If Rene Descartes had the opportunity to travel extensively during the 17th century like tourists of today, he might never have written, “I think, therefore I am” but instead chosen the axiom, “I see, therefore I be.”  As a philosopher whose explorations were mostly confined to the hemispheres of his brain, Descartes understood very little about the tourism industry, and it’s likely he never would have approved of this syllogism that explains a souvenir t-shirt: All tourists pack clothing; some packed clothing includes T-shirts; therefore, all tourists buy T-shirts.

I own a favorite T-shirt from a trip I took along Route 66 that says, “Standin on the Corner, Winslow, Arizona.”  I also bought a T-shirt with a picture of a Ukulele that proclaims “Hawaii Lifestyle.”  I’m not sure what that means, but I loved the shade of green, and I’ve stayed on the island of Kauai for one full rainy week. I earned it, whatever it means. It stands for my 100 percent cotton declaration that “I was there.”

When a person travels, the urge to preserve the exotic and serendipitous experience supersedes the mind’s natural tendency to classify, say, the day as another Friday. Tourists go out to eat and drink, take pictures, read travel brochures and maps, and they find places to sleep at night. These are, of course, activities that can be done at home with much less expense, but while traveling the “what the hell” attitude kicks in and a tourist accepts absurdity as if it were an omen.

A $25 T-shirt? Sure, that’s a bargain.

Books like 1,000 Places to See Before You Die or 100 Places to Go Before They Disappear only highlight my fear of ever being able to travel sufficiently, especially if I take the editors’ premise seriously, that my ultimate self-awareness and fulfillment lies in putting together a bucket list of recommended vacation destinations. I’m afraid I’d only end up with a drawer stuffed with T-shirts, more than I could possibly wear in the rest-of-a-lifetime.

Then again, the homebody part of me suspects something must be wrong with the people who travel. We are the ones who have backed ourselves into the Four Corners, brew our own coffee and memorize the television schedule.  If we wear T-shirts they better be blank, or have been purchased at a second-hand shop, all for the vicarious experience of saving more than a few dollars on a round trip ticket. A person doesn’t have to wonder if a shirt that reads, “Four Corners Beer Festival” somehow accurately measures our aspirations.

You see, I’m caught between these deep blue seas. One of me wants to explore – to see the Eiffel Tower, the ruins of Pompeii, to float in a Venetian gondola – while the other is so grateful to finally get home, he can’t imagine what drove him away in the first place. But then from the bottom of my suitcase the twisted remains of a souvenir T-shirt resurfaces. I unfold it and drape it like a flag over my chest, this pledge to personal independence.

 

Descartes believed that thought – not our senses – turns us into human beings. We can hear, smell, taste, touch, even see the world, like any other creature, but only by being aware of our perceptions do we become (and here I take liberty with his great premise) tourists. I know, though tourist spending is appreciated wherever it is collected, tourists, like philosophers, just don’t get the respect they deserve.

Descartes also postulated that the untrustworthiness of the senses can be illustrated by what is referred to as the Wax Argument. It goes like this: One’s senses perceive the wax’s chunkiness, though set that same wax over a flame and a transformation quickly renders the senses senseless. Like a paramedic arriving on the scene of an accident, thought rescues us and returns us to our – dare I say it again? – senses. If I stay at home too long my life begins to feel like wax, but by leaving home, I notice how travel alters it, and in the fire of the world’s strangeness, I glimpse the alchemy of a moment, pure gold.

OK, that’s probably enough philosophy. Being born with a feelasopher’s moniker, I can’t help going mental once-in-awhile, which is why I value the souvenir T-shirt as a means of weaving the fleeting nature of my travel experiences into the physicality of my daily life. It’s that simple. It allows me to carry each transformation close to my skin, to wash it and fold it and tell an occasional story about my latest trip whenever an unsuspecting stranger asks where I bought my T-shirt.

I’ve thought about going to Prague for my next metamorphosis, visiting the Kafka museum, but I’ve always wanted to visit Gibraltar too, a British dependency at the southern tip of the Iberian peninsula. It usually take me a full year to muster the nerve to mount another major assault on my sedentary senses. But it helps to imagine myself coming home with a souvenir T-shirt, something with the picture of cockroach, or better yet: Gibraltar Rocks!

– David Feela