Some years ago, while still an undergraduate, I chanced to be present at an informal gathering in which the conversation turned to confessions of respective aspirations.
“If only I had a few thousands,” sighed a senior, “I’d make a trip around the world.”
“Modest ambition!” retorted a junior, “But you’d better file it away for future reference, till you have made the money.”
“With all due respect to bank accounts,” I observed, “I believe a man with a bit of energy and good health could start without money and make a journey around the globe.”
Laughter assailed the suggestion; yet as time rolled on I found myself often musing over that hastily conceived notion. Travel for pleasure has ever been considered a special privilege of the wealthy. That a man without ample funds should turn tourist seems to his fellow-beings an action little less reprehensible than an attempt to finance a corporation on worthless paper. He who would see the world, and has not been provided the means thereto by a considerate ancestor, should sit close at home until his life work is done, his fortune made. Then let him travel; when his eyes have grown too dim to catch the beauty of a distant landscape, when struggle and experience have rendered him blasé and unimpressionable.
A spirit of rebellion against this traditional notion suggested a problem worthy of investigation. What would befall the man who set out to girdle the globe as the farmer’s boy sets out to seek his fortune in the neighboring city; on the alert for every opportunity, yet scornful of the fact that every foot of the way has not been paved before him? There were, of course, other motives than mere curiosity to urge me to undertake such an expedition. As a vocation I had chosen the teaching of modern languages; foreign travel promised to add to my professional preparation. Were I permitted an avocation it would be the study of social conditions; what surer xiiiway of gaining vital knowledge of modern society than to live and work among the world’s workmen in every clime? In the final reckoning, too, an inherent Wanderlust, to which, as an American, I lay no claim as a unique characteristic, was certainly not without its influence.
It was not until a year after my graduation that opportunity and my plans were ripe. I resolved to take a “year off,” to wander through as much of the world as possible, and to return to my desk in the autumn, fifteen months later. As to my equipment for such a venture: I spoke French and German readily, Spanish and Italian with some fluency; I had “worked my way” on shorter journeys, had earned wages at a dozen varieties of manual labor in my own country, and had crossed the Atlantic once as a cattle man and once before the mast. It was my original intention to attempt the journey without money, without weapons, and without carrying baggage or supplies; to depend both for protection and the necessities of life on personal endeavor and the native resources of each locality. That plan I altered in one particular. I decided to carry a kodak; and to obviate the necessity of earning en route what I might choose to squander in photography, I set out with a sum that seemed sufficient to cover that extraneous expense; to be exact: with one hundred and four dollars. As was to be expected, I spent this reserve fund early, in those countries of northern Europe in which I had not planned an extensive stay. But the conditions of the self-imposed test were not thereby materially altered; for before the journey ended I had spent in photography, from my earnings, more than the original amount,—to be exact again: one hundred and thirteen dollars.
The chief object of investigation being the masses, I made no attempt during the journey to rise above the estate of the common laborer. My plan included no fixed itinerary. The details of route I left to chance and the exigencies of circumstances. Yet this random wandering brought me to as many famous spots as any victim of a “personally conducted tour” could demand; and in addition, to many corners unknown to the regular tourist. These latter it is that I have accentuated, passing lightly over well-known scenes. It is easy and, alas, too often customary for travelers to weave fanciful tales. But a story of personal observation of social conditions can xivbe of value only in so far as it adheres to the truth of actual experience. I have, therefore, told the facts in every particular, denying myself the privilege even of altering unimportant details to render more dramatic many a somewhat prosaic incident. The names of places, institutions, and persons appearing in the text are in every case authentic; the illustrations are chosen entirely from the photographs I took during the journey.
The question that aroused my curiosity has been answered. A man can girdle the globe without money, weapons, or baggage. It is in the hope that the experiences and observations of such a journey may be of interest to fireside travelers that I offer the following account of my Wanderjahr.
The author wishes to acknowledge the courtesy of Harper’s Weekly, Outing and The Century Magazine in permitting him to republish from their pages certain chapters of this book.