The Art of Travel: Zen, AI and Slow Tourism
The "right question" aims not to an answer but to define a path of inquiry
There's an ancient truth that spans centuries and technologies: memorable journeys begin not with an answer, but with a well-posed question. Zen masters called it "the art of questioning the void." Today, paradoxically, artificial intelligence brings us back to this lesson: algorithms and chatbots further emphasize that the quality of our questions determines what we'll discover. This principle is revolutionizing how we conceive tourism, transforming it from a checklist of monuments into an exercise in inner exploration.
When we type "What to visit in Oslo?" into a search engine, we're not asking about a city. Unknowingly, we're revealing a consumerist view of travel: we prefer pre-packaged instructions to authentic experiences, choosing the reassurance of the familiar over the thrill of the unknown. Try replacing that question with "Which corner of Oslo would make me feel like a local?": suddenly, the digital interface becomes a mirror reflecting not places, but possibilities. This is the first step in philosophical tourism, where every street becomes a riddle to be decoded with questions that reveal more about their asker than the destination itself.
Zen Dialogue and Artificial Intelligence
There's a striking parallel between Zen dialogues (kōan) and AI sessions. In both cases, the value lies not in the solution but in the dialectical process, they activate. Asking "Where to eat authentic food in Naples?" produces a list of restaurants. But if we question the city (or the algorithm) with "Which Neapolitan dish tells a story of the conflict between tradition and modernity?", something radically different occurs: we obtain stories, not addresses; cultural connections, not reviews. Each answer becomes the first link in a chain of new inquiries, recreating the experience of walking in a forest: the further you advance, the more paths multiply.
Zen gardeners know that a landscape's beauty emerges from the spaces between stones, not from the rocks themselves. This principle finds surprising application in travel planning.
Compare two approaches: requesting "A 3-day Rome itinerary" means confining oneself to a cage of scheduled monuments and mandatory timetables. Conversely, asking "Which three Roman experiences might make me love or hate the city?" opens a space to be filled with observation, imagination, and unexpected encounters. It's in this fertile void that authentic discoveries arise, transforming a simple journey into a chapter of one's intellectual biography.
The Question Traps
"What is the meaning of this place?": might seem the perfect question for a reflective traveller. In reality, it conceals three traps. It reveals the belief that meaning is hidden like treasure, not visible in plain sight; the need for an authority (be it a tourist guide or an algorithm) to decipher reality for us; and the distrust in our ability to grasp meaning. Try reformulating: "What do I see here that no photograph could ever capture?" Suddenly, the question ceases to be a request for information and becomes an act of presence. This is the essence of philosophical tourism: turning cities into mirrors that reflect our modes of inquiry.
The Question Paradox
Zen monks spend decades training in a paradox: "questioning without expecting answers." For the contemporary traveller, this translates into a reversal of priorities. Replace "Where's the Instagrammable spot?" with "Which corner disturbs me for no apparent reason?" Transform "How much does it cost?" into "What does this price reveal about the relationship between local economy and cultural identity?" Mentally rewrite "What should I know?" as "What can I afford not to understand?" These aren't techniques but a radical shift in perspective: traveling not to extract information from places, but to enter into dialogue with them.
The unwritten rule is as simple as it is revolutionary: the best travel questions are those that already contain the seed of their evolution. Before departing, try creating three that meet these criteria: they must be unanswerable on Google, they must provoke slight discomfort (indicating they touch uncomfortable truths), and they must be flexible enough to change shape as you experience them. Like seeds planted in arid soil, those that survive the journey become companions for years, continuing to germinate in memory. This approach transforms tourism from a geographical movement into an exercise in personal reinvention. Each visited city ceases to be a coordinate on a map to become a fragment of one's intellectual biography.
The Persuaded
"Il persuaso non ha bisogno di chiedere, di attendere, di sperare - egli è tutto in ogni punto."
["The persuaded one needs not to ask, wait, or hope - he is complete in every point."]
These words, seeming to echo an ancient Zen koan, emerge from Carlo Michelstaedter's work “La Persuasione e la Rettorica” ['Persuasion and Rhetoric'].
Like an algorithm reaching unexpected conclusions from known premises, the Italian philosopher from Gorizia arrived at a surprisingly universal truth: authenticity resides not in the questions we pose to the world, but in our capacity to be fully present in every answer life offers. Having died by suicide at twenty-three in 1910, he left in this insight a remarkable key that transcends time and cultures. His premature death deprived us of further developments in his thought, but this single phrase encapsulates the very essence of mindful travel: not a movement toward a destination, but an art of fully inhabiting every step of the journey.
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