embodied tourism in a disembodied age

the aesthete's guide to Budapest

As all the various functions of common life—from commerce to conversation—move to virtual space, the notion that human beings and their physicality (of body and place) are neatly distinguishable becomes plausible. In other words, in the current technological, philosophical, and cultural moment, disembodiment and radical self-customization are the air we breathe.

In this context, what does it mean to be human? What is human identity?

I believe this underlying question drives our society’s most salient trends and movements. From tradwives to trans influencers, from mukbang stars to biohacking billionaires, from neopagan Vikings to Hoteps, people are attempting to cobble together an answer to this question whether they know it or not. The internet has birthed a theater of identity out of ideological spare parts—curated, mimetic, and relentlessly performative. But beyond the spectacle lies something deeper: a search for meaning, rooted in the body, and straining to transcend it.

I also submit that this question underscores the true philosophical divide of our age. The categories of "Right" and "Left," once practical, are now essentially anachronistic, particularly in light of the acute political realignments of recent decades. The dichotomy originates in the seating arrangements of the French National Assembly during the nascent days of the Revolution.

To the president’s right sat the so-called "reactionaries," champions of monarchy, tradition, and hierarchical stability. To his left were the radicals: advocates for republicanism, secularism, and the wholesale reconstitution of society. This arrangement, a convenience of architecture, ossified into an enduring shorthand for basic ideological orientations. But once the guillotine came down on the monarchy, the "right" lost its substantive raison d'être and descended into the role of a begrudging regulator of the "left"—not articulating a vision of its own, but serving merely to temper the excesses of revolutionary zeal, like a traffic officer whose only concern is enforcing the speed limit. Such a posture is no substitute for a coherent philosophy.

The fact of America’s early establishment of anti–monarchical, liberal consensus, the ongoing techno-industrial revolutions of the 20th and 21st centuries, as well as the advent of mass culture and globalization invites a revaluation of our basic philosophical categories. The fundamental question of The French Revolution was one of monarchy versus democracy. That question was asked and answered. The current question—as I’ve posed it, human versus transhuman—represents something closer to tech-negative (broadly traditionalist, localist, emphasizing borders between groups and the immutability of human embodiment) versus tech-positive (directionally transhumanist, internationalist, fungibility-forward with regard to the body as well as national borders). People who call themselves “right wing” tend to fall into the former category, and “leftists” the latter, but only by accident, and many of those who call themselves “right” belong, in meaningful ways, in the latter category.

The notion of embodiment has captivated me lately. I’ve been thinking about how much unmitigated physical participation in any given thing lends more insight into the human experience than the sort of experience-by-proxy that has become so easy in the technological age. Take for instance the learning of a language. When I was studying Chinese at Middlebury College, we students were often frustrated by the strict insistence on the language pledge: that we were not allowed to speak English ever, for the duration of the program. It was uncomfortable, sure, but there was a sort of intimacy that evolved with proficiency—a deeper understanding of grammar, but also a deeper respect for the particularity of the Chinese worldview and lifestyle.

I realize this is quite a wordy pretext to support the point I really want to make about travel, that there are two essential ways to do it, and one way to do it well. The first way, which is increasingly common and altogether poor, emphasizes fungibility, ease of access, arbitary comfort, and globalism. The right way to travel, as I see it, emphasizes embodiment and particularity.

As in most things, the fungibility-forward tendency has come to dominate the tourism industry worldwide. In my experiences in China, Western Europe, and now the interesting in-between of Eastern-Central European Hungary, I’ve noticed that to the extent that a nation contrives to cater to lowest common denominator tourists, it loses its national character. The commodification of local enterprise for the traveler who travels for the sake of travel has rendered local dishes less spicy. Shops in tourist traps import made-in-China (unless you’re in China, in which case, made-in-Vietnam) kitsch for the undiscerning souvenir-hunter. Emblazoning signs with English eliminates the difficulty of being an American in not-America, but it gradually erodes the idiosyncratic aesthetic of the place, rendering the experience of the tourist shallow and uninteresting.

But the embodiment-forward strain is ironically the thing that makes travel interesting and enjoyable. For the traveler who travels for the sake of authentic understanding, the global homogenization of everything becomes a disappointment. And because this is now the way of the world vis a vis travel, the discerning traveller must develop her own ways to get beyond the kitsch.

I’ve begun to consider travel as an exercise in embodiment. What does this mean?

To embody a place means to partake fully in its rhythms and textures—not merely as a spectator, but as an active participant. This might mean learning enough of the local language to order your meal without defaulting to English, walking the uneven cobblestones instead of taking an air-conditioned tour bus, or choosing to eat what locals eat, where they eat it.

Travel, when undertaken without consideration for embodiment, risks becoming a form of cultural extraction. The visitor consumes the aesthetic of a place without nourishing its spirit, leaving behind a trail of shallow impressions and economic footprints that often do more harm than good. Where the disembodied traveler sees a destination as a checklist of photo opportunities, the embodied traveler views it as an unfolding narrative.

Contemporary progressives favor accusations of “cultural appropriation” when it comes to observing, practicing, or curating aspects of foreign cultures, regardless of the manner in which one does it. Ironically, this accusation tends to relegate the tourist to engage only with the most inoffensive and facile cultural features of the host nation. That, I think, is the true cultural appropriation, if there is such a thing: to indulge in the consumptive element without a deep, however potentially politically incorrect, understanding or respect of history. The concept of “cultural appropriation” works against my theory of embodiment as a form of respect. I reject it!

So, how do I accomplish “embodied tourism” in Budapest?

I’m lucky that Budapest is a place with a sense of itself, despite immense pressure to homogenize. Of course, you could come to Budapest as the purely consumptive kind of tourist, and many do. But more than any other place I’ve visited in Europe, Hungary insists on its particularity. I’m lucky, too, that as a part of my fellowship, I am required to take language classes and read the Hungarian Tolstoy, as well as several works of history. We watch Hungarian classic movies. We visit the countryside. We bathe in the thermal springs. I think this framework is an excellent prerequisite for embodied tourism, and a good outline for anyone wishing to apply the principle here or elsewhere.

Though some aspects of global homogenization are truly global–English language dominance has certainly reached Budapest–Hungarian leadership has made a concerted effort to resist the internationalist style particularly with regard to its architecture. Enacted on December 22, 2023, the Hungarian Architecture Act consolidates various architectural and building regulations into a unified framework. The Act underscores the importance of safeguarding historic environments, monuments, and sites, aiming to enhance architectural quality and uphold Hungary's architectural identity—which is aesthetically particular and human-scale. The act further emphasizes environmental protection, quality of life, and the preservation of green spaces. Again, this seems to me an indisputably good thing for any kind of tourist.

Advent at St. Stephen’s Basilica.

Souvenir-kitsch is the enemy of the aesthetic-minded tourist. I think one of the best ways to get around it is to identify textural elements of practical historical use. In China, this was especially difficult from the collector’s perspective, since so many artifacts had been destroyed during the Cultural Revolution. It’s genuinely difficult to find antique china in China. Hungary is no stranger to the inherent destructiveness of communism, but thankfully, more genuine artifacts and practices remain and have been revived in the meantime.

I’ve curated a list of such items and practices here. The sartorial, domestic, and appetitive elements each support my thesis of embodied tourism. I’m also on the lookout for local classic artists. Our library needs another oil painting! I’d love to find some icons made by local artists, too. I recently passed by a Hungarian perfumery which I will probably also patronize. Embodiment, embodiment, embodiment.

1. The sartorial element: Bocskai jacket
   The sartorial arts stand as a counterpoint to the homogenization of global tourism. While "fungibility-forward" travel offers standardized and predictable experiences, traditional sartorial arts celebrate particularity, individuality, and local character. Rather than an “I <3 BUDA” T-shirt or yet another Zara blazer, I am planning to invest in a Bocskai jacket. It is named after István Bocskai, a 16th-century Hungarian nobleman, prince of Transylvania, and a leader of an early anti-Habsburg uprising. In the 19th century, as Hungary experienced a period of national awakening and resistance to Austrian rule, the Bocskai jacket became a symbol of Hungarian patriotism.

   

   I discovered the Bocskai jacket as I was watching the classic Hungarian film A hídember (The Bridge Man), a political epic that takes place between 1820 and 1860 during the Habsburg Monarchy, portraying the life one of the greatest Hungarian aristocrats, Count Széchenyi, one of the intellectual leaders of the 1848 Revolution. Then, it was popularized as formal attire among Hungarian elites who wanted to emphasize their national heritage. Today, the Bocskai jacket is not only a ceremonial garment but also a statement piece in Hungary's fashion and cultural expression. It is sometimes adopted as part of Hungary's national dress or by politicians and public figures to signal national pride. One of the funny ironies of the Bocskai is that while it was once a symbol for the 19th century liberal-nationalist anti-monarchists, it is now considered a deeply reactionary symbol.

   Hampel Katalin is a distinguished Hungarian fashion designer renowned for creating garments that blend traditional Hungarian attire with contemporary fashion. Her designs are celebrated for their meticulous craftsmanship and cultural authenticity. I am eyeing the long velvet dress coat, budget be damned.

2. The domestic element: Ceramics
   Hungary boasts a rich tradition of ceramic artistry, with several renowned manufacturers that have made significant contributions to the field. Ceramics are, in my view, an excellent example of embodied tourism as they are deeply tied to the local culture, traditions, and natural environment of the regions where they are produced. The shapes, patterns, and techniques used reflect centuries of cultural expression and historical continuity. Purchasing or engaging with locally-made ceramics allows travelers to directly connect with the artisans who create them, fostering an appreciation for the craft's embodied labor and skill.

   

   Herend Porcelain Manufactory, established in 1826 in the town of Herend near Veszprém, specializes in luxury hand-painted and gilded porcelain. In the mid-19th century, it served as a purveyor to the Habsburg dynasty and aristocratic customers throughout Europe. Many of its classic patterns remain in production today. In particular, I am eyeing their motherhood figurines. Given my research focus here (family policy), as well as my personal devotion to Christ’s Mother, this feels perfect!

3. The appetitive element: Tokaj Wine
   Tokaj wine is inextricably linked to the region’s unique terroir, a combination of soil, climate, and topography that shapes the wine’s flavor. Each sip of Tokaj wine embodies the physical geography of northeastern Hungary, offering a literal taste of the land. The centuries-old winemaking traditions of Tokaj, including the famous Tokaji Aszú, connect the traveler to the region’s cultural and historical heritage, fostering that deep sense of place.

   

   I am most excited to visit Disznókő, established in 1992, recognized for its Tokaji Aszú, a famous Hungarian dessert wine. Tokaji Aszúderives from grapes affected by noble rot (scientifically known as Botrytis cinerea, a beneficial fungal infection that affects wine grapes under specific conditions, resulting in some of the world’s most celebrated sweet wines, also including Sauternes (France), and Trockenbeerenauslese (Germany)). The volcanic soil and cool climate of the Tokaj region contribute to the wine's vibrant acidity, which prevents the sweetness from becoming overwhelming and enhances its freshness.

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I’m not a perfect tourist. I complained loudly about the lack of air-conditioning in the summer. Sometimes, with the babies, McDonald’s chicken nuggets call to us. Still, the principle of embodied tourism challenges us to become active participants in the history—far from ended—of the places we visit. Souvenirs are meaningful precisely to the extent that they engage the history experientially. In this way, curation oriented toward craftsmanship and historical literacy is not an exercise in self-customization du jour, but recognition of the richness of the world outside of the self. If the current question of our age is, as I’ve suggested, "human versus transhuman," then this kind of travel offers an opportunity to reaffirm our humanity—not as consumers, but as participants in history who hunger for authenticity, particularity, rootedness, intimacy, and togetherness.

This, ultimately, is the gift of embodied travel: it teaches us how to truly see, taste, touch, and understand a world that, for all its modern distractions, remains beautifully and irreducibly particular.

Clementine & Tokaj Wine