remember flashes of it, how cold it was, or how pretty the roof was, but there was nothing about my personal experience that was so special that I would hold it close to me, and when, in a year, I recall my trip to Japan, I do not think that Asakusa will be part of the "essence" that I remember. What I will remember about Japan will be its lifestyle and people, of which the shrines no longer seem to play a large part. And, I suspect, this will be the same for many of the tourists I manoeuvred around yesterday afternoon.
Yet, I do not think a random teenage white girl's experience should discount from the significance of Asakusa, or its validity as a holiday destination. As I mentioned earlier, there is a large group of people for whom the temple holds religious significance, its original purpose. No matter how many tourists there are down below, fervently purchasing kitsch memorabilia, carrying the weight of the tourist industry on their shoulders, there was a solemnity above in the temple to be felt amidst the camera flashes. As such, I can't say that popular culture is regressive, per se, because the core meaning of Asakusa seemed to be retained for those who actually mattered - the people it was built for. And if the masses of hotel-dwellers find meaning and happiness in Asakusa through pop culture, and support the upkeep of the place while they're at it, all the better.
I suppose, then, that leads me to conclude through this case study that pop culture, while appearing denigrative, actually creates more meaning, even if this meaning seems shallow. Perhaps this is a hedonistic sentiment, but pop culture seems to only add meaning on top of the significance of what was there before it was commercialised. Coke is coke even if people start drinking it for advertised "happiness". Asakusa, despite its relatively-newfound home in tea towels, scarves, key chains, socks, plates, containers of food, jewellery, notebooks, iPhone cases, lanterns, temporary tattoos, lightbulbs, bread --- is still a religious site for many.
Of course, I belonged to the latter group. While I was not attracted to the literal corridor of commodification that prefaced the shrine, I noticed that many other tourists were. Happily, they bought souvenirs, or took photos with kimono-ed, very bored, girls who were passing time on their iPhones, and took pictures of every building, information board, or (kawaii!!) pigeon in sight. It would be easy to claim a moral high ground by not conforming to this tourist stereotype, walking straight through to the temple, looking closely at the ornate decorations, the feats of architecture, thinking about the years of history that culminated in this place. And yet, I cannot, because the experience left me feeling somewhat empty, and I probably "got as much out of it" as your average tourist - even less, because at least they left with a keychain.
The truth is, that because I felt no religious or spiritual connection to Asakusa, I knew even as I was standing in it, that I would forget it soon. Maybe I would remember flashes of it, how cold it was, or how pretty the roof was, but there was nothing about my personal experience that was so special that I would hold it close to me, and when, in a year, I recall my trip to Japan, I do not think that Asakusa will be part of the "essence" that I remember. What I will remember about Japan will be its lifestyle and people, of which the shrines no longer seem to play a large part. And, I suspect, this will be the same for many of the tourists I manoeuvred around yesterday afternoon.
Yet, I do not think a random teenage white girl's experience should discount from the significance of Asakusa, or its validity as a holiday destination. As I mentioned earlier, there is a large group of people for whom the temple holds religious significance, its original purpose. No matter how many tourists there are down below, fervently purchasing kitsch memorabilia, carrying the weight of the tourist industry on their shoulders, there was a solemnity above in the temple to be felt amidst the camera flashes. As such, I can't say that popular culture is regressive, per se, because the core meaning of Asakusa seemed to be retained for those who actually mattered - the people it was built for. And if the masses of hotel-dwellers find meaning and happiness in Asakusa through pop culture, and support the upkeep of the place while they're at it, all the better.
I suppose, then, that leads me to conclude through this case study that pop culture, while appearing denigrative, actually creates more meaning, even if this meaning seems shallow. Perhaps this is a hedonistic sentiment, but pop culture seems to only add meaning on top of the significance of what was there before it was commercialised. Coke is coke even if people start drinking it for advertised "happiness". Asakusa, despite its relatively-newfound home in tea towels, scarves, key chains, socks, plates, containers of food, jewellery, notebooks, iPhone cases, lanterns, temporary tattoos, lightbulbs, bread --- is still a religious site for many.
-
What I think I can conclude is that travelling and tourism is depressing and empty, but that there is hope - actually living in other countries for extended periods of time can be fulfilling - one really learns about the place. As such, maybe I should dread Japan, but maybe I shouldn't dread Shanghai. We'll see.
To finish off I'm going to throw this in here. It's relevant in its claim that the most valuable aspect of travel, in terms of cultural capital, is the fact or the image of travel itself (~wanderlust~), not what you actually see or learn or experience.
This wasn't very revolutionary. I'm sorry.
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