Allijkth's blog

I’ll admit, when I had my choice of guide books to look at, I went immediately for the Philadelphia guide because that is the region I am most familiar with.  Instead of reading about a new part of the country, I wanted to know how the Philly of 1937 compared to the city I know today, and the results were really interesting.  I expected all the information in the book to be outdated, but the first few introductory pages mention the Mummers Parade on New Year’s Day (my mom’s favorite part of the New Year) and another paragraph explains that in Pennsylvania alcohol is only sold in licensed restaurants or state-owned liquor stores, which is still true.  I know that Philadelphia, “the Nation’s Birthplace,” is proud of its history, but it’s surprising to see how attached to history we are when laws and traditions in practice in 1937 accurately describe life in Pennsylvania over 70 years later. 
 
Beyond comparing the information in the book, I thought about how the format and language of this WPA guide to modern guide books.  The information in the WPA guide reads more like a story book, a real portrait of Philadelphia and her history, while the tour books of today are more crafted for advertisement value.  The official Philadelphia tourism website is an arrangement of appealing photographs and lists of attractions and where to find them; there is little to no description of what life in Philadelphia is like or what kind of community exists there besides the most commercialized offerings.  In contrast, the WPA guide describes the people living in Philadelphia, not only the museums and theaters around them.  In fact it specifically mentions that most Philadelphians have never been to said museums and theaters, but they take pride in their city’s culture nonetheless (9). 
 
The WPA guide even goes so far as to detail the uninviting aspects of Philadelphia (and believe me, those still exist in 2011 too): “Philadelphia has its ‘tenderloin’ and its slums… Cheap restaurants and hot dog stands fill the air with odors that mingle with the reek of alcohol, the stench of uncollected garbage, and the smell of humanity unwashed… Even more odious are the city’s slums” (5).  In a modern guide, the slums would be reduced to a demographic statistic or a greyed out area on the city map; Rick Steves and Frommer’s don’t like to talk about reeking alcohol and body odor, they recommend staying within the designated tourist-ready neighborhoods. 
 
I think the WPA guides had to go into detail, though, because their audiences were relatively ignorant about regions beyond their own states or cities.  We have grown up with television and movies and computers that show us so much about the world that any child could tell you something about New York City and point out its picture, even if he’s never been there in person.  Today’s tourists don’t read guides to learn about a city, they use it as a resource for touring.  The WPA guides were about knowledge and getting people to travel to the places they’ve learned about; today’s guide books already assume that you’re going, but you need help figuring out where to spend your money. 

The unexplainable American restlessness that James Agee describes in his chapter is a trait that I immediately relate to, an attitude that I have been dealing with for years.  When I was growing up in Lancaster, PA, I was baffled to learn that many of my high school teachers had lived in Central Pennsylvania for their entire lives.  Born, raised, educated, and settled in Lancaster County.  I knew that that was absolutely not the life I wanted; I wasn't particularly drawn somewhere else, but I was desperate not to spend forever in the same place.  It's like Agee says: Americans are in the habit of moving for the sake of moving, "just for the plain unvarnished hell of it" (44).  
 
I really wonder what it is that pulls us to travel though.  I think it has something to do with our sense of industry.  We can't be constantly working, riding in a car (or better, a bus or train) is the most idle we can be while still feeling like we are accomplishing something.  The time spent in a car seat, even if you're just looking out the window, is never time wasted because you've gone somewhere, you've done something in going from one place to another.  We seize our vacation time – days meant for leisure, a break from doing work – and plan our schedules to the minute, jumping in the car and going to “see something” rather than taking the time to be happy at home.  Wouldn’t it make more sense to relax and stay put?
 
Americans love this idea so much that the idea of a Road Trip has become an option for a vacation in itself, rather than the means to reaching a special destination.  We’ve already discussed how the idea of seeing the “real America” on the road has been romanticized, but that usually involved going to find what it meant to be an average American and seeing the typical setting for the American people.  Alternatively, many people drive across the country to see the most abnormal sights that the United States has to offer.  Websites like Roadside America encourage families to go looking for small towns with nothing to offer except giant coffee pots or the “World’s Oldest Concrete Street.”  There’s a house in Bowling Green, OH that offers a peek at human fingers in a jar and a bird shot by Clark Gable.  (Remind me never to drive through smalltown Ohio.) 
 
Are these absurd “attractions” the real America?  They must be, because it is a characteristically American trait to get in the car and go find them.  As I’ve said, I sympathize with the desire to go and see things.  I came to NYU because I would have felt trapped on a campus with nowhere to go but back and forth to class.  When I get my car back, I’ll probably be one of those people driving around for the satisfaction of going somewhere.  Agee is correct to say that Americans are drawn to travel, but after reflecting on exactly where we are going, the irresistible appeal of an American road trip is more confusing than ever.  

Fred Marsh's review of A Cool Million describes Lemuel Pitkin as "an American boy who made good - at least posthumously."  Although Lem comes out a loser in almost every encounter he has, he is still the hero of the story and eventually the hero of the National Revolutionary Party that his friend Shagpoke Whipple leads to power like an American Hitler.  Lem loses his home, family, friends, and a number of body parts before becoming a martyr, but he always returns to the belief that he has good things coming to him. 
 
Lem enters the world confident that as a young American, he is entitled to a successful life.  He knows he will have to work hard, but he has the encouragement of Betty and Mr. Whipple to remind him of the American motto: work hard and you will succeed.  He expects to go to New York, work his way up the ladder, and come back rich at the end of it all.  (Sounds like students coming to NYU.)  West's novel shatters the Dream by taking back from Lem everything that he receives - every time he earns a few bucks, somebody steals it; every time he gets a new glass eye and set of dentures, somebody knocks them out.  He loses his teeth, thumb, and scalp for being in the wrong places at the wrong times, and loses his eye and leg for trying to save a couple of damsels in distress. 
 
Despite all of this, he keeps a positive outlook on his life ahead.  He's only seventeen, after all, so how bad could it be?  Lemuel's lowest point is when he confesses to Betty that he is "a failure," to which she scolds him for putting himself down.  So he lost an eye and all his teeth… "To make an omelet you have to break eggs" (138).  This coming from a girl who gets raped every time she appears in the story, but then becomes the new dictator's secretary (178).  I admired the hoboes in Waiting for Nothing for being happy enough with three meals and a bed, but their resilience was nothing compared to Betty and Lem's.
 
I actually envied their optimism until the end, when I realized what Mr. Whipple was up to.  At first he just seemed like a senile old man.  His inventions and new political goals were ridiculous and I thought Lem was stupid for listening to them.  I disregarded Mr. Whipple until all of a sudden he had followers and was taking over the United States.  There's a thin line between the American Dream and American nationalism, and when the book was published in 1934 nationalism was a dangerous subject.  Hitler had just seized control of Germany and the all too willing Germans.  West's story is a warning against naivete, the delusional optimism that fueled Nazism and still supports the American Dream.  After all the strange passages that we read in this book, I can’t stop thinking about the juxtaposition and similarity of Nazism and the American Dream.

Although the episodes with the pregnant woman and Matches' decaying foot were very memorable - to use a polite euphemism for mentally scarring - one of the scenes that stayed with me after reading Nelson Algren's chapter "Somebody in Boots" was Cass' conversation with the "hunky," the Latvian immigrant who was dumpster diving in the alley.  The real desperation of the Great Depression has been apparent in our readings so far, not only because the characters have been struggling to make a living sometimes literally from dust, but because the characters have usually been white, natural-born Americans.  Immigration and racism haven't really been addressed, certainly not as prominently as they factor into Algren's story.

 

After the massive wave of European immigration between 1870 and 1920 increased the American population by 25 million, the Emergency Quota Act of 1921 and the Immigration Act of 1924 enforced strict quotas to limit the number of immigrants allowed into the country, slowing the flow of immigration but not stopping it.  After the Stock Market Crash, the economy was dealing with a surplus of labor and production; born-and-raised Americans couldn't find work or welfare, so the added competition of foreigners was extra pressure that the migrants and bums didn't want to see in their own country.  Cass reflects this attitude as he listens to the Latvian's story: "'Looks like a hunky,' Cass thought. 'If it weren't fo' furriners times'd be better'" (325).  Finally Cass brushes the hunky off with, "Git along, bum… Whyn't you go back where you came from?" (327).

 

A couple layers of hypocrisy color Cass' treatment of Carl Jusitska, the Latvian man.  They are both homeless and hungry: they meet in a back alley, digging through the same dumpster for food.  For Cass to call Carl a "bum" and order him to move along is very pretentious on his part, as if Cass is the only one with the right to scavenge for food in this town.  Additionally, we know that Cass has been wandering and riding the rails like any good hobo, so he is a stranger in this town as much as the "hunky."  Cass has no right to tell the Latvian to go back where he came from, but he still feels entitled to send him away because Cass was born in the US, and Carl Jusitska was not.  Finally, I want to point out that although Carl's English was broken and accented, Cass speaks a very fragmented version of English too; they are far more similar than they are different, but Cass likes to claim some kind of superiority when he can.

 

He does the same thing in trying to distance himself from Matches at the end.  To the end of the story, Matches is known by his nickname or as "the Negro" - unless the police are involved, in which case he is the nigger.  Cass and Matches are the same age and seem to form a sense of camaraderie as they walk together until they get caught resting in a park; Cass slips away from the coming policemen, but leaves Matches behind to be evicted for being black in a "white folks'" park (342).  Finally at the end, the two are arrested as a couple of "niggers," and although it does nothing to help his case, Cass repeats that he is not a nigger.  Finding himself in yet another helpless situation, Cass' last defense is to return to racism and at least place himself above his companion.  Being a white American is all he has, although it never counts for much.    

Despite the common theme connecting most of our readings this semester - the weight of poverty turning Americans into migrants and vagrants - the characters have never seemed so hard-put as Tom Kromer.  Our assigned readings have so far discussed their issues, whether they were the advent of tourism, the American Dream, the American Identity, etc., in the context of travel.  Waiting for Nothing, however, to me never felt like a travel narrative.  It was more a collection of the main character's memoirs; although he is constantly on the move between towns, boarding houses, and cafes, Tom Kromer never mentions any higher aspirations for the American Dream.  He is singularly focused on finding his next meal and a decent "flop," so it never occurs to him to hope for a happy ending. 

 

Our previous discussions of the American Dream always implied that the spirit of America involves a certain degree of hope.  The Joads were on the move because they were forced from their home in Oklahoma, but as they traveled they maintained a level of optimism in anticipation of what they would find in California.  Woody Guthrie was similarly traveling to California in search of better prospects.  I suppose Kromer's story is most similar to the Southern miners' situation; they were also living to survive each day, although their poverty kept them firmly in place, stuck in the system of mining or sharecropping with no prospects for a bright future.  The miners' resilience came from their faith that hard work will lead to success: "If we do not make good some day it is our fault," they insist (Anderson 20).  Many of Kromer's stiffs follow the same philosophy; the stiff who makes $2.65 from a strategically placed donut on the sidewalk is confident in his ability to survive and explains to Kromer that any man who can't figure out how to earn his dinner deserves to go hungry (93).  

 

I wonder if this resilience and ability to survive are as characteristically American as the pursuit of the American Dream.  It all goes back to the idea that every man has the responsibility to fend for himself: work hard and you will succeed.  Use your brain, take a chance, and you will eat tonight.  Wait for someone to give it all to you, and you will stay hungry.  You will always be waiting.  

 

We have read a lot about the Great Depression and the Americans who lived through it, and resilience seems to be a more common theme than hope.  Tom Kromer doesn't have a lot of hope for the future, but he does well enough moving from one day to the next.  The small victories like scoring a hot meal or finding a warm bed are uplifting enough to keep the stiffs going, and surprisingly Kromer keeps his spirits relatively high.  On many occasions, he immediately trusts the people with whom he makes eye contact; he assumes that each bartender or restaurant patron is going to help him out, until the other person turns him away and Tom is sorely disappointed.  Still, he bounces back and has enough confidence in humanity to try the next cafe - maybe he is literally too desperate to give up - and that hope, small as it is, is it's own tiny version of the American Dream. 

Although riding the rails was supposed to be a last resort option for the homeless, jobless Americans who did it, writers don't portray it as the desperate attempt at survival that it was.  Train-hopping has been romanticized in American history and literature so that we remember it in terms of freedom and adventure, rather than aimless, desperate wandering.  The men in Edward Anderson's Hungry Men certainly don't have an easy time moving from town to town, but they maintain a sense of camaraderie and even optimism that keeps spirits up during their travels.  "A bum never lacks companionship," Acel thinks to himself.  "On every train there is a new buddy to pal up with, and in every jungle there's a bum going your way" (188).  Indeed, in every new train yard Acel finds at least one other hobo to team up with, someone like Bill who knows this area better than him, or else has some cash that he's willing to share for a short while, like Big Boy.  

 

Of course, a short while is all that any of these "friendships" last, but when two men part ways, they are each sure to meet another companion in the next town over.  The flexibility between towns and friendships adds to the romanticized freedom of life on the rails.

 

It isn't only in writing that the hobo lifestyle has been preserved and glorified; songs by Woody Guthrie (including "Hard Travelin'" and "Hobo's Lullaby") and many other musicians of the day are odes to the experience of making a living in train cars, hearing the click of the wheels and watching the country roll by.  I found a segment from PBS called "Riding the Rails" that opens with dreamy memories of the rail life as "the magic carpet," a romanticized lifestyle of adventure and freedom.  The video tells stories of teenagers that left home - sometimes voluntarily - to spend time riding freight trains, seeking adventure and the American experience as well as an opportunity to earn a dollar.  
 

It's very interesting to think about how this lifestyle became so glorified in the American mind.  When the middle and upper classes, especially the policemen, seemed to regard hobos as beggars, thieves, and lazy bums (as if they were penniless by choice), what is it about riding the rails that is so intriguing?  Through the songs and stories passed along from this era, we have learned to remember the hobo experience in particular as almost a golden age of American travel, rather than the result of a staggering economic depression. 

Therese Heyman's introduction for An American Exodus says that Dorothea Lange's subjects were "largely oblivious to her camera and so continued to be themselves, to be human," which is why Lange's photographs capture so well the enduring spirit of the people she found.  As Heyman explains, they were "people who were not in control of life around them, but who endured life" (9).  James Agee and Walker Evans find Americans in similar situations through their adventures, but the photographs are different.  Whereas Lange's subjects were captured naturally, Evans takes family portraits, so his subjects similarly endure their lack of control, although as much of their tension seems to come from being sitting posed for a picture as from their impoverished lifestyles. 
 
Although the reality of Evans' subjects' lives is starkly depicted in the photographs, it is vividly expanded upon in their narration.  The narrator of Let Us Now Praise Famous Menspeaks like a photographer, not a writer.  The descriptions are rich and detailed and they make up most of the content.  We aren't reading stories, we're reading scenes.  Even the conversations between the characters are static; every time Ricketts talks, he says the same thing ten times, trying to impress his listeners and reassure himself that he has some degree of authority or at least their attention (although he doesn't really have either).  At one point, Ricketts even laughs outright at his family's inactivity: "He said, any time, they were always right there.  Then he said, any time, they were always right there… yes sir, any time at all, they was sure God always right there" (388). 
 
It was interesting how the books incorporated their associated photographs with their written content so differently.  Ilf and Petrov's American Roadtripuses pictures to support their story (although they are not an integral part of the book), while Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, though it doesn't include any photographs in the text, is mostly a written representation of and accompaniment to Walker Evans' photography (or for more of Evans' photos click here).  An American Exoduslays the pictures alongside historical information and actual quotes from the people being portrayed, but the writers of You Have Seen Their Faces actually pairs the independently striking photographs with fictional quotes, imposing invented back-stories onto these captured scenes.  I sympathized most with the personal narratives; although it didn't have photographs, I felt that Let Us Now Praise Famous Men presented the most moving picture of what life in the South was like.  Agee wrote like a photographer and gave us a personal perspective to fit into the larger context that the information from the other readings established.  

The first statement that Anderson makes in his selections from Puzzled America is that in his reporting from coal-mining country, "there is too much to tell."  All the pairs of eyes he meets call out to him, shouting their individual stories, all the tales that he doesn't have time to hear or retell.  "America is too vast," Anderson declares, "there are too many stories to tell" (5).  This is one of the disadvantages and challenges of traveling as a writer - or rather, writing as a traveler.  A moving schedule means that an observer can only look superficially into the lives he is passing through.  This makes it difficult to do real justice to any personal stories, but Anderson does a nice job canvassing the mining towns and tapping into the attitudes of the wide range of communities he visits.  

 

He captures their voices in soundbites: "Let's give this democracy thing another chance" (11).  "A man's a man" (14).  "If we do not make good some day it is our fault" (20).  Not a lot of personal stories or revelations, but Anderson represents what he can reasonably claim to be the attitude or spirit of these American coal-miners.  

 

Nathan Asch takes a different approach in his book The Road: In Search of America.  He spends time immersing himself in local situations: a brothel/ bar in Chicago, an old friend's home in Detroit, and a Polish family's home in Hamtramck.  Like Anderson's article, most of Asch's discussion revolves around people working or looking for work.  He reveals that Detroit's automobile assembly lines - an iconic piece of American history and culture - are in fact staffed by European immigrants, many of which don't speak English and especially have no interest talking to a reporter.  Asch is barred from personally visiting the assembly lines and even arrested and investigated for raising suspicion in Hamtramck, so although he invests time and effort to get a deeper look, as an outsider he is still denied access to everything he wants to know.  

 

These two different approaches to travel reporting - canvassing the surface and focusing on a few locations - are both effective ways to depict the people of a region, although I am very interested in the position of the traveler as a perpetual outsider.  We always hear from the travelers' perspectives - they are the writers, after all - but the locals' personalities show more through their reactions to guests than through anything else they might have to say.  Some townspeople are suspicious of a reporter while others are excited to share their stories, but the traveler never gets full access to "the truth," or whatever story he hopes to find in a limited amount of time.  

"For Steinbeck… the wise man was above all else defined by his discerning relationship to the natural world, allowing it to inform his understanding of human relations and enterprises" (McEntyre).  

The opening chapter of The Grapes of Wrath is reminiscent of a Biblical scene, a portrait of the land as it was first created and first seen by man.  The descriptions in which the ground is teeming with dust clouds and the sunrise brings dawn, "but no day," establish a natural and epic tone for the novel (5).  My first interpretation of this chapter is that it emphasized the importance of the land to the American people living on it; the people living off the land are the heroes of the book.

This idea is definitely carried through the story, but the connection to the land is stronger for some characters than others.  In her article "Natural Wisdom: Steinbeck's Men of Nature as Prophets and Peacemakers," Marilyn Chandler McEntyre identifies Jim Casy, the ex-preacher, as especially insightful because of his intimate connection to nature.  She claims that he is a prime example of Steinbeck's solitary characters "who take frequent 'flights into the wilderness' but who live among people who rely upon them for guidance."  By the time Casy enters the story, he has given up his career as a conventional preacher and has turned to himself and his observations of the world for his wisdom, but I never considered Casy a "man of nature."  When he first meets Tom on the road, he explains that he lost the Holy Spirit and sees the value in human behavior - whether it is "sinful" or not - but Casy doesn't make any explicit mention of the earth or its profound effects.  He is a man of the people; I respect him for his increasingly humanist (bordering on communist) revelations, but his connection with the land was never apparent to me.  

Casy's relationship with nature was always overshadowed by the Joads' intense intimacy with the land.  There are many examples of the Joads seeking contact with the earth: for instance, as soon as Tom gets out of the truck in Chapter 4, he unlaces his shoes and walks barefoot down the road to his farm (23).  Pa insists that he doesn't like writing on paper, but every time the family needs to make a plan, he squats down and uses a stick to sketch in the dirt (57).  

The idea that the wise people, the good people, are connected to the land is reinforced by the dehumanization of the bankers and big farmers.  Steinbeck's villains in The Grapes of Wrath are the faceless businessmen who are so distant from the land that in many cases they haven't even visited the fields they own, let alone worked or survived from them (317).  Chapter 19 describes the contrast between the inhuman owners and the desperate migrants who know how to treat the land right:

"And there were pitifully few farmers on the land any more.  And the imported serfs were beaten and frightened and starved until some went home again… And the farms grew larger and the owners fewer… And it came about that owners no longer worked on their farms.  They farmed on paper; and they forgot the land, the smell, the feel of it, and remembered only that they owned it… And a homeless hungry man, driving the roads with his wife beside him and his thin children in the back seat, could look at the fallow fields which might produce food but not profit, and that man could know how a fallow field is a sin and the unused land a crime against the thin children…" (316-9).

The Joads' behavior and Steinbeck's narration make it clear that the good American people, the People of which Ma and her family are a part, are the ones with a personal relationship with the land.  McEntyre was right to recognize Steinbeck's association with wisdom and the love of nature, and I appreciated her article because it draws the natural connection to one more character that I had not acknowledged in my own reading of the book.

I wrote in my last post that the 1930's are iconically represented by Dorothea Lange's black and white pictures of Dust Bowl farmers, but I realized that there are many more iconic images from that decade that display another side of American culture: motion pictures.  According to the AMC website, the 1930's are the "Golden Age" of American cinema.  While artists like Lange and writers like Steinbeck were prolific in representing the difficult reality of life in the United States, the producers in Hollywood were busy producing worlds of fantasy into which any American (with some extra money) could escape.  By 1940, classics like Disney's Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs (1937), Gone With the Wind (1939), Frankenstein (1931), and The Wizard of Oz (1939) were playing across the United States, changing the Technicolor face of cinema forever.  

 

The Wizard of Oz is an especially interesting movie in the context of the Great Depression.  Dorothy starts off on a dusty mid-Western farm and as the result of a natural disaster suddenly finds herself on something of an odyssey, struggling through unfamiliar territory to find her way home.  She is literally trapped in a dream and dependent on the kindness of strangers to make her way.  The migrant workers of The Grapes of Wrath are pushed from their land by a drought and a depression and are similarly caught up in a dream - the American Dream.  Dorothy is stuck, but the migrants are similarly trapped because they can't afford to lose hope in the dream that California represents; when that happens, they will really have nothing.  Even the American tourists are pursuing an imagined world of glamor and excitement waiting for them in California, although they will only satisfied if they can bring their experiences back to share with their friends at home.  

So the American travelers are pursuing a dream, leaving home behind to find a new place to belong, but I'm sure the migrants workers at least could relate to Dorothy's sense of disorientation and vulnerability.  They all want to find better circumstances, a world that is bright and welcoming; the land of Oz is a colorful representation of the expectations that many migrant workers have about the riches awaiting them in California.  The disconnect here is that Dorothy is happy to find herself back on her farm, claiming that "there's no place like home."  In reality - and The Grapes of Wrath - the workers who find themselves back on the farm are the least fortunate of all; they don't even have a Western dream to believe in anymore.  

 

To this day, Hollywood remains the Promised Land for aspiring actors and artists.  Like the Joads, Americans in difficult circumstances still turn West for opportunities of prosperity.  Instead of working hard to earn your wealth, it seems that the new American Dream is to be discovered and get rich quick in show business; I can't help thinking that this version of the American Dream has its origins in the glamorous images produced by 1930's Hollywood.  

The most iconic images of the Great Depression are those of the most affected people in the United States.  Photographs by Dorothea Lange and Walker Evans show families who are stranded on farms in the Dust Bowl, or else have been pushed from their homes like the Joads.  This was the first time such a dramatic drought and depression had crippled the country, and the desperate conditions were therefore unique and defining for the time period.   After seeing so much desolation – the fact that so many towns have been abandoned and reduced to dust – it is difficult to remember that there were still Americans who had money and luxuries.  Steinbeck, however, carries a motif through the first sixteen chapters to remind the readers that in spite of the extensive suffering caused by the Depression, some Americans maintained an easy lifestyle through the 1930’s. 
 
To represent the Americans relatively unaffected by the Depression, Steinbeck includes in several scenes a passing driver having a much easier time on Route 66 than the Joads.  The first example is Chapter 3, in which a turtle makes a valiant effort to cross the highway, only to be passed by one car and cruelly flipped off the road by a truck (22).  The second driver makes a conscious effort to hit the turtle, representing the bankers and big-time farmers who are making their fortunes taking advantage of the bankrupt population.  Later, a car runs over the Joads’ dog before speeding away down the highway, symbolizing the Americans with money who refuse to acknowledge the sufferings of the rest of the country (177).  A car “whishes” past the Joads’ camp immediately after Grampa dies from a stroke, and once again the family is left in a devastating situation while somebody else enjoys his relative fortune by cruising the highway (188).
 
Chapter  15 describes the differences between the struggling migrants and the wealthy tourists driving along Route 66.  One couple is driving to California – not to find work, but to tell their friends at home that they saw celebrities.  While families like the Joads crawl along in jalopies, topping out at 38 mph and breaking down every other day, people like this married couple cruise at 60 mph and pity themselves for having to suffer – e.g. buy a soda – in the squalid conditions of the “sullen” people out West (212).  The people with the easiest time are the least grateful for what they have; the little boys who come to the diner after the unhappy couple are happy to take water from the hose and can hardly believe their fortune when they each get a piece of candy.  The boys hold their candy like it’s too valuable to eat, then disappear into the back of their overloaded truck (219). 
 
Steinbeck uses the modes of transportation to represent the discrepancies between the haves and have-nots of the Great Depression; like the turtle, the Joads and Wilsons can barely make progress and regularly pick themselves up from setbacks along the journey, while those who are more fortunate breeze along the highway, oblivious to the real suffering they are passing on the side of the road. 

I read Roland Wild's chapter called Double Crossing America and found that his experience trying to find the "real America" sounded rather familiar.  Wild’s preparations for his road trip across the United States are interesting enough to spark a discussion about themselves – he seems to have spent equal time preparing to go and convincing himself not to go.  I think any traveler can relate to this paradox: we are simultaneously drawn to the adventure and freedom of a vacation, and repelled by the discomfort of leaving home to enter a setting of unfamiliarity and vulnerability.  I was surprised at the number of people he factored into his decision to go; Wild consulted his wife, nanny, friends, publisher, doctor, and banker before finally running out of excuses to delay his trip.  He tried to put the decision to go into anybody else’s hands besides his own, as if he didn’t want the responsibility for the failure (or non-existence) of his odyssey of a vacation.
 
Regardless of his concerns, however, Wild makes the trip a reality.  It’s true that there are many obstacles preventing his departure to the United States – many of which he and his wife went looking for – but the Wilds overcome every barrier, even the ones they made up themselves.  If they didn’t want to make the trip, why did they plan it?  Why did they make the phone calls and make it happen?  Apparently the allure of the “real America” was too much to resist.  In the end, all the money, effort, and five months of time seemed a fair price to pay for the discovery of the nitty-gritty America. 
 
I didn’t entirely understand the attraction until Wild compared his “begrimed and shabby trailer” to an old American covered wagon.  Actually, he doesn’t compare the two vehicles; the trailer model that his family lived in was officially named the Covered Wagon, but the allusion drew a powerful connection in my mind.  The idea of American discovery, the accessibility and domestication of the West are old themes in American culture.  Wild promised to find the less-civilized, unpackaged, unpublicized America that lies between New York and Hollywood.  He wanted to venture into the relative unknown, pulled by the same motivation as the early American pioneers.  They similarly piled their belongings and families into single vehicles and traveled across the country for months.  Unfortunately, the Wilds’ trip is in reality unromantic, uncomfortable, and disappointing.  (I doubt that the Conestoga Wagons presented any more comfort or romance on the road.) 
 
The details of their plans almost prevented the adventure at all, and then the details of their daily existence almost ruined the trip once it was a reality.  This is the biggest challenge of tourism: the planning is easy – sometimes too easy – but the push to make it a reality, to be happy with the results, and go home without regrets are what really make traveling an art form.  The details ruin everything… Wild might have enjoyed the trip more if he had kept it in the planning phase after all.  

 

A couple days ago, my friend and I realized that nobody here stares at us anymore.  When we first arrived in Berlin, it seemed like everybody would watch us wherever we went; even if we were alone, it was like the people could tell just by looking at us that we weren't normal Germans.  As far as I could tell I wasn't doing anything to stand out, but there was definitely a vibe that they knew I didn't belong here.  

 

I don't get that vibe anymore.  Either I don't attract attention as an outsider anymore, or I just don't notice the staring anymore.  One way or the other, I have adapted to life in Germany.  There are so many things that I am going to miss from this semester.  My apartment has been fantastic, even if the internet connection has sometimes been practically third-world.  I'm going to miss speaking German in class and out in the city; there's a certain sense of accomplishment that comes from ordering lunch or having a conversation on the subway completely in a foreign language.  I'm going to miss the bratwursts in Alexanderplatz and the crepe man on Friedrichstraße.  

 

I'm going to miss the city itself too, even if it is unreasonably cold and covered in dirty snow.  I'm going to miss seeing the Berliner Dom and Brandenburg Gate (pictured here in all its Christmas glory) and the Park Inn during my daily travels.  I know that for at least a week I'm going to step outside and look for the Fernsehturm to be towering over the rooftops of Lancaster, Pennsylvania, only to see an empty sky.

 

As is the case every time I get ready to leave a place for good, I'm getting sentimental for all the little things that I do here, many of which I just listed.  It reminds me of de Botton's chapter "On Habit," where he describes how adventures can be had even without traveling across the world if we just pay special attention to our surroundings.  I hope that I will take this attitude home with me so that I can truly appreciate being in Lancaster for the winter break, London next semester, and eventually New York City when I finally return to Washington Square.  My time with NYU is taking me to so many amazing places and this class, especially the readings from de Botton, has helped me to be better aware of my expectations and the reality of my experiences so that hopefully these adventures won't pass by so quickly or routinely as they might have otherwise.  Blogging my time in Berlin has certainly helped me to see it with a fresh perspective almost every week, so I am absolutely happy that I signed up for the Art of Travel course.  

 

It will be interesting to go home and find out how exactly I have adapted to German life.  Maybe I behave differently, maybe I perceive other people differently.  I kind of hope that it's a little of both.  This semester is going to stay with me for a long time, and it would be fantastic to go home and realize that I have changed for the better.  Next semester, I'm studying at NYU London, so I can approach my second semester abroad with experience and a special perspective.  I hope to apply the things that I've learned in Berlin and through this course to my time in London, especially the appreciation of the little things that I experience every day.  It's a good lesson to take forward to other experiences, at home or abroad, and probably the most important idea that I'm going to take away from The Art of Travel.  

Every experience can be special with the right attitude.  Now I just have to remind myself of that while I board my plane on Tuesday and fly away from this city I love...

Although Berlin may not be at the top of everyone's list to study abroad, it should be.   I've loved this city since I came to visit for 3 days in 2007, and after this semester it will always hold a place in my heart.  To anyone preparing for a semester in Berlin, you've made a great choice, but keep some of these things in mind:

 

• I would recommend learning some basic German phrases before you get to Germany.  Although most of the people in Berlin speak at least a little English, the awkward pointing and confusion gets old after about a week, and I can only imagine how frustrating it would be to live in a city where I couldn't even ask for directions.  The NYU program assumes that you don't speak any German at all, so that's not a problem, but as someone who took German in high school and can now rant about the Dewey Decimal System auf Deutsch, let me say that learning the language greatly enhances your experience abroad.  I have definitely had a different experience with Berlin than some of my friends who still speak almost no German, and I wouldn't trade places with them for the world.  

• Brush up on your German history.  The recent history of Germany and especially Berlin, what with WWI, WWII, the division of the city and reunification after the Wall came down, is what makes this city so interesting.  To walk past the former homes of Holocaust victims or cross the former Berlin Wall every day puts recent history into perspective and gives the city a real personality that will take the whole semester to try to figure out - trust me.  

• Explore wherever and whenever you can.  The monthly transportation card here gives you unlimited access to above-ground trains, underground trains, trams, busses, and even regional trains, so there is no excuse not to choose a line, get off at a random stop, and walk around.  I made a point of wandering around this semester - I found at least 4 different ways to get home from school - but I will always regret that I didn't see more of this city when I had the chance.  I think that applies to every study abroad location, but really, challenge yourself to see something new every week.  (Personal favorites include Alexanderplatz, Oranienstraße, Friedrichstraße, and the Hackescher Markt.  The Brandenburg Gate, which took the above picture of, is of course another must-see.  And although I don't recommend too much international travel, Krakow and pretty much anywhere in Austria are worth any amount of money or homework you have to sacrifice to get there.)

Just remember: studying abroad is what you make of it.  Your time is short, so don't miss anything because you thought you would get to it later.  Berlin may seem an unfriendly place at first, but once you get used to the city, it's easy to feel at home.  I'm already having anxiety about watching the Fernsehturm fade out of view from the airplane window.  I'm telling you, by the end you won't want to leave. 

Thanksgiving for NYU Berlin was a special occasion, to say the least.  The staff treated us to Thanksgiving dinner at an "American" restaurant down the street from the classrooms.  I don't think any of us knew what to expect - most of us just wished we were home - but we were all at least interested to see what Thanksgiving in Berlin looked like; our excitement was nothing, however, compared to the enthusiasm of the German staff members, professors, and students that joined us.  Roughly 20 Germans came to experience "Turkey Day," and just the fact that our Student Coordinator called it "Turkey Day," completely in earnest, was enough to lift our otherwise homesick spirits.  

 

Imagine a bar whose walls are covered in American street signs and beer advertisements.  The food was actually pretty authentic: two pieces of turkey, mashed potatoes, broccoli, and delicious gravy smothering everything.  I was impressed (so impressed, that I took the above picture).  There was only one serving, which some people found a bit unsatisfactory (although nobody went hungry), but the pumpkin pie at the end was the perfect way to wrap up the evening.  I don't love pumpkin pie, and I missed my family more on Thursday than I have all semester, but this Turkey Day celebration was the best I could have hoped for.  

 

The next day, almost the entire program went on vacation.  Thanksgiving isn't a holiday in Europe, so it's not like we had any extra days off, but everyone acknowledged our holiday by spending the weekend away.  I flew to Krakow and fell in love with the city, but that's another story for another blog.  Thanksgiving Day itself was terrible, although redeemed by the delicious food and effort by NYU to celebrate the holiday, and the weekend in Poland was exactly what I needed to remind me what I'm thankful for: the opportunity to be in Europe, my warm winter coat and scarves, and the fact that the Christmas spirit transcends national borders and languages!