Travel as a Political Act

When was the last time you came home from a trip truly changed? Rick Steves’ Travel as a Political Act argues that seeing the world isn’t just about leisure—it’s about learning, empathy, and personal growth. Steves, one of America’s most well-known travel writers and PBS hosts, contends that meaningful travel can shape how you think, vote, and live. His core claim is simple but radical: travel done thoughtfully is a political act. Every conversation abroad, every moment outside your comfort zone, and every cultural misunderstanding offers a chance to grow beyond prejudice—and to bring that growth home.

This book isn’t a manifesto against tourism but a guide to transforming it into an educational and humanistic journey. Steves believes that by encountering people in Bosnia, El Salvador, Iran, Denmark, Turkey, and Palestine, travelers can challenge the narrow narratives fed by media and nationalism. He shows how seeing the world for yourself can foster compassion and responsibility in ways that armchair news consumption never could. In that spirit, Steves encourages you to travel with open eyes and an open heart—to talk with strangers, wrestle with contradictions, and let what you see change the way you act at home.

Travel as Discovery, Not Escape

Steves distinguishes between escapist vacations and explorative journeys. There’s nothing wrong with relaxing, but if you confine yourself to insulated resorts or cruise ships, you’ll miss the deeper human education travel offers. Instead of fleeing reality, ask questions about your destination’s history and politics. Seek out places that stretch your understanding—whether that’s cycling through Copenhagen to learn about social welfare or marching with Salvadorans who remember Archbishop Oscar Romero’s assassination. His experiences remind us that travel is not just recreation—it’s an opportunity for transformation.

Fear vs. Understanding

A recurring theme in Steves’ narrative is how fear isolates societies. After 9/11, Americans retreated into safety and suspicion, constantly told to be afraid. Steves argues that understanding—not fear—is what keeps us secure. When you share tea with Iranians who welcome you warmly despite political tension, you realize our supposed enemies are often people with hopes just like ours. Steves urges travelers to confront fear by engaging with cultures that challenge what they’ve been taught about “others.” In his words, “Fear is for people who don’t get out much.”

The Traveler as Jester

Steves compares the modern traveler to a medieval jester—someone who plays among ordinary people and then reports the truth back to those in power. Travelers have unique insights because they see firsthand what policy and propaganda obscure. After walking through refugee camps in Palestine, speaking with impoverished families in Central America, and visiting monasteries in post-war Bosnia, Steves concludes that travel can cultivate empathy for people our governments might label adversaries. Returning home, travelers can share this wisdom to make their communities less fearful and more globally aware.

Learning from the World, Not Lecturing It

Underlying his stories is a sense of humility: travel shows that America has no monopoly on good ideas. European welfare systems, Iranian hospitality, and Danish social contracts all reveal alternative ways of organizing society. Steves challenges readers to observe, not impose; to learn why Danes are consistently ranked among the happiest people, or how Salvadorans maintain grace under hardship. He writes with humor and personal vulnerability—admitting his own naïve moments and growth—reminding you that travel’s ultimate lesson is perspective.

By the end of Travel as a Political Act, Steves insists that those insights must come home with you. Seeing human beings across borders changes how you consume news, respond to prejudice, and measure success. Whether you’re visiting Morocco’s markets or volunteering in Central America, you don’t just collect passport stamps. You build global citizenship. In Steves’ view, the most patriotic act an American can perform today might be to fly abroad, listen deeply, and return willing to help your country act with compassion and wisdom in the wider world.

For Steves, connection is the beating heart of travel. He argues that transformation happens not in museums or hotels, but in spontaneous encounters—sharing coffee with a farmer or joining villagers at a festival. These experiences dismantle stereotypes faster than any classroom lecture. In Ireland, he marvels at how simple conversation becomes art; words and laughter bridge difference. In El Salvador, listening to Beatriz describe raising children amid civil war forces him to rethink what economic justice looks like. Such interactions humanize global issues.

Listening Instead of Lecturing

Steves emphasizes that respect begins with listening. Many travelers arrive abroad believing they’re there to teach or rescue, but humility turns every destination into a classroom. When a Turkish craftsman proclaims, “A man and his chisel—the greatest factory on Earth,” Steves learns what dignity means outside capitalist metrics. Connection isn’t pity; it’s partnership. You leave not with guilt about privilege but gratitude for shared humanity.

Breaking Down Fear Through Dialogue

Every genuine conversation challenges fear. When Steves meets Iranians who say “People and people together, no problem,” he sees how political rhetoric obscures simple kindness. He contrasts this with media-driven dread back home, where people avoid unknown cultures. As psychologist Gordon Allport noted in The Nature of Prejudice, direct contact reduces anxiety. Steves’ encounters show that talking with others—especially those labeled "enemies"—defuses propaganda by replacing abstractions with faces and stories.

Learn to Speak People, Not Politics

Language barriers never stop meaningful exchange; smiles, gestures, and hospitality suffice. In Morocco, when his guide shouts "Hey, Muhammad!" to call a boy, Steves realizes even small words reveal culture—the warmth behind communication. These connections remind you that everywhere, parents love children, people seek dignity, and laughter translates universally. In short, travel connection redefines empathy: you start seeing others not as categories, but as companions navigating life’s same struggles and joys.

Steves argues that travel exposes structural injustice better than any news headline. Visiting El Salvador during and after its civil war, he encounters poverty intertwined with globalization. Beatriz, a woman surviving on $144 a month, tells him how minimum wages and dollarization serve elites while ordinary people sink deeper into debt. Her story transforms abstraction into empathy—poverty becomes personal. This kind of witnessing turns travel into moral education.

Globalization: The New -Ism

Steves calls globalization “the -ism of our time.” In theory, it opens markets; in practice, it often exploits cheap labor. Multinational companies chase lower wages, forcing countries like El Salvador to compete by lowering standards. He contrasts “good globalization”—that raises communities through fair trade and ethical practice—with “bad globalization,” which widens inequality. Like Thomas Friedman’s The Lexus and the Olive Tree, Steves warns that interconnected economies demand moral responsibility: if we benefit from global labor, we should ensure its dignity.

Empire and Awareness

In Central America and beyond, Steves finds resentment toward the United States as an “empire.” With less than 5% of the world’s population but nearly half its military spending, American influence shapes lives thousands of miles away. He urges readers to replace dominance with what he calls “soft power”—building goodwill through humanitarian engagement instead of bombs. His quiet visits to memorials honoring Archbishop Oscar Romero reveal how spiritual courage can outlast oppression.

Ultimately, seeing injustice firsthand grounds idealism in reality. Statistics dissolve when you share a meal in a tin-roofed shack or walk through cities built on garbage dumps. Steves reminds readers that privilege brings the “luxurious option of obliviousness.” Traveling among the poor removes that option forever—and that discomfort is precisely what makes you wiser, even if less happy.

Europe serves as Steves’ ongoing classroom. He contrasts American individualism with European collectivism, showing how big government can also be “good government.” High taxes fund healthcare, education, and infrastructure that improve quality of life. From Copenhagen’s bicycles to the Erasmus student exchange, Steves presents Europe as proof that shared sacrifice can yield societal happiness.

Big Taxes, Big Expectations

In countries like Denmark, people pay up to 50% in taxes yet remain among the world’s happiest. Why? Because those taxes buy security—no homelessness, free education, and universal healthcare. Steves frames this as a “social contract” where citizens trust government to work for collective good. His friend's question—“What’s it worth to live in a society where no child goes hungry?”—captures the European ethos succinctly. (Economist Jeremy Rifkin made a similar point in The European Dream.)

Work-Life Balance and Contentment

Europeans work fewer hours and treasure leisure over consumption. They “work to live” rather than “live to work.” Steves cites movements like “Take Back Your Time” advocating for humane schedules—a cultural shift Americans could learn from. Contentment, he notes, isn’t apathy; it’s the serenity that comes from valuing enoughness over excess.

Tolerance and Human Rights

European pluralism fascinates him. From Amsterdam’s regulated sex work and coffee shops to Switzerland’s animal rights laws, Europe prefers pragmatic harm reduction to moral policing. While far from perfect, it demonstrates that legislating tolerance leads to peace. Traveling there reminds you that societies thrive when they trust citizens to act responsibly instead of fearfully.

Much of Steves’ philosophy revolves around conquering fear. He recounts hesitating before visiting Iran, expecting hostility but finding hospitality. His Iranian journey upends stereotypes: people who chant “Death to America” still greet him with warmth and curiosity. He learns that slogans mean frustration, not hatred. By engaging with that complexity, travelers discover empathy—the ability to see humanity behind rhetoric.

Iran: The Human Face of the Enemy

Filming in Tehran, Esfahan, and Persepolis, Steves observes ordinary lives governed by paradoxes—faith and modernity, restriction and pride. His interactions reveal humor and kindness. Locals apologize for traffic, share flowers with strangers, and discuss politics candidly. He realizes that propaganda thrives where curiosity dies. When he says, “If you’re going to bomb a place, you should know it first,” he captures how empathy deters violence.

The Power of Perspective

Seeing Iran’s constraints—no alcohol, strict dress codes, limited freedom—makes him appreciate Western liberties while respecting different values. He learns that many Iranians trade democracy for family stability and moral order. You don’t have to agree, but understanding why they choose differently builds respect. As Steves notes, these societies are not aberrations; they’re stages along a global evolutionary path toward justice and balance.

Fear limits compassion. Travel dissolves fear by providing faces for vague threats. Once you’ve shared laughter with people labeled dangerous, you see conflict as solvable—not inevitable. Steves concludes that empathy, born from firsthand experience, might be the world’s most powerful form of diplomacy.

Steves frequently explores religion’s intersection with politics—how belief shapes community and conflict. Traveling through Turkey, Morocco, and El Salvador, he sees both religion’s capacity for compassion and its potential for control. He admires Liberation Theology’s courage during El Salvador’s civil war, where priests like Oscar Romero died defending the poor. But he also acknowledges how theocratic power can suffocate freedom, as in Iran’s blend of mosque and state.

Liberation vs. Escape Theology

Liberation Theology interprets Christianity as action for justice, not passive waiting for heaven. In contrast, “Escape Theology” comforts the oppressed without challenging oppression. Steves celebrates the Christians who defied death squads to side with peasants—people whose faith became resistance. He can’t help rooting for politicized religion when it fights inequity, though he warns of the temptation toward self-righteousness in any creed.

Secularism and Respect

In Turkey, he finds a delicate balance: a Muslim-majority society proud of its secular constitution yet pressured by rising fundamentalism. Watching teenagers worship alongside monks, or women expressing themselves through scarves, he realizes religion isn’t static—it evolves with modernity. Tolerance, he concludes, doesn’t mean abandoning faith but defending freedom from dominance.

Steves advocates for curiosity over conversion. Whether Christian, Muslim, or spiritual humanist, travelers who learn instead of judge discover unity beyond doctrine. In every country, parents love children, communities honor sacrifice, and symbols of holiness—crosses or crescents—carry shared hopes. Religion, seen globally, becomes a bridge rather than a wall.

At the book’s close, Steves insists that travel’s transformative power means little unless you act on it. Homecoming, he says, should spark action—not nostalgia. Once you’ve seen poverty, prejudice, and grace abroad, you return responsible for making your own community more just. He calls this stage “reverse culture shock to activism.”

The Educated Heart

Travel doesn’t just broaden the mind—it deepens the heart. You come home humbled and restless, unable to ignore injustices that mirror what you’ve seen overseas. Steves channels that restlessness into causes: affordable housing, debt relief, and drug policy reform. Having admired European harm-reduction models, he helped legalize recreational marijuana in Washington State through Initiative 502—an example of turning global observations into local progress.

Think Globally, Act Locally

Steves believes that activism begins with empathy. Host exchange students, fund educational travel, vote with the world’s poor in mind, and support journalists who tell complex stories. “Afflict the comfortable and comfort the afflicted,” he writes—a principle echoing journalist Finley Peter Dunne. Real citizenship means integrating lessons from abroad into everyday decisions, from shopping ethically to protecting freedom of religion and thought.

Ultimately, Steves’ call is for lifelong engagement. Keep whirling like the dervish in his introduction—one foot grounded at home, the other circling the world. Keep moving between love for your country and responsibility to humanity. That, he says, is travel as a political act’s final destination: empathy in motion.