When you travel, remember that a foreign country is not designed

The critic and essayist Clifton Fadiman once offered words that echo with timeless truth: “When you travel, remember that a foreign country is not designed to make you comfortable. It is designed to make its own people comfortable.” At first, these words strike as pragmatic advice for the traveler, but beneath their surface lies a wisdom far deeper. They remind us that the journey is not meant to bend the world to our desires, but to bend our hearts toward humility, patience, and understanding. The foreign country exists not as a stage for our pleasure but as a living home for others, with traditions, values, and rhythms of life older than our presence.

To seek comfort in every place is to miss the very essence of travel. The ancient wayfarers knew this well. Pilgrims who walked to distant shrines, traders who rode the Silk Road, sailors who braved uncharted seas—they did not expect the world to mirror their own hearth. Rather, they came with respect, knowing they were guests upon another’s land. To complain of strangeness is to dishonor the people; to embrace it is to drink deeply from the cup of wisdom. For true travel does not give comfort—it gives perspective, which is worth far more.

The truth of Fadiman’s words can be seen in the tale of Ibn Battuta, the great Moroccan traveler. He wandered through Africa, the Middle East, India, and China, encountering countless customs, foods, and laws that differed from his own. At times he was bewildered, even critical, but he always recorded what he saw with curiosity and reverence. Had he demanded that each land reflect Morocco, his journey would have been wasted. Instead, he recognized that every nation shapes itself for its own people, not for the stranger, and by accepting this truth he became one of the greatest chroniclers of human diversity.

The origin of the quote lies not merely in Fadiman’s wit but in the eternal challenge faced by every traveler: the clash between expectation and reality. Many enter a new land carrying invisible baggage—the belief that food should taste as it does at home, that people should speak their tongue, that customs should mirror their own. But the wise traveler learns that the discomfort is itself the teacher. It reveals how narrow the mind has been, how fragile the ego, how vast the world truly is.

Consider also the lesson of the Roman Empire, which stretched across lands from Britain to Egypt. Roman citizens, accustomed to their own laws and luxuries, often struggled in the provinces where the climate, food, and culture differed greatly. Yet those who thrived were those who learned to adapt, to eat what the locals ate, to respect the customs of the land, to see not barbarity but beauty in the unfamiliar. Rome endured for centuries because it allowed for difference, shaping itself not as a mirror but as a mosaic.

The lesson for us is both simple and profound: when you travel, go not as a conqueror but as a guest. Do not demand that the world mold itself to you, but allow yourself to be molded by the world. In this humility lies the power to grow. The foreign land is not wrong because it is different; it is different because it belongs to others, and to honor them is to honor the truth of humanity.

Practical action follows naturally from this teaching. When in another country, eat the food with gratitude, even if it is strange to your tongue. Learn a few words of the language, even if they stumble on your lips. Walk with respect through temples, markets, and homes, remembering always that you are not the center but the guest. And when discomfort arises, as it surely will, let it be not a source of anger but of reflection, for in that moment you are reminded that the world is vast, and you are but one among many.

Thus the teaching resounds: “A foreign country is not designed to make you comfortable. It is designed to make its own people comfortable.” To future generations, let this wisdom endure. Travel not for comfort, but for awakening. Seek not to find yourself at home, but to discover the beauty of another’s home. In doing so, you will not only see the world—you will also see yourself more clearly, humbled, widened, and forever transformed.