Let It Be Good excerpt

Excerpt from Dom Testa'a "Let It Be Good: Simple Insights for a Satisfied Life."

This is lifted from Chapter 2 of the book, titled "Wallpaper."

The bed-and-breakfast sat about a mile from the historic City Centre of Canterbury, tucked into a modern suburb of the 2,000-year-old British town. A mile turned out to be the perfect distance; one could find a peaceful night's sleep outside the hubbub of the action, but get in a pleasant walk when it was time to explore.

On a morning with crystal clear blue skies and with a backpack slung over one shoulder, I crossed a pedestrian bridge over the A28 and approached a stunning sight. Looming before me, stark, gray stone walls encircled the city. But these were not just any old walls. They were originally built by the Romans, just before the year 300 AD. Over the years, there have been long stretches of time where they fell into disrepair, only to be reinforced and/or rebuilt, from the Middle Ages to the 20th century.

What captivated me, besides their antiquity, was just how large and stout they were. In some places, an original Roman section can still stand 16 feet tall, while in other spots they reach nearly 20 feet. At the base, they can be as much as seven feet thick. During the peak of Roman control, there were two dozen large towers spaced out around the circumference of the town, some of these rising as tall as a seven-story building.

I stood transfixed, staring at these walls that date back more than 1,700 years. They appeared forbidding in some respects, possibly because they were erected by a mighty army representing one of the most fearsome and dominant empires the world has ever seen. And yet, after closer observation, I could see they’d also softened over time, the result of weather and the distress of modern pollution.

But still eye-popping.

And that’s the other thing that struck me. As I stood on that bridge, gazing upon this remarkable history, a mad procession of cars sped past below me. It was loud, this rumbling rush of humanity, the speed blurring the drivers’ faces as they hurried past, on their way to another appointment or scurrying into work, beginning what likely was another ordinary day.

Sipping some water, I looked back and forth between the wall and the traffic, wondering:

Do the people racing along even know these walls are here? How can they not be completely mesmerized by the staggering history of it all?

A few hours later, sitting at a table outside a quaint pub called The Old Buttermarket—having now switched from water to lager—I chatted with a local named Devon and I floated those same questions to him.

"Well," he said with a crooked smile. "It's like this. Ya say you’re from Colorado, right? I 'spose you don't notice the Rocky Mountains anymore, do ya?"

Then he lifted a pint to his lips and we both took a moment to savor his wisdom.

Immediately, I flashed back to a previous trip to another city rich in ancient history. In fact, the very birthplace of the empire that had built the Canterbury walls: Rome.

It had been a long, hot summer day, and I was ready for an evening of good food and even better wine. But there was still one more thing I wanted to experience before winding down. I’d spent hours at the Vatican, had gazed in awe at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, and had one more historical prize to take in before calling it a day.

I trudged up the steps from the bowels of one of Rome’s subway stations and there it was: the legendary Colosseum, more magnificent in person than any pictures or travel documentary could paint it. Not just its massive size, but the innate feeling of power and majesty still oozing from the stones.

This monument to the strength and authority of the mighty Roman Empire loomed overhead, all two thousand years of its grandeur on display. You could almost hear echoes of the roars of 50,000 spectators watching the gladiatorial games.

Well, almost hear them is right; those echoes were drowned out by the parade of vehicles whizzing past, a combination of cars, trucks, buses, and Italian motorbikes. Beyond the traffic, I swept my gaze across fast-food restaurants, pharmacies, and dry cleaners flanking the legendary Colosseum.

Again, I had to wonder if the residents had almost forgotten the ruins were even there. Did the old guy manning the newsstand across the street ever look up and truly absorb the glory of Emperor Vespasian’s handiwork? Or had this colossal stone wonder merely become . . . wallpaper?

I don’t know why the experiences in Canterbury and Rome bothered me. I guess it seemed as if the ancient relics were somehow disrespected. I know that’s not the case, but I couldn’t get over the feeling, regardless.

The truth is, most people usually travel with a tangible purpose: to visit friends, to sightsee, to experience new cultures. For some, however, the goal is to simply fulfill a wish list. Another pub patron I chatted with in Canterbury, a teacher from Wales named Paul, put it succinctly: "People just go places to tick them off a list. They have no reason for doing it other than to say they did.”

Or, I thought silently, to collect photos to impress friends on social media. Look what I did! Look what I saw!

That’s a cynical way to look at it, but Paul and I are not far off in our assessments. And if that’s why you travel, who am I to question your primary goal?

Side note: I hope when you visit some of these ancient wonders that you at least try to show a bit of respect. It took every ounce of self-control for me to not throttle the brutish American I overheard at Stonehenge saying, “Pfft. A bunch of rocks. We drove all the way out here for this?”

Dumbass. Go home.

Sorry, I still bristle when I think of it.

The reason for this chapter, the primary takeaway, and the thing that dominated my thoughts for the rest of that trip to England, had more to do with an intangible benefit of the vacation. Because regardless of the original intent, our travels deliver something of immense value beyond the photos and the memories.

We hopefully recognize what has become our own wallpaper.

Devon, the salty local outside that pub in Canterbury, was exactly right. At the time of my getaway, I’d had the stately Rocky Mountains as a backdrop for almost thirty years, and I had to admit there were days when I never saw them. Oh, they may have radiated through my windshield on a daily basis, but I’d become numb to the purple mountain majesties spread out before me.

No different than those commuters in Canterbury who were blind to a sixteen-foot stone wall that’s embraced their city for more than a millennium.

There's no shame in this—we simply become oblivious to things around us over time, whether it's a mountain range, a medieval cathedral, or—unfortunately—a loved one. The truth is, we’re stimulated on a regular basis by an overwhelming influx of new data, new images, features and products vying for our attention, and we lose sight of the majesty of a Colosseum . . . or a person.

What has become wallpaper in your world? People who live along Colorado’s Front Range undoubtedly grow anesthetized to the mountain views. Folks who spend day in and day out with the crashing waves of a glorious rocky coastline probably go weeks without really noticing it.

On a simpler note, some might have a home way out in the sticks, far from the light pollution pumped out by major cities, and yet they rarely stop and look up at the glittering wonder of the Milky Way.

Even worse, we get so desensitized by our daily routines that the people around us become a sort of living wallpaper. We notice that they’re around, we even go so far as to carry on dialogue with them—but we don’t really see them every day. It’s not unusual for some people to change their hairstyle—maybe even their hair color—and their family or friends don’t even notice.

Or we blink and our children have gone from diapers to graduating.

I discovered that a change of scenery can revive our sense of wonder and gratitude. As a vigorous advocate of solo travel for many years, I wrote a piece about the subject that was hailed by Yahoo Travel because it pointed out all the things you’re more likely to see and experience when you’re not traveling with another person.

Not only do these solo excursions help us see sights that might teach us appreciation for the beauty of our environment back home, but they might also produce a healthy dose of longing for the people we’ve recently taken for granted.

Travel as more than just a way to collect social media style points.

Travel as a life reboot.

When I landed at Denver International Airport after ten days in the U.K., I stood at the end of the concourse and gazed out the floor-to-ceiling windows.

At my glorious wallpaper.

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"Let It Be Good: Simple Insights for a Satisfied Life" will launch on May 12. To pre-order an ebook copy, follow this link.