Tripping the Light Fantastic: Travel as Dance

“Tripping the light fantastic” is an idiom that means to dance nimbly or lightly to music; it comes from English poet John Milton’s 1645 poem “L’Allegro.”

Trip it as ye go / On the light fantastic toe

It communicates a sense of agility, a feeling of weaving gracefully but also, because of the music, meeting a kind of structure — deftness and coordination contained by rhythm.

This is the way to travel.

What this means is that you have a plan — structure enough to group nearby experiences together, to book in advance, to have ideas for where you’ll eat — but you’re flexible within it in the moment.

I love travel planning, and I do it in detail. I make sure I’ll have time for my highest ranked Heartbeat Experiences and to ensure I’ve settled the details of accommodations, food, and rest stops — enough to take the weight of researching off of in-the-moment me, who will want to be as decision-free as possible so she can fill her time with the highest value experiences as happily as possible.

But once the plans are made, they’re not rigid. They’re available for use, but they can also be thrown out at a moment’s notice, where necessary.

The dance is flexible; it uses the music, but it has its own life.

The first time I went to Arashiyama in Kyoto, I had more than a day’s worth of things planned. I started at Otagi Nenbutsuji (a temple full of expressive Buddha statues) in the morning when it opened, then walked down the wooded path to Adashino Nenbutsuji (a temple with its own private bamboo forest). After that, I planned to walk down the Saga Toriimoto preserved street (which I didn’t even consider a must-do) to Okochi Sanso Garden.

But along the way, I saw a wooden stairway up into the forest, covered in curling ivy, so much that it seemed to have become part of the forest. I felt drawn to it, but I hesitated. I had things to do! Then I saw the handwritten sign, with an arrow pointing up.

“Please come up and visit our shop.”

I set the itinerary aside and ventured up.

I was rewarded with the most darling, unique shop. It wasn’t very big, enough to walk in one large rectangle, built into the hill side so closely it felt like part of it, and like if the hill gave way, so would the shop, and we’d all tumble to the street below. (But we’d be safe and fine, because this is Japan, after all.)

The shop was full of quirky tiny sculptures, of cute couples, frogs, cats, dogs with floppy ears. They were all made out of a cottony white substance, and they were like nothing I had ever seen before.

The man behind the desk at the back looked about 100, but had the energy of an 8-year-old. He sprang up to tell me about the sculptures — they’re made from silkworm cocoons by hand, and he makes them himself. He’s teaching his wife and daughters to do the same. He didn’t speak much English, but gestures spoke in place of words.

While I looked around, fascinated, he folded me a tiny origami frog. When I brought my purchase — a tiny silkworm cocoon couple, dressed in kimono, seated side by side — to him, he pressed on the frog and made it leap into the air.

In Rome, I went to The Forum (as one does). I hadn’t thought The Forum would necessarily be all that special, but standing there looking at the ruins of a once-great civilization and imagining what it must have looked like at its height… I found myself suddenly at the brink of tears, awed. It felt so alive. I imagined the majestic columns that would have been there and a hustle and bustle of people all around, crossing the plaza. The air seemed to vibrate with the energy of history.

Credit: Nicole Reyes

That rich experience made me crave more. I remembered something my Airbnb hostess had mentioned when I first arrived: Ostia Antica, an ancient Roman port city. I hadn’t come across it in my planning, but as soon as I looked it up, I rearranged the dance steps I had originally planned for Rome, knowing I had to get there.

The memory of Ostia Antica still takes my breath away. So much of it is still intact: the walls, the marble, the columns. It looks and feels like a living, active city. There’s a huge amphitheater and miles of those unbelievably sturdy ancient Roman roads, worn with the footsteps of thousands. There are intact shop counters that make you feel like you could buy a loaf of bread, just there. It feels like traveling back in time.

The best experiences don’t always appear in the planning phase. Some of them find you once you’re paying attention, once you’ve trained yourself to notice what moves you and to follow those threads. Once you’re on a trip you’ve thoroughly planned, stay open to tripping the light fantastic.