Tourist or Traveler, Passport or Participant

Billy Hodges
Studying Abroad with Semester at Sea in 1994 at age 20

I landed at the airport in Nassau alone. It was 1994, and I was en route to embark on a Semester at Sea. No classmates beside me. No phone in my pocket. No group to follow. Just me, a printed itinerary, and a dingy taxi ride to the dock where the SS Universe awaited.

I’d traveled abroad before—to London, to Canada—but always with familiar people, in familiar-feeling places. Nassau felt different. The signs, the voices, the pace—they all challenged me. That moment of self-reliance by necessity sharpened something in me. I wasn’t just passing through. I was paying attention. I wasn’t a tourist on a trip. I was actively becoming a traveler.

Over time, I began to recognize that same pattern—in travel, in organizing, and in citizenship. The difference isn’t where I am; it’s whether I’m engaged in where I am.

Semester at Sea gave us the world—eleven ports, each with its own culture, history, language, and rhythm. At every stop, there was a choice: take a structured tour or chart your own course. Some went for the comfort and efficiency of curated excursions. Others tended towards paper maps, bus stations, and the simple rule of getting back to the ship before it sailed. That difference matters. Tourists observe; travelers explore.

In Cape Town, I joined a group heading to a rally where Nelson Mandela was speaking. I didn’t grasp the full historical weight at the time, but I remember the electricity in the crowd. Thousands of people dancing, singing, and surging with hope and jubilant energy. The moment wasn’t built for visitors like me. The crowd’s excitement made it powerful. We weren’t the intended audience, but they were committed to a better future, and we were welcomed to be a part of it.  It’s still an indelible memory of individual action leading to change. We weren’t watching; we were participating.

In Japan, I traveled to Kyoto. I stood inside temples and at memorials honoring those lost in the second nuclear blast of World War II. Around me were thousands upon thousands of origami cranes—folded by children, nested in colorful chains, draped like garlands of memory. The cranes stood as a constant vigil, a quiet and enduring act of remembrance. I met families, in person, who sit together and fold them year after year. That experience—witnessing the watchfulness of the cranes, the rituals of peace, and the humanity behind them—helped me reshape my understanding of WWII—of what it meant and what it still means. It clarified my sense of the postwar relationship between our two countries and deepened my view of how nations carry grief—and rebuild trust. I wasn’t reading about history; I was connecting to humanity.

Midway through our voyage, the ship broke down. The itinerary fell apart. Commercial flights replaced reflective days at sea. Tensions rose. Frustration mounted. For some, the program had stopped delivering what was promised. But I’d already navigated unfamiliar cities with little more than instinct and a time to return. I saw the change in plans as an opportunity for the unexpected. The itinerary had changed; my sense of adventure had not.

What I didn’t realize at the time is how much that mindset—engagement over itinerary—would follow me. I’ve taken it into every trip since, whether for work, sport, or curiosity. I’m not chasing pins on a map. I’m connecting people, places, and experiences. For instance, after Semester at Sea, I organized Ultimate team trips to Rotterdam and Bristol—not as a coach, but as someone who loved the game and wanted to build a unique shared experience around it. That trip sparked cultural and interpersonal connections—including one that led to a transatlantic wedding. That same instinct to gather, to explore, to unite, and to share still drives me. Be face-to-face; from place to place.

And when I think about citizenship, I feel that same draw. I’ve learned the most about what it means to live in our democracy not in a civics class or on election night—but in my own Borough Council chambers, making eye contact, listening, and standing to share about our local issues. That’s where participation feels most real. It’s not about simply holding a passport. It’s about showing up.

There’s a difference between being a tourist and being a traveler in life. Just like there’s a difference between holding citizenship and practicing it. My mother always said, “90% of life is showing up.” She was right. The difference is in-person engagement—in travels, in life, and in democracy.