Development Note #19
The introduction of the twin-engine Douglas DC-3 in 1935 was a turning point in human mobility—the beginning of routine travel to almost anywhere. Today, the FAA manages millions of flights each year within the United States alone. In less than a century, we have grown accustomed to the idea that the world is readily accessible, conveniently (more or less), and on demand.
Apart from the strain placed on infrastructure in a few heavily-visited cities, this freedom of movement has clear benefits, for both relatives and business. Yet there are inescapable costs: aircraft engines produce greenhouse gases, and air travel is now widely recognized as a contributor—if a relatively minor one—to climate change.
The other cost is perhaps less easy to quantify—distraction. The ease of travel can be a significant distraction from experiencing place, the place we were once connected to—community. Still, the ability to travel large distances, quickly has become, for many, an expectation. Any significant restriction is likely to be perceived as a violation of personal freedom—of mobility, self-determination, and cultural exchange.
Exploration is, after all, in our nature. Even when expressed simply as vacation travel, the desire to experience new places and different environments seems deeply human. But exploration does not exist only in the physical world. It can also take place in our minds. Through books, films, live streaming, travel shows, and virtual reality, we can now explore the world’s art, philosophy, and cultures without going anywhere at all. This virtual “travel” is theoretically limitless, though it has obvious limitations.
Given the environmental and cultural impacts of aviation, some argue that we should be pursuing alternatives more seriously. Scaling back on air travel—even in the name of protecting the planet—is a hard pill to swallow. Still, it seems likely that we will be asked to swallow several such pills as the effects of climate change become more severe and unavoidable. There are proposals to replace fossil fuels in aviation, but these remain in early development, with uncertain outcomes.
So what is a traveler to do?
There are, of course, alternatives to air travel:
- Trains, if both you and your destination share the same landmass
- Electric cars, given appropriate infrastructure and distance —and this form of transportation has its downside
- Sailing on a boat, if time and geography allow (one day perhaps traveling on wind-powered passenger ships)
- Biking, if the route and your endurance allow
- Or, finally, not traveling, and instead exploring what is available locally.
This last option may be the least satisfying to many would-be travelers. Nor is it necessarily comforting to read what historian Yuval Noah Harari has to say in his book, Sapiens:
“People today spend a great deal of money on holidays abroad because they are true believers in the myths of romantic consumerism…we believe we must open ourselves to a wide spectrum of emotions; to make the most of our human potential we must have as many different experiences as we can…break free from our daily routine, leave behind our familiar settings, and travel to distant lands, where a new experience can open our eyes and change our lives.”
Harari’s phrase “myths of romantic consumerism” reflects his broader argument that what distinguishes Homo sapiens from all other creatures is our capacity to imagine and believe in shared fictions—money, nations, corporations, even the emotional power of a story. These beliefs exist only in our minds, yet they shape the world. In a sense, we are believing in a story when we seek travel to expand our social and or cultural knowledge-base. Conversely, staying at home is hardly a story we need believe for the experience to have impact.
The idea that traveling far away will enhance our lives through cultural experience is, in Harari’s view, similar to our beliefs around money or our experience of reading a novel: should we collectively agree to treat any human desire as reality-based? Does understanding this make it any easier to give up air travel? Probably not. Unless, that is, there were a truly compelling substitute.
Turning our focus—and our quest for self-actualization—to local life is not a radical idea. For most of human history, community was central to identity and survival. Tribe, clan, village, guild—local belonging was not optional; it was life-affirming and necessary, the only show in town. Today, however, friends and families live farther apart. Many of us commute from what Bankrate.com calls “bedroom communities”—places where people primarily come home to sleep after working elsewhere. In that context, the appeal of a far-off destination is understandable.
At the same time, local communities often no longer provide the level of connection and support that was once common. Local businesses and social centers have disappeared. A 2021 survey by the American Enterprise Institute found a significant decline in the number of close friends people report having since 1990, along with an increase in those who say they have none at all. Social isolation and loneliness shape how we feel about our lives—and about where we live. If home does not nourish us socially, it is no wonder we dream of escape.
The ability to interact meaningfully with others is grounding. It roots us in place and can change how we perceive our surroundings. Dorothy’s famous line in The Wizard of Oz—“There’s no place like home”—is not a guarantee that home is good, nor is it a comment on Kansas. It is an expression of longing for belonging.
If we are to make local life more compelling—more nourishing, more worth staying for—it will not happen by accident. It begins with conversation. With a few people. With small experiments. With the slow, human work of rebuilding connections. Improving the quality of community life is itself a journey, and perhaps the most meaningful one we can take—no boarding pass required.