One of the most fascinating figures in medieval history is Marco Polo. Born into a Venetian merchant family, in 1271 he set out with his father and uncle along the famous Silk Road to China — on what would become one of the most monumental journeys ever undertaken by a European.

The Polos were received at the royal court of Kublai Khan, the founder and first emperor of the Mongol-led Yuan dynasty. The emperor was deeply impressed by Marco’s sharp intellect and respectful demeanor. He appointed him as his personal envoy, assigning him to diplomatic missions across the vast Mongol Empire and beyond, to places we now know as Myanmar, India, Indonesia, Sri Lanka, and Vietnam.

In this extraordinary role, Marco traveled extensively throughout China, spending 17 years in the emperor’s service, and encountering lands, cultures, and marvels no European had seen or even imagined.

When he returned home after 24 years, no one recognized him, not even his own family. But what’s even more remarkable is that people dismissed his stories as fantasy. And though he recorded many of his experiences, he admitted: “I did not write half of what I saw, for I knew I would not be believed.”

Still, he didn’t seem to mind. Because for Marco Polo, the true reward wasn’t the fame or acclaim. It was the journey itself.

Medieval Jews had their own Marco Polo, a century before him. Benjamin of Tudela, a 12th-century Jewish merchant from Spain, embarked on a cross-continental journey that took him through France and Italy, down into Egypt and the Land of Israel, across the Levant to Mesopotamia, and back again via the Mediterranean.

Though only a layman, he was deeply literate — fluent in Hebrew, Arabic, and Spanish, and most probably French. He wore his religious piety lightly, but his love for the Jewish people and the Land of Israel, as well as his deep empathetic curiosity, radiate through every page of his remarkable diary.

What makes his written record so compelling isn’t only where he went, but also who he noticed. In Fustat, today Cairo, he found the Jewish community struggling to maintain its former prominence. Still, he noted a relatively new arrival by the name of Rabbi Moses ben Maimon — Maimonides — who was elevating the community, and whose fame had spread well beyond Egypt.

In Baghdad, he described the grandeur of the Jewish Exilarch, who rode in royal procession with armed escorts and a ceremonial canopy held over his head — an honored figure recognized by both Jews and Muslims alike. While in Babylonia, he visited the great yeshivot of Sura and Pumbedita, centers of Talmudic learning that have left their impression on Judaism to this day.

Benjamin also had a wry sense of humor and a sharp eye for sectarian nuance. As he traveled in Northern Israel, he observed dryly that “the closer I get to Jerusalem, the more Jews are heretics” — a reference to the many Karaites, Samaritans, and Khazars he encountered on his approach to the Holy City.

And though he loved the Land of Israel, he found himself breathing easier in the Muslim-ruled cities of the Levant, writing that “the air was heavy for me in Christian-controlled Jerusalem,” but “I feel more comfortable now that I am again in this lush and Muslim land.” Strange words to modern ears, perhaps, but a reminder of just how different the world once was.

Fast forward six centuries, and we have Rabbi Chaim Yosef David Azulai, better known acronymically as the “Chida,” an 18th-century rabbinic scholar, emissary, and bibliophile from Jerusalem. He spent decades traveling through Europe and North Africa as a shadar — a traveling fundraiser for the impoverished Jewish community in the Land of Israel.

But rather than just focusing on collecting money, the Chida also collected moments, books, and stories, which he recorded and later published.

In Livorno, a vibrant hub of Sephardic Jewry, he once found himself caught up in a spontaneous halachic debate — right in the middle of the street. A local rabbi posed a sharp question, and the Chida responded, using his boundless Torah knowledge and brilliant intellect. Within minutes, a crowd had gathered. According to his travel diaries, there was even a fishmonger who chimed in with a source, which the Chida acknowledged as “an unexpected but not incorrect point.”

On another occasion, in Amsterdam, the Chida was invited to visit a private library filled with rare manuscripts. He spent hours poring over ancient texts, taking meticulous notes. But the experience was somewhat tarnished by the custodian’s persistent attempts to serve him a local fish delicacy, which the Chida politely declined — not once, not twice, but four times.

What unites Marco Polo, Benjamin of Tudela, and the Chida is not just their many distant travels. It’s that they understood something we often forget in our destination-obsessed world: the journey is usually the point. None of them rushed to the finish line. They lingered. They noticed. And they were transformed.

Which brings us to Parshat Massei — the parsha with the longest travel itinerary in the Torah. Parshat Massei opens with what looks — at first glance — like a giant waste of ink (Num. 33:1-2):  “These are the journeys of the Children of Israel… and Moshe wrote down the starting points of their journeys.”

This introduction is followed by 42 place names, one after the other. Some you can recognize — Marah, Refidim, Mount Hor. Other places are only ever mentioned in this list, such as Keheilata, Har Shefer, and Yotvatah.

But if you take a step back, something remarkable emerges. The Torah is obviously not just concerned with the Israelites’ departure from Egypt and arrival in the Promised Land. It also cares where the Israelites camped along the way. Because each stage in the journey mattered, every pause was purposeful, and every detour was a divine appointment.

The same is true for us. We may live in a culture obsessed with results — final grades, promotions, goals achieved — but Judaism reminds us: growth isn’t about the end goal, it’s about how you got there.

The 42 stops, and the journeys that brought them to each place, weren’t always glorious — but the Torah lists them all anyway, because real life isn’t a highlight reel. It’s a series of imperfect steps, tough lessons, and unexpected blessings. The meandering journey through the Sinai wilderness didn’t just take the Israelites to the Land of Israel; it made them ready for it.

Marco Polo crossed half the world and returned a stranger even to his own family. Benjamin of Tudela journeyed across continents and chronicled rising rabbinic stars in Egypt and royal Jewish leadership in Baghdad. The Chida debated halacha in the streets of Livorno and politely dodged fish pastries in Amsterdam.

What is clear is that none of them were racing toward a finish line. They were gathering stories, meaning, and identity, one stop at a time.

Parshat Massei, in its quiet, repetitive way, teaches us the same thing. You are not the sum of your big-ticket achievements. You are the story of your many stops and pauses — the moments you failed, the times you tried again, the challenges that taught you patience, the delays that built your resilience, and the people you met along the way who added some element to your experience.

So take your time. Notice the view. Write it down. One day you’ll look back and realize — just like the Israelites in the desert — every step had a purpose. Even the ones you thought were detours.

The author is a rabbi in Beverly Hills, California. 

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