There are two ways to travel internationally. The one is to stand out like a sore thumb in dress, be loud and obnoxious, condescending to local customs, steadfastly refuse to try to communicate in the native tongue, complain of every inconvenience and disparagingly compare every experience to how it’d be better back home. In other words, travel like a typical tourist – in short, an American. The other way is to travel as if you’ve narrowly escaped from danger, sadly, only with what you were wearing at the time, in constant fear you will be recaptured, grateful for any food you’re provided with, regardless of how strange it looks or tastes, thankful for the smallest and unexpected courtesy, deferent to all local customs and effusive in praising foreign lifestyles compared to your own back home. In other words, travel like a refugee – in short, also an American.

The other way is to travel as if you’ve narrowly escaped from danger, sadly, only with what you were wearing at the time, in constant fear you will be recaptured, grateful for any food you’re provided with, regardless of how strange it looks or tastes, thankful for the smallest and unexpected courtesy, deferent to all local customs and effusive in praising foreign lifestyles compared to your own back home. In other words, travel like a refugee

By no means am I separating myself from this herd. These observations are more or less based on my own behavior, especially when it comes to dress. I wasn’t as aware of any of this until I started traveling with Carol. Gently but doggedly, she slowly transformed me into seeing the world as a place of wonder, rather than as an amusement park that I’m rushing through in order to get the most out of my all-inclusive ticket. In Nice, I remember her telling me to “slow down and find joy in the journey.” I’m getting better. For instance, instead of hopping on the first public bus that passes us, I look for the ones that will take us where there are points of interest. In Liverpool, that wound up taking us to the Beatles’s Penny Lane, where much of the song’s lyrics were laid out right before us on the actual street. Like I said, though, that strategy is still a work in progress. In Rome, I swore the bus we hopped on at sunset would take us right past the Colosseum all lit up. Instead it took us to a dimly lit square, where the route ended, and seemed a great meeting spot for the Eternal City’s pickpockets and muggers.

But on those occasions when a little extra logistical planning went into our sightseeing, it paid off handsomely. When a three-day bus pass along the far western reaches of Cornwall in England took us through the quaint towns and villages, along hedged lanes and sheep meadows that form the locals’s daily view, seeing everything just as a local commuter or homemaker running errands would. I’m sure we still look like Americans, but I’m also sure the locals appreciate us appreciating their day-to-day lives on their terms and without judgment.

In York, we extended our stay in order to attend the town’s Saturday football match. We paid a pound to join the local club, and share pints before the game began –  in a 1930s era wooden stadium, hosting one of the last matches to be played there before the team moved into new digs. With that bit of local embrace, I felt comfortable that evening asking about for a pub that would carry the cable channel featuring Sunday NFL games. When you can travel abroad and still feel right at home is when you might just have hit the sweet spot to life on the road.