That’s quite an emblematic image. One I hope libcucks will prominently incorporate into their nation’s flag if ever a safe space from white supremacy can ever be secured. The photo was taken recently in Hua Hin, Thailand, and features the alternately prone and supine figures of a British family on vacation. One I’m certain wouldn’t be forgotten, if only they could remember.
The occasion of their impromptu nap on a filthy south-asian sidewalk is a matter of some dispute. It may be another in Thailand’s recent string of brutal attacks on white tourists, or perhaps beating elderly couples unconscious is just what curry dervishes do on a Saturday night.
Though regardless, the scene reminds me of travel’s most gratifying aspect: coming home. The allure of exotic locales and inscrutable natives is aided immeasurably by the sense of safe return. Travel is like a three-dimensional movie with only a thin filter of vicariousness. Its pleasure is temporary, and recalled most fondly in places most familiar. No one wants to actually live in Bangkok. They want to visit and go home.
But home is what is ours, not coordinates on a map. And what when those returning coordinates are no more ours than the fetid foreign swamp our bodies were just peeled from by spatula? Will our anti-racist bonafides offer solace as grandmothers are ruthlessly KTFOd by fellow citizens who haven’t yet fully embraced conservative values? How much of a thrill will foreign excursions be when occurring daily outside our own front door? Eventually a person comes to keenly yearn for the most desirable destination on Earth…home. Let us endeavor to have one.