Chapter 4
Gross National Happiness: Bhutan's Revolutionary Approach
As I fly over the Himalayas toward Bhutan, I'm reminded of James Hilton's "Lost Horizon" and its fictional paradise of Shangri-La. Like all paradises, Shangri-La was difficult to reach and exclusive - "a single lifeboat" that couldn't accommodate everyone without sinking.
Bhutan's approach to happiness is revolutionary. While Western nations measure success through Gross Domestic Product, Bhutan pioneered Gross National Happiness (GNH). This isn't just a catchy slogan but a serious policy framework encompassing sustainable development, cultural preservation, environmental protection, and good governance.
The concept originated with King Jigme Singye Wangchuck, who in 1972 declared: "Gross National Happiness is more important than Gross National Product." This wasn't merely philosophical - it manifested in concrete policies like limiting tourism to preserve cultural integrity and maintaining strict environmental protections despite economic pressures.
In Thimphu, I meet Karma Ura, president of the Center for Bhutan Studies and GNH Research. He explains that happiness isn't individual but relational: "Happiness is a collective phenomenon. If you're happy and everyone around you is suffering, that's not happiness." This perspective challenges Western individualism, suggesting our obsession with personal happiness might be misguided.
Bhutanese happiness also embraces impermanence. As my guide Tashi explains, "Everything changes. Nothing stays. This makes us happy because we don't cling." This Buddhist perspective contrasts sharply with Western materialism and attachment to possessions.
On my last evening in Bhutan, after drinking Red Panda beer with Tashi, I experience an unfamiliar feeling: calm. I write in my notebook, "I would not have done anything differently." All the moments in my life feel just right - not necessarily good or happening for a reason, but okay. It's not bliss or happiness, but it's a start.
Bhutan isn't Shangri-La, but it is peculiar in ways large and small. You lose your bearings here, and when that happens, a crack forms in your armor - large enough, if you're lucky, to let in a few shafts of light.
Chapter 5
The Money Paradox: Qatar's Wealth Without Wellbeing
Qatar, by some measures the wealthiest country in the world, might hold the secret to happiness if money can indeed buy it. Even the word "Qatar" in Arabic script resembles a sideways smiley face - sort of. My investigation leads to unexpected conclusions: taxes are good, families are bad.
Qatar's wealth is staggering - the average Qatari earns over $29,000 monthly. The country has virtually no taxes, free healthcare, education through PhD, and generous housing subsidies. Yet this wealth hasn't translated to happiness. Instead, it's created a society where citizens are outnumbered six-to-one by foreign workers, where family relationships have become transactional, and where consumption has replaced connection.
I meet Abdulaziz, a Qatari businessman who explains their predicament: "We have the hardware of happiness but not the software." Material abundance without meaning or purpose creates what psychologists call "hedonic adaptation" - we quickly acclimate to improvements in our circumstances and return to our happiness baseline.
Qatar's experience validates research showing that beyond meeting basic needs, additional wealth yields diminishing happiness returns. Countries with progressive taxation and social welfare systems consistently report higher happiness levels than those with extreme wealth concentration. This suggests that how money is distributed matters more than total national wealth.
The absence of taxes has unexpected consequences. As one expat explains, "Taxes create a sense of investment in society." Without this investment, Qataris feel disconnected from their community and government. Similarly, the traditional extended family structure, while providing security, often restricts personal freedom and choice - particularly for women.
My most profound realization comes during a moment of self-reflection: Ambition has become my God. When Ambition is your deity, the office becomes your temple, the employee handbook your holy book. Coffee is the sacred drink, imbibed five times daily. There's no Sabbath - every day you rise early to kneel before your PC. Ambition is vengeful, smiting the unfaithful, but reserves the worst fate for the faithful. Only when they're old and entombed in the corner office does the realization hit like a Biblical thunderclap: Ambition is a false God.
Chapter 6
The Freedom to Fail: Iceland's Happiness Formula
Jared Bibler is a hedonic refugee - someone who moved to a new country because they're happier there. During a three-day stopover in Iceland, he fell deeply in love with the country. Back in Boston, he couldn't stop talking about Iceland, annoying his friends. Determined to return as a resident, he networked until finding a job with a small software company.
When I ask what he loves about Iceland, he unleashes a passionate litany: geothermal hot water spouting from the ground; people inviting you for coffee to talk about nothing for hours; knowing three members of Parliament without trying; snow crunching like "heavenly Styrofoam"; choirs lining shopping streets in December; five-year-olds safely walking to school alone in predawn darkness; swimming laps during snowstorms; strangers always helping when your car gets stuck; Icelanders applauding plane landings because they're happy to be home; and their tremendous pride without arrogance.
Most of all, he loves a culture that doesn't box people in - he switched from software to banking, unthinkable in America where "you're a software guy." This cultural openness creates what Icelanders call "rumur," a spaciousness that allows for reinvention and risk-taking. Failure isn't stigmatized but seen as a natural part of creativity and growth.
Iceland's happiness formula includes several counterintuitive elements. First, their harsh climate creates togetherness - without cold, there would be no coziness. Second, their small population (320,000) fosters trust and community. Third, their creativity flourishes because they don't fear failure - Iceland produces more artists, musicians, and writers per capita than almost anywhere else.
At Kaffitar cafe, I notice Ragnar, an Icelandic artist, laughing and happy - defying the Myth of the Unhappy Artist. All the artists I've met here are mostly happy, though they "cherish their melancholia." As Magnus explained, "You nurture your little melancholia like a buzz that makes you feel alive." Modern psychology confirms this - happiness and unhappiness aren't opposites but different coins entirely. In Iceland, it seems possible to be happy and sad simultaneously.
Nietzsche believed the measure of a society is how well it transforms pain and suffering into something worthwhile. Icelanders have mastered this, transforming their harsh environment into something valuable, even happy. When stripped of talk about genetics, communal bonds, and relative income, happiness is ultimately a choice. Faced with brutal climate and isolation, Icelanders could have chosen despair and drunkenness - "the Russian option." Instead, they peered into the unyielding blackness and chose happiness and drunkenness. The wiser option.
Chapter 7
The Absence of Hope: Moldova's Unhappiness Epidemic
Moldova consistently ranks as Europe's least happy country. Its capital Chisinau (pronounced "kish-i-now") feels like a place happiness abandoned long ago. Gray Soviet-era apartment blocks dominate the landscape, while the few pre-Soviet buildings stand neglected. Even the McDonald's looks depressed.
I meet Luba, my septuagenarian Russian language tutor, whose life story embodies Moldova's tragic history. One of thirteen children from rural Russia, she rose high in the Soviet construction ministry with a car and dacha until Gorbachev "dismantled the Soviet Union too quickly." She lost everything - her husband died after a stroke, and she survives on a $40 monthly pension. Her daughter works in Turkey as a "dog hairstylist" while her son works construction in Russia's Far East; she hasn't seen him in ten years.
When asked what makes for a happy life, Luba doesn't mention money: "Everything comes with hard work. So you must be hardworking. And be good to people. All people are good and deserve love." Before leaving, I secretly slip $100 into her Russian dictionary next to "schaste" (happiness) - a gesture I know is ineffectual but might bring short-term joy.
Moldova's unhappiness stems not just from poverty but from a toxic cultural legacy. The Soviet era destroyed trust between citizens through its network of informants. Post-Soviet corruption further eroded faith in institutions and fellow citizens. As one resident explains, "We don't trust anyone. Not the government, not each other, not ourselves."
This absence of trust creates what psychologists call "learned helplessness" - the belief that one's actions cannot improve outcomes. Without trust, cooperation becomes impossible, and without cooperation, no meaningful progress can occur. Moldova taught me two crucial lessons: First, "Not my problem" is a mental illness - other people's problems eventually become ours. Second, poverty is often an excuse for unhappiness. Moldova's unhappiness stems from a culture that belittles trust and friendship, rewards deceit, and leaves no space for "the happiness of hope." When hope dies, grief follows "almost equal to death itself."
Chapter 8
The Art of Not Thinking: Thailand's Path to Contentment
Sometimes we fall face-first into cliches, which is how I find myself at 1:00 a.m. in Suzie Wong's bar watching naked Thai women painted in Day-Glo colors doing unimaginable things with ping-pong balls. Despite my intentions to avoid tourist traps, Bangkok's seedy underbelly proves irresistible.
Thailand consistently ranks high in global happiness surveys despite modest wealth and political instability. The Thai concept of happiness differs fundamentally from Western notions. As my hotel maid Mona explains: "You should not think too much. You should not have anything in your mind. The more you think, the less happy you will be." She flings her arms dramatically: "Live happily, eat happily, die happily."
This "not thinking" isn't mindlessness but mindfulness - being present rather than dwelling on past regrets or future anxieties. It stems from Thailand's Buddhist foundations, particularly the concept of mai pen rai ("never mind" or "it doesn't matter"). This phrase, used dozens of times daily, reflects a worldview where attachment to outcomes creates suffering.
Thai spirituality permeates everyday life. I visit a jao (medium) who reveals personal details she couldn't possibly know - including that I have a brown Ganesh statue in sitting position at home. This spiritual worldview liberates Thais - if nothing you do matters ultimately, life feels less heavy. It's just a game where everyone gets to play, repeatedly and for free.
On my last day, while packing, we discover a military coup has occurred. Every TV channel shows old footage of the king. Despite tanks in the streets and martial law, it's a "coup lite" - less disruptive than usual. En route to the airport, I pass a billboard advertising "Paradise Made Easy" - an ironic sight during a coup, but also a questionable concept. Shouldn't paradise require effort?
Weeks later back in Miami, I read that Thailand's newly installed prime minister has announced that government policy will now focus on happiness rather than economic growth. Though largely a public relations ploy, the sublime absurdity of a military government with a happiness policy makes me smile - a genuine Thai smile, visible in my eyes.
Chapter 9
The Happiness Experiment: Britain's Work in Progress
In Britain, happiness is viewed with deep suspicion. When I arrive at Heathrow, the immigration official grills me skeptically about researching happiness in the UK. As one Brit told me plainly: "We don't do happiness."
Yet in Slough, a dreary industrial town immortalized in the British version of "The Office," an ambitious experiment is underway. Psychologist Richard Stevens has launched "Making Slough Happy," a BBC-sponsored project applying positive psychology principles to transform this unhappy community. The project's manifesto includes simple directives: plant something and watch it grow, count your blessings daily, talk to strangers, exercise for half an hour three times weekly.
I meet Richard Hill, a sickly man with severe heart problems who could "drop dead at any moment." Despite his condition, Richard stuns me by claiming his health issues have made him happier, not less so. Having faced death multiple times gives him perspective most people lack. Richard embraces the happiness manifesto, particularly counting his blessings daily. He found the graveyard therapy especially meaningful - contemplating a four-year-old's tombstone helped him realize that, without suffering, even a short life can be wonderful.
I meet Veronica Puglia, daughter of Polish immigrants, who once faced the grim choice between buying toothpaste or toilet paper while on welfare. The happiness experiment worked for her, but not through psychological breakthroughs - it was simply the socializing that helped. Though her circumstances have worsened since (she's unemployed and back on welfare), when I ask her happiness level, she first says "six" then reconsiders: "No, that's what I think I should be given my situation. Actually, I'm an 8.5." She has her health, two beautiful daughters, and Monday quiz nights with friends from the experiment.
Trying graveyard therapy myself, I trudge through the slushy cemetery feeling cold and silly until I find Ellen Greenway's tombstone. She died in 1914 at exactly my age. This hits home, and I promise myself to remember that every day from now on is "gravy" - pure, fat-laden, heart-attack-inducing gravy.
The viral theory of happiness never fully took hold in Slough, but perhaps with enough "happiness seeds" like Richard, Heather and Veronica, it could eventually spread exponentially. Until then, we keep planting, remembering that happiness is often a by-product, not a direct pursuit - a butterfly that alights unbidden.
Chapter 10
Embracing Contradictions: India's Happiness Paradox
Some places are like family - they annoy us endlessly yet we keep returning because our destinies are intertwined. For me, that's India. I hate it and love it simultaneously, not alternately. This contradictory thinking is precisely what India teaches - you can hold opposing thoughts without your head exploding.
From One Shanti Road's terrace in Bangalore, India's contradictions are visible in a single glance - shantytown shacks in one direction, Cisco Systems' shiny glass building in another. The best and worst of humanity, the ridiculous and sublime, all in one panoramic view.
Indians excel at sitting. We visit Khoshy's, a coffee shop unchanged since 1940, where people spend hours sipping ginger punch and eating "smileys" - potatoes fried in the shape of faces. Meena, a newspaper columnist, tells me: "Americans could learn to relax, to live overlapping lives. We're an ad-hoc country accepting many imperfections."
I meet Mona, Suresh's maid who lives in the shantytown yet radiates happiness. When asked her secret, she says: "You should not think too much. You should not have anything in your mind. The more you think, the less happy you will be." Though statistically India ranks low in happiness, researcher Robert Biswas-Diener found Calcutta's homeless significantly happier than California's, attributing this to strong social ties. In India, poverty is blamed on fate or karma, not personal failure.
During Diwali, the "Festival of Light," I meet philosopher-physicist Sundar Sarukkai who explains the Indian approach to ambition: "Everyone is ambitious. The question is what price we're willing to pay. Our attitude is, 'You've done your best, now let the universe decide.' What some call chance, we call God."
This Hindu belief that life is maya (illusion) makes everything lighter. As Huston Smith wrote, personal failure becomes "as small a cause for concern as playing the role of loser in a summer theater performance."
As my departure approaches, I realize what Emma meant when she called 1 Shanti Road "the happiest place in India." Shanti means "inner peace" - perhaps it's not the anti-ashram after all, but just another kind of ashram. Leaving during Diwali's chaos, I feel both relieved to escape and sad to go. A contradiction? Yes, but one I can live with and even learn to enjoy.
Chapter 11
Finding Home: The American Pursuit of Happiness
America's relationship with happiness is complicated. Despite our unprecedented prosperity, we rank only twenty-third globally in happiness. Since 1960, as wealth tripled, divorce rates doubled, teen suicide tripled, and violent crime quadrupled. We're notoriously bad at predicting what will make us happy, yet uniquely positioned to pursue those misguided predictions.
Our founding document celebrates the pursuit of happiness, and we pursue it partly through physical movement - nearly forty million Americans relocate yearly. Yet paradise comes with pressure, screaming "Be happy, God damn it!" as billboards command us to "Dare to be happy." Our self-help culture has turned us inward when community and human bonds are what truly make us happy.
I tried desperately to like Miami - studied Spanish, drank Cuban coffee, even considered breast implants - but the sunshine left me cold. My neighbor Andy felt the same after twenty-two years, calling himself a "freshwater person, not an ocean person." Hurricane Andrew had traumatized him, and he craved real seasons instead of Miami's "hot and unbearably hot." He'd researched carefully and chosen Asheville, North Carolina, where he instantly felt peace among the mountains and changing seasons.
Cynthia approached her move to Asheville with scientific precision, eliminating flat places (topographically or culturally), places with low humidity (headaches), and anywhere lacking "a variety of feta cheeses." As a nature photographer needing both natural beauty and cultural stimulation, she'd calculated where she'd be happiest with deliberate care.
The problem with paradise is others might find it too. Asheville sits on the cusp of becoming just another "greedy, overpopulated, uptight anywhere." This reveals a fundamental paradox: our search for the perfect place often destroys what made it perfect. The happiest places may be those that remain "just this side of paradise" - close enough to ideal to satisfy but imperfect enough to remain authentic and accessible.
Chapter 12
The Geography of Bliss: Lessons Learned
My search is over after logging tens of thousands of miles through Iceland's noon darkness, Qatar's solid heat, Switzerland's persnickety functionality, and India's utter unpredictability. I survived a coup lite, savored minor breakthroughs, and mourned a Ridiculously Expensive Pen. Now at an airport bar in New York, I meet a bartender actually named "Happy" whose advice is simple: "Just keep on smiling. Even when you're sad."
What I've learned: Money matters, but less than we think. Family and friends are crucial. Envy and excessive thinking are toxic. Trust and gratitude are essential. Happiness follows multiple paths - Tolstoy turned on his head. All miserable countries are alike; happy ones are happy in their own ways. Like carbon atoms that can form either diamonds or soot depending on their arrangement, places succeed when they get the balance right.
I wonder if happiness is really the highest good. Maybe love matters more. Most would choose a rich, meaningful life over an empty happy one. Misery serves a purpose - it alerts us to danger and spurs imagination. We thrive on messiness, not perfection. The happiest places reside just this side of paradise, as "a lifetime of happiness would be hell on Earth."
Back home, I'm relearning the pleasures of familiarity. My travels resurface unexpectedly - when my iPod crashed, I found myself saying "mai pen lai" (never mind) instead of raging. Most of all, I remember Karma Ura's words: "Happiness is one hundred percent relational." Our happiness is completely intertwined with others. Happiness isn't a noun or verb - it's a conjunction. Am I happy now? Closer to "feevty-feevty" - and all things considered, that's not bad at all.
