The Luxury of Staying Put: Why We Should All Travel to Familiar Places
There is a modern tyranny: that of perpetual novelty. It compels us, with every vacation, to pin a new flag on a digital map, to explore uncharted territory, to collect horizons as if they were trophies. Yet, in contrast to this insatiable appetite for the unfamiliar, there lies a far deeper—and, paradoxically, far more restful—satisfaction: that of repetition. Returning to a place we’ve already been. Sitting at the same table, ordering the same dish, gazing at the same horizon. This isn’t intellectual laziness; it’s a strategy for emotional survival and a form of ultimate luxury: the luxury of no longer having to choose.
This inclination toward repetition is not the eccentricity of a weary adult. It is rooted in the most archaic mechanisms of our brain. Neuroscience and developmental psychology teach us that, from a very young age, human beings are programmed to identify patterns. For a child, repetition is the foundation of learning. This is what specialists call “statistical learning.” By listening to the same story twenty times or watching the same cartoon on a loop, a child’s brain isn’t getting bored; it’s decoding the world. It consolidates language, anticipates narrative structures, and eventually feels secure in a predictable environment. While parents may be exasperated by hearing the catchy lyrics of a K-pop hit like “Golden” by the K-Pop Demon Hunters for the thousandth time—that repetitive chorus promising that “everything will be golden ”—they forget that for their children, this repetition serves as a compass.
The Unchanging Geography of Whitstable
At age nine, this thirst for consistency has not dried up. It simply shifts from the realm of sound to physical geography. Take, for example, a summer ritual on the English coast, in the small town of Whitstable. For a young mind accustomed to the chaos of daily life, the ideal journey lies not in exploring unknown lands, but in the rigorous execution of a pre-established plan. The scenario is unchanging, almost sacred. It begins with an early morning wake-up call to go for a run up a hill overlooking the usual hotel, from where one watches, with clockwork precision, the sheep grazing in the distance.
The itinerary that follows leaves no room for improvisation, and that is precisely where its perfection lies. After breakfast, a taxi ride invariably takes you to the harbor. The destination is clear: the West Whelks cottage. You don’t go there for the latest culinary trends, but for the comforting taste of cockles, oysters, and crab claws enjoyed on a very specific stretch of beach. The walk that follows, heading west, isn’t aimless wandering but a journey punctuated by familiar landmarks: a café, public restrooms tucked away near a tennis court. Within this confined space, the world is orderly. The child is no longer a passive participant enduring the adults’ journey; he is the guardian of a temple whose every stone he knows.
From Exile in London to the Roots of Mitarai
This need to anchor oneself in places that remain constant resonates with particular force among those whose lives are marked by instability. For someone who grew up in the precariousness of successive rentals in a metropolis like London, the family home becomes a beacon. Such was the case with those summers spent on the island of Mitarai, not far from Hiroshima. There, an ancestral home—which once housed the family’s soy sauce factory—served as an unchanging gathering place.
In this Japan of permanence, the rituals have remained the same for centuries: sashimi feasts and fireworks set off under the stars. In the face of the forced nomadism of modern urban life, these recurring moments are not mere memories; they are an identity. They offer continuity where everything else is nothing but change. By returning each year to the same century-old house, we are not just taking a vacation; we are reconnecting the threads of a lineage. We become part of a long timeline that transcends us and protects us.
The Cognitive Economy of “Déjà Vu”
Why, even as adults, do so many of us secretly fantasize about these “copy-and-paste” vacations? The answer can be summed up in two words: mental fatigue. Our professional and social lives subject us to a ceaseless stream of micro-decisions. Choosing a flight, comparing hotels, finding the highest-rated restaurant, deciphering a foreign subway map… All of this consumes a colossal amount of cognitive energy. Familiarity, on the other hand, acts as a soothing balm. It frees us from the tyranny of choice.
When we know the way, the brain switches to autopilot. This regained mental space is where true relaxation takes root. It’s the moment when we can finally “be” rather than “do.” Revisiting an old haunt isn’t a retreat into oneself; it’s a rediscovery of one’s own evolution. Nelson Mandela, in his memoirs, aptly noted that there is nothing quite like returning to a place that hasn’t changed to realize just how much you yourself have changed. The unchanging place serves as a mirror, a fixed point of reference in our shifting journey.
The Return as a New Frontier
As early as 1875, the poet Julia Goddard described summer as a place as much as a season, a “golden time” when the breezes listen to lovers’ secrets and the birds sing with joy. This romantic vision is possible only if the setting is stable. For the breeze to be “listening,” it must blow across a landscape we recognize—one that does not overwhelm us with its radical novelty.
It’s never too late to reevaluate our relationship with travel. Rather than seeking out the next trendy destination, perhaps we should seek out our own Mitarai or our own Whitstable. Whether it’s to reconnect with a Japanese family tradition or to revisit a familiar beach in Kent, the most enriching journey is sometimes the one that takes us back along our own path. In the repetition of days and places, we find not boredom, but a form of quiet wisdom. It is there, in this eternal return, that the true luxury of summer lies: the feeling of being, at last, exactly where we are meant to be.