JANUARY 27, 2022 – Blogger’s note: our younger son, Byron, asked me to post about my trip around the world–starting 41 years ago. Through the prism of my current circumstances, his suggestion inspires re-examination in fresh light. I’ll endeavor to make installments compelling without lapsing into “travelogue” mode. Photo credit: my grandmother, whose family friend, “Hoxie” owned his own airplane and loved to buzz the “‘picnic crowd” at their favorite haunt along the Hudson River Valley, circa 1908.
The Grand Odyssey was my idea alone—an act of rebellion and a soul-searching expedition.
From early youth I’d convinced myself that I was “destined” to be a lawyer, then politician to change the world . . . or in deference to family, to preserve the world in rock-solid traditions embraced by my elders. Eventually, however, I learned that those traditions were as iconoclastic as old-fashioned conservative; I was as much from a family of non-conforming skeptics as of “don’t-rock-the-boat” sailors. It was good to be different, but not to the point where you didn’t fit in. The distinction was blurry.
I was comfortable being different; not so as an outsider. This dichotomy manifested one day 30 minutes ahead of the closing bell in third grade. My parents arrived to haul me to my violin lesson in Minneapolis. Having caught wind of the plot, the principal ambushed. “Eric should be playing hockey with the all the other boys,” he said, “not the violin.” I would’ve sided with the principal, except I loved to ice-skate . . . alone on ice without barriers—and beyond sight of all my “cool,” hockey-playing peers.
My family’s unofficial motto—“moderation in the extreme”—seemed to have been lifted straight from James Hilton’s Lost Horizon, and ultimately, the adage left me conflicted about my place in the world. Moreover, was my destiny to emulate the rest of my family in their successful conformity or imitate them in their self-satisfying non-conformity? In chronic depression, I dedicated myself to over-training for the next marathon—extreme of extremes.
On a low day during law school, I saw the essence of my detailed training logs: the record of a circular escape attempt. I needed to run clear away—to see another side of the world to reconcile myself to “my” side of it.
I totaled the value of the Kruggerands that Dad had given each of us after he’d sold his hobby tree farm north of town. There’d be enough for a round-the-world plane ticket and $20/day to live upon. I could be gone nearly a year. Gone.
Except—I’d have myself in tow. But wasn’t that the point? The objective wasn’t to escape me but to drag myself along for a better look, for intense self-examination in the context of a larger world.
After clawing my way to graduation, I took the bar exam—and somehow passed—in case plans disintegrated, requiring me to conform. While law school classmates submitted job applications and prepared for interviews, however, I furtively searched visa requirements for NZ, Australia, India, and countries of Eastern Europe. I examined clothing and luggage needs.
Clutching the map of dreams, only occasionally did I divulge a destination along my intended route—the Milford Track in NZ; the Australian Outback; the roof of the world in Kashmir; Aga and Bombay (Mumbai); Giza; Eastern European capitals.
One evening a few days before my departure, I espied Dad seated in his den, poring over a world atlas. He didn’t notice me peering into the room.
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
