Originally published in print November 2020.
Admit it, we’ve all done it. You’re not quite sure why, but you give a different name to the barista in Starbucks at the airport. You get a taste for it, et voilá, you become a professional, jet-setting liar. Chatting to the woman squashed beside you on the comically small plane, suddenly your older sisters are non-existent and you’ve become the beloved only child of an obscure yet wealthy philanthropist. (What? Oh, nevermind why you’re flying economy.)
It might almost surprise you, how easily you slip into this fabricated identity of yours while travelling. The old you was left behind the moment you huddled across the rainy tarmac and stepped onto the plane, luggage and new persona in tow.
Alright, so in reality you’re only in Barcelona for three days during reading week… but as far as the chic shop assistant in the eye-wateringly expensive boutique knows, you’re a journalist who’s editor sent travelling to scope out interesting stories for some up-and-coming magazine. She also thinks you’ll be back to buy the pure silk shirt that costs more than a week’s worth of shopping in Aldi. Either she’s delusional or you’re a damn good liar.
Why do we do it? Is it for the thrill of being someone new? The chance to be a better, more interesting, more worldly version of yourself? Or is it simply downright sociopathic?
Well, for one thing, it’s fun. Interrailing is practically a rite of passage for university students; mine was spent drinking copious amounts of wine and weaving an intricate web of little white lies spanning Europe’s top tourist attractions. The security guard at the Louvre was surprised to learn of my familial roots to Vermeer, while the tour guide at the Colosseum gave a VIP tour to who he assumed was a close friend of the Versace family – hey, go big or go home, right? I was basically Leonardo diCaprio in Catch Me if You Can, minus the illegal fraud.
But there’s more to it than chancing your arm. When travelling, reality is put on hold: the mundane, meaningless worries of daily life suddenly become clear. It takes us outside of ourselves, the distance giving us a chance to reflect on who we are and explore the endless possibilities of who we might become. Being abroad is almost like a trial-run for the life we could lead. It isn’t that we are unhappy in ourselves. On the contrary, perhaps pretending to be someone we’re not teaches us something about who we truly are.
A quick scroll through Instagram and we are inundated with inspirational posts demanding we “appreciate the little things” and start romanticising our lives: playing pretend is just another way of doing that. I see no difference between donning a witches costume for one night of the year than trying on a new identity for size. If you have to play at being a socialite or royalty to better appreciate your morning coffee in the piazza, I say go for it.
