A Compass for an Infinite Travel List
Created at: October 9, 2025
I haven't been everywhere, but it's on my list. — Susan Sontag
The List as a Compass, Not a Contract
Susan Sontag’s wry line distills wanderlust into a philosophy: we orient our lives by places we may never reach. The point is not completion but direction—an evolving compass that points toward curiosity rather than a finish line. By admitting that “everywhere” is impossible, the list becomes an honest map of desire, a promise to stay awake to the world’s plurality. In this light, listing shifts from tallying to tending: we care for interests we might pursue when circumstance and courage align. Thus the list endures not as pressure but as permission—to remain curious, to keep moving, and to change our minds.
Sontag’s Eye: Travel as Ways of Seeing
Extending the idea, Sontag’s On Photography (1977) shows how images create itineraries long before we book a ticket. Photographs render the distant vivid and the ordinary invisible, turning certain vistas into mandatory stops and others into overlooked margins. Moreover, in Regarding the Pain of Others (2003), she warns that spectatorship can dull responsibility; seeing is not the same as understanding. Consequently, a travel list shaped by images invites a double task: to approach famous scenes with fresh attention, and to look past the frame for what the brochure omits—the texture of daily life, the histories beneath the postcard.
From Grand Tour to Bucket Culture
Historically, lists of elsewhere conferred identity. The European Grand Tour (17th–18th centuries) credentialed young elites; later, Baedeker guides and railways democratized movement. By the 1970s, Lonely Planet handbooks widened the circle again, and today, feeds and review sites script global must-sees in real time. Yet this democratization carries a paradox: the more accessible a place becomes, the more itineraries converge, risking a checklist mentality. Even so, the lineage suggests a hopeful continuity: across centuries, lists have helped people imagine lives larger than their immediate horizons.
Serendipity Versus Itineraries
However, great journeys often begin with one intention and end with another. Ibn Battuta set out for the Hajj in 1325 and, by continuously following curiosity and opportunity, traveled for nearly three decades. His story hints at a useful tension: itineraries give us a starting arc, while serendipity lends depth and surprise. Practically, this means scheduling fewer commitments and more porous hours—time to follow a street band, accept a neighbor’s invitation, or linger where conversation blooms. In doing so, the list stays open-ended, a sketch rather than a cage.
The Ethics of Showing Up
With presence comes responsibility. Overtourism strains fragile ecosystems and local housing; carbon-heavy flights alter the very climates that make destinations unique. A conscientious list therefore blends desire with duty: traveling off-peak, choosing rail over short-haul flights when possible, supporting locally owned businesses, and observing leave-no-trace principles borrowed from backcountry ethics. Moreover, learning a few phrases, reading local histories, and paying fair prices convert arrival into relationship. In this way, the list matures—from acquisitive tally to reciprocal encounter.
The Psychology of Anticipation
Interestingly, research suggests the list’s joy begins long before departure. Kumar, Killingsworth, and Gilovich’s “Waiting for Merlot” (Psychological Science, 2014) finds that anticipating experiences often produces more sustained happiness than awaiting material goods. Planning, then, is not mere admin—it is savoring in advance. By refining a list, tracing routes, or reading novels set in future destinations, we cultivate a renewable form of happiness that does not depend on constant movement. Thus, the list is both itinerary and mood: a portable well of expectancy.
Finite Lives, Deeper Maps
Ultimately, to list “everywhere” is to acknowledge human limits while refusing smallness. Depth can redeem what breadth cannot reach. Rebecca Solnit’s A Field Guide to Getting Lost (2005) argues that disorientation can be a method for noticing; likewise, Annie Dillard’s Pilgrim at Tinker Creek (1974) models radical attention close to home. Therefore, when time or funds run thin, we can still travel by looking harder—walking the same block at dawn, noon, and night, letting the familiar go strange. The list remains, not as a ledger to clear, but as a living invitation to see more fully wherever we are.