Proust cuts against our restless hunger for novelty by suggesting that wanderlust itself is often just a tired habit of mind—we chase new places expecting transformation, when the real alchemy happens in *how* we choose to look. What makes this especially radical is that it demolishes the excuse we hide behind: that our lives feel small because we haven't traveled far enough, when the trouble is we've traveled through them half-asleep. A parent who notices, truly notices, the particular way morning light falls across their child's face—something they've witnessed a thousand times—experiences more genuine discovery than someone collecting passport stamps. The insight doesn't dismiss travel; it redirects our longing toward what we actually have the power to change: our own capacity for attention.