appleoh3's blog

I find myself taking a lot away from this class, especially in terms of my concentration and my colloquium. Since my colloquium topic is “The Voyage,” and my concentration is “The Poetics of Space” I think it is easy to imagine why this class was so interesting and informative for me. I was definitely faced with a wide range of perspectives on what “travel” entails for both the traveler and the native. From Kincaid, who suggests that travel is a perpetrator of western imperialism, to Mahoney, who saw travel as a personally rewarding experience, to Twain, who sought out travel to confirm or deny what he thought he knew about the world. Not only did these writers enlighten me in terms of how travel affects people, they also made me more aware of how I define “travel” and the “travel narrative.” I left class many times wondering whether travel even necessitates motion, or if it is simply a state of mind in which the narrative itself can be considered travel. Where as other times, I left questioning whether certain narratives could be considered “travel narratives,” as if travel had such a distinct definition.

While I had taken “Art of Travel” a few semesters ago, and was somewhat aware of how the class was going to function, I found that discussing the readings in a classroom setting, which is obviously more favorable for conversation, made the reading and the writing twenty times more interesting. Of course, this is not to discount “Art of Travel” which was interesting in a different way, because we got to interact with students from all of the different study abroad sites. I think that reading the travel narratives and discussing them has also made more of an impact now, because I am graduating soon. I have been thinking more and more about how these last 4 years have been a voyage in and of themselves, and how New York was once this “foreign land” to me, where as now it feels like a home that I can’t imagine leaving. Discussing what it means to be a native versus a traveler has had a lot of resonance with me in this respect. I am never sure what to call myself, am I a New Yorker? Can I ever really be New Yorker? Of course, it is all a matter of perspective.

As I feel time ticking down towards graduation, I have also started to take on the “travelers mindset.” As we talked about in class, the fact that my time in New York will most likely end soon makes me more appreciative of the absurdity of the City. I spend more time looking at buildings on my walk home, I spend too much money at bars that I will probably never go to again, and even the hobos outside St marks church on Second Ave have started to look beautiful. While the idea of this journey ending makes me want to drink more, all I can do is embrace the uncertainty of it. Perhaps New York is just one chapter in this longer journey I’m on. Perhaps I have been thinking too small by limiting this journey to these college years, that I haven't been seeing the continuity of it all as it lays itself out before me. But like a true nomad, I am going to embrace this perhaps, clink glasses with it, and try to be okay with the fact that I have no real destination.
 
 

In Cortazar’s “Autonauts of the Cosmoroute” and De Botton’s “Art of Travel,” one is made to question what it means to take a voyage. While one may initially think of “traveling” as exploring some far-off destination, these two authors challenge this definition. For Cortazar, the key to travel is the actual “traveling”—the act of being on the road—not the destination. He, like De Botton, presses us to explore these liminal spaces, like the highway, in ways that we had not when we were simply passing through. In “The Art of Travel” De Botton expounds upon this point, arguing that to be considered “traveling” is not a matter of distance or time, but state of mind. De Botton says that this traveler’s mindset hinges on receptivity—our ability to drop our expectations and see these familiar spaces with the eyes of someone who has never seen them before.

I really enjoyed the disjointedness of Cortazar’s piece in terms of time. I though it reflected quite nicely on what Cortazar had to say about his understanding of their trip in general: “that our trip, rich in wonders, was also outside of both time and space” (21). Throughout the piece, we have an understanding that Cortazar is writing these pieces, for the most part, in hindsight. He is also wont to write rather fantastically about things; for example, he refers to a friends dog as a crocodile, and refers to his depression as his “demons”. I think Cortazar concedes to the fact that a lot of a “voyage” is a fantasy, and to an extent, made up. For example, when he introduces us to Stéphane as their ex post facto cartographer, he admits that “although absent at the time, Stéphane Hébert is as much a presence here as Fafner or ourselves” (22). Stéphane was drawing from someone else’s memory, but in doing so, was constructing his own memory of a place he’s never been. In general, I think Cortazar sees the act of writing this piece, and also reading it, as a new manifestation of his journey. In its infinite reincarnations, “Autonauts of the Cosmoroute” reminds us that while part of a voyage is the physical act of traveling that is settled in time and space, it is also framed and understood by an internal journey, one which is constantly changing.  I think this is what Cortazar is referring to when he says that “This parallel highway we’re looking for perhaps only exists in the imagination of those who dream of it; but if it exists […], it doesn’t just involve a different physical space, but also another time” (48). This parallel highway is detached, in a way, from the journey itself, because it encompasses a different point of view. Thus, calling themselves “Autonauts of the Cosmoroute” makes sense because while they are exploring a familiar highway, they are exploring it through a different lens—taking “the other path which is, in any event, the same one.”

While conceiving of, or embarking on this sort of journey is difficult, I also think that part of “traveling” is being overwhelmed. At one point, Cortazar talks about the confusion that marked the hours before they departed. While initially disconcerting, he goes on to say, “But we already know: if we stay this overwhelmed over the whole course of the journey, it will be a total success” (47).  By this, I think he was trying to say that this frantic energy is indicative of receptivity. When you are overwhelmed, it is likely that you are completely immersed in what you are doing. In other words, you are not moving passively. This is exactly what De Botton suggests in “The Art of Travel,” to be sensitive to what surrounds us—whether it’s the couch in our bedroom, the flowers outside our window, or the well-trodden streets of our neighborhoods. The more we find a “use” for a place, the more we ignore its other uses. It is easy to miss all a space has to offer. I think what I took away from both of these pieces is that we don’t need “a change of scenery” to travel, rather, that we have to notice the scenery of the places we already frequent. That, as De Botton says, it is “not a matter of seeing, but of noticing.”  Being overwhelmed simply means we are noticing more of what we are seeing. I think there is also an alternate reading of this quote, which is  that we don’t need to be present to “see” a journey in order to participate in it, as someone who has been moved by many stories, I think it is safe to say that there is a journey in noticing, even if its on paper, and that this "movement" is just as real as the physical act of traveling. 

Phillips tales of racial discrimination during his travels through Europe, while less incendiary than Kincaid’s, do paint a painful picture of a modern reality. His narrative pulls us in by slowly unraveling these injustices, allowing the reader to fall deeper and deeper into their dark depths. Phillips’ haunting descriptions and short but poignant anecdotes sometime struck me like a ton of bricks. Their strength lies in their ability to unearth the truth without stating it explicitly. For example, at the end of “Oslo,” Phillips encounters another black man who is clearly wasted. The man attempts to claim that he knows how to “fit in” in Oslo, that unlike Phillips, he knows how to deal with white people. However, the fact that he is functioning on a different plane of reality, and later passes out, reveals the  truth behind this sobering statement—that there is no real place for him in Oslo. And as the (presumably) white patrons carry him out the door an hour later, this metaphor only becomes more concrete.

While at other points Phillips is more clearly outlining his feelings towards race, I think this text goes beyond cataloguing singular cases of racism. Instead, Phillips hopes to uncover our Eurocentric tendencies that allow this racism to persist. I find it particularly interesting how he focuses on what a big influence western art—especially writing and movies—has on authentic African culture, and thus in a vicious cycle, influences how westerners perceive blacks. This becomes especially clear in his section on Casablanca, in which he returns to Morocco, only to be confronted with a sharp divide between the urban impoverished and the shiny façade that Casablanca seems to purport. He chronicles the confusion of the western tourists, throw off kilter by how different the reality of Casablanca is from the movie “Casablanca.” The vast influence of this movie on the collective consciousness of this generation seems to perplex Phillips, especially because many don’t see it as propaganda for the allies, but also for the fact that it completely distorts the state of Morocco at the time. While this would have likely enraged the likes of Kincaid, Phillips seems at least to accept that things are the way they are. While obviously disturbed, he at least tries to understand, even managing a laugh when a patron mistakenly takes Baldwin for the piano man in Casablanca. 

Phillips seems to grapple with the grip that the “fantasy” of art has on reality. On one hand, he sees this limited and identifiably European grasp of history as a breeding ground for ignorance and racism. However, at the same time, he realizes that literature is power in other instances, and at times must suffice for history. For example, when he visits Poland, he discovers how large a part literature plays in the eastern bloc. Poland is defined by its ability to identify itself and assert itself using words. However, Phillips realizes that these words can also be a jail—partially because anyone who wishes to be heard must stay in Poland, and also in part due to censorship. In this case, writing something incendiary could mean real jail, or even worse, banishment. I think Phillips grasps that while European art does lend itself to a very particular worldview—one which ignores or degrades his race—it is also crucial to the identity of Europe itself, and thus the people which inhabit it. More than anything, Phillips recognizes what a tight grip fantasy has on Europeans, to the extent that it has become a substantial part of their reality, and their history.  

In her feisty narrative, Kincaid really grabs the reader by the collar. The use of the second person—addressing the reader as “you”—is at once alarming and intriguing. We are not used to being addressed so directly or so up front, thus we, or at least I, find it surprisingly frank. While addressing the reader so matter-of-factly does make Kincaid out to be an honest woman who doesn’t sugarcoat things, it also works as a jail for the reader. It condemns us to this role that she has assigned us to, and we cannot escape it.  We are the ones smiling at the quaint basket weavers, and wondering why they named the airport after the prime minister. The “you” makes us confront our role as a tourist; we can no longer read passively as we could for other travel narratives, we can no longer say “but I’m not like that…” or “how silly she was for acting in that manner.” Instead, we must accept the fact that we are those people. We have become the characters we despise.

However, to say that Kincaid hates “tourists” would not be completely accurate. I think it is more accurate that she hates what they represent. As she says towards the end of the first chapter, “every native of every place is a potential tourist, and every tourist is a native of somewhere[…] every native would like to find a way out, every native would like a rest” (Kincaid 18). Kincaid recognizes that even fellow natives of Antigua could potentially be tourists.  However, this is exactly it: they could potentially travel, however very few have the money or ability to do so. To Kincaid, the tourist represents someone who is lucky enough to have the mobility that much of the world does not. However, Kincaid criticizes these tourists for how they utilize this cherished power—especially in the way that they go about understanding a place. Her main point of contention is how these tourists are products of the British colonists— they are there to consume Antigua, not for the authentic culture, but for its beaches and weather—for its resources. The tourist becomes a metaphor for the colonist and the slave trader. The “tourists” are curious about aspects of the culture, but they keep telling themselves “but you must not think of that,” as if dismissing an understanding of the culture for their own notions of it. They are not asking, instead,  they are living out the saying that “ignorance is bliss” on the always-sunny beaches.  It is eerily, and intentionally similar to how the British handled Antigua, without though for preservation, but rather, to recreate it in the capitalist image.  This is not to mention that the British system was based on what Kincaid deems as an ability to turn the Antiguan’s banality and boredom into a source of pleasure for themselves. At the same time, though, Kincaid reiterates that even if we try to understand and assimilate into the culture, we will appear silly, simply because of our appearances, or in otherwords, because we are not natives. As she says, “you try eating their way, you look silly; try eating the way you always do, you look silly” (17).  So, then, what does she suggest we do, as a tourist? She suggests that we stay home, that we never come. 

While I can see how that might be the only “real” solution to this problem of natives hating tourists, it also eliminates the need or value of this “mobility” which Kincaid, and other Antiguans work so hard to be blessed with. I’m not trying to say that Kincaid is incorrect about the misfortunes that Antigua has suffered, nor the continued pain that has been inflicted on the part of the tourists, nor that there is a real solution for the problem. In fact, I think she realizes this; the fact that there is no way to make things right unless we can travel back in time, unless we can eliminate the “language of the criminal” and rewrite history in an authentically Antiguan language. Whether this would of ever been possible is unclear. Mostly, I take issue with her saying that the best “tourists” stay home. While it evens the playing field in way—if we all stayed home, then no one would be able to travel—what is the point of cherishing this mobility if we can never move? The narrative ends up frustrating me in this sense because the only solution that Kincaid offers us also traps us. Condemning natives to their native land is oppressive in exactly the way that Great Britain was, and so, eliminates the freedom Kincaid wishes so direly to grant her people. 

The “Nile Mosaic” of Palestrina, from 100 BC, depicts the lands of Egypt being overtaken by a flood from the Nile.  Its an interesting mosaic, first, because it is the largest that has been preserved from ancient times, but more importantly, because it reflects a progression from civilization in lower Egypt—or more clearly, colonization—to the barbarism of upper Egypt. The figures that litter the bottom of the painting could be mistaken for Romans. They have similar helmets, armor, and togas; and are drinking and lounging under the pillar filled constructs that are very reminiscent of those in Rome. However, the higher we go in the painting (and what we can assume to be farther into Egypt), we see more classic Egyptian influences—houses appear in small compounds, more and more animals begin to materialize, and lastly, at the very top, the people have emerged again, although much less clothed and much more bent on survival. While seemingly the most uncivilized, I find it funny how these Egyptians at the top, along with the animals, seem to be the only real figures in the mosaic that are concerned with the flood. The men and woman at the bottom go about their lounging business as usual, where as the men at the top are fighting for higher ground with the animals.

I brought up the Nile Mosaic in this post is because I saw a lot of similarities between how Mahoney perceived of Egypt and the Nile, and how it was depicted in this mosaic. First, I was blown away by her comment on water—that unlike land, which always belonged to someone, water was free. The mosaic really captures this spirit of fluidity and being unclaimed—in fact, the water is the only part of the landscape that is consistent throughout. Perhaps Mahoney identified with the water so much because her desire, too, was to float through the world unattached to any one culture or gender. It also makes sense that she would take to the water alone, for though you cannot necessarily shed who you are by traveling alone, you certainly become less aware of it when you don’t have to rely on anyone else.  The mosaic also really reflected what she saw as she set off into Egypt for the first time, a progression from urban into pastoral. Not only does the mosaic clearly outline this progression, but it also comments on how the proximity, potency, and power of the Roman culture, influenced the Egyptians (or more specifically, the Talmais). I got a similar feeling from Mahoney’s piece, but in her case, that it was the culture of tourism that had impacted Egyptian cities greatly.  This was especially true when she commented on how the Egyptians were more likely to believe the story of a foreigner than a citizen, and how travelers like Flaubert were treated like kings. Also, the general impression of Egypt that I got from Mahoney was that it was very bent on accommodating tourists.  This was especially evident when she went to buy a boat, and everyone kept offering her a ride in theirs.  While it isn’t necessarily diluting the culture, the tourism does have an impact, and it becomes another thing that Mahoney wants to escape completely.

In a way, I think Mahoney is trying to complete the impossible. Now, that is not to say that I don’t think she is physically or mentally prepared for the journey, actually quite, the opposite, she is well versed in the subtext of the physical adventure—the dread. Rather, what I mean when I say its impossible is that she can really get what she truly wants out of the journey. It is seems to me that Mahoney wants to glide through an Egypt of her own imagination—one that looks and feels like the books said it would, but in which she is reveling in her own agency. This is why the water is so attractive to her, because it affords her the opportunity to invent Egypt without actually trekking through it.  However, the fact that this is an Egypt that only exists in her minds eye is setting her up for disappointment, because in order to get to the nameless and faceless water, she must first trudge through land. I found Mahoney to be an interesting reversal of a normal story of a voyage, in which men are searching for land, or try to go back home, rather, she is searching for the absence of those things, or maybe to find them within herself—like Theroux, she is focused on the personal voyage, not the destination. 

After reading Morris’ piece, I was struck by how much of her understanding of the place hinged on her femininity, rather than her role as a traveler. A sense of helplessness, and a need for recognition, pervaded the scene for me. Much of her time was spent detailing her loneliness, her inability to connect to her surroundings, and her fear of the unknown—so much so that, rather than the landscape of the place itself, we are trudging through an emotional landscape. Of course, this isn’t too surprising, seeing as the title clearly indicates that this will be an emotional journey. However, I do think it complicates how we think about Morris’ piece as a travel narrative. I’m not sure if Morris truly gets out of her comfort zone and walks into the absurdity of the place, but rather that she spends her time trudging around with her own emotional baggage. While she does take risks and delve into dangerous territory at points, it seems she must preface her risks with the fact that they are risky. In this way, her risk-taking seems disingenuous, and unlike other travel narratives we’ve read, there is this desire for the reader to really feel sorry for her plight. I didn’t enjoy this piece as much as I could of for this reason—even as a woman myself, I couldn’t find myself really identifying with Morris, or feeling sorry for her. This is mainly because there is a lot of telling, but not a lot of showing. We don’t experience her emotional journey with her, rather we are basically told how to feel—sad, scared, happy—which is much less effective. This points to another reason I have a hard time identifying with Morris’s plight—it is very personal. While almost all narratives are self-indulgent, I felt this more strongly with Morris’ piece because it seemed so intent on being relatable—oftentimes addressing or including the reader with “we” or “you,” as if assuming the reader will feel the same as she does.

With Davidson’s piece, I was struck with the complete opposite. I felt that she did a great job of taking us along on a journey of discovery, rather than speaking with privilege about what she had already discovered. I also thought Davidson’s piece was refreshing because, while it did focus on her role as a women, it was more intent on describing the role of an outsider first and then detailing how being a woman also played into it. While talking about the phenomenon of being seen, I wasn’t struck by an intense desire for pity as I did with Morris’ piece. Although I am not completely sure if that is a testament to her writing, or to the people and place she encountered, it remains that Davidson seems much more aware of how other people perceive her, even though in all traditional senses, this perception is out of her control

I used to be really into W.H. Auden.  I read his poems all the time, and fell in love with the natural rhythm of them. A few years later, I read a biography about him that said he used to compose while walking,  a fact which wasn’t too surprising at the time—I could feel the forward motion of his poems. More than anything, though, it made sense. For me, walking around has always been a precursor to clearing my head and becoming inspired. A change of scenery, or rather, a constantly changing scenery is the best way to literally “see” the world differently so that I may “see the world differently.”
 
In “Songlines,” Chatwin speaks a lot about this tie between the earth and poetry, and thus, between earth and identity. Metaphorically through his experiences, and through his loosely structured narrative, Chatwin details the importance of motion in creation. The most obvious way in which Chatwin discusses this connection is by chronicling the history of the Australian aboriginals through his various encounters with their culture. According to his sources, the Aboriginals sang the world into existence, leaving songlines—like footsteps—behind, sealing this connection between poetry and life and land. The earth and the people became inextricably linked, when one was wounded, the other was also wounded. He also spoke a lot about totems, and how the aboriginals have very strong attachments to their totem animal—as if it is their brother, and also part of them. There is the sense of an ever expanding community of living things—that even when you die, you return to the earth, and, in essence, continue to move. The songlines continue on.
 
This cyclical nature of this nomadic belief system reflects very clearly on Chatwin’s narrative style-which keeps us moving from one scene to the next, and which avoids giving us clean cut beginnings or endings. All of his chapters leave us hanging in some respect—some even end in ellipses. While it may be hard to follow, or annoying to some, I think that the disregard for beginnings or endings seems very representative of the nomadic lifestyle. It makes sense that he would view life as something continuous, not as a multitude of beginnings or endings, or lives and deaths, but similar to how the aboriginals saw it—as a constant act of new creation.  I imagine that Chatwin viewed his writing like his own songline—an act of “poesis.”  It seems to me that he really understood this connection between our self expression and our surroundings, which I didn’t feel quite as strongly with some of the other pieces we’ve read. Perhaps this is because of his upbringing on the road, consuming literature. He was used to being a man from nowhere. He felt most at home in motion. Perhaps this is also the reason that Chatwin felt like a native in this land although he was not.  I figure this transitory sense of home is hard to understand unless you’ve been a nomad, however reading Songlines helps us at least to glean what it might be like. In light of Chatwin’s novel, I think it is silly to underestimate the power of a story or a song.  It is through these acts of creation that we see how much of our reality is constructed from our own beliefs, and by which we see that  our connection to the earth and our movement through it, is what makes it more than just dirt. 

About a week ago, I was having a conversation with a friend from NYU who is also from Rochester, my hometown. He told me about how he was going home for Easter weekend, and so naturally, I asked him how long he was going to be gone for, and what bus he was taking. Having commuted 8 hours from Rochester to NYC and then back every week this past summer, I consider myself an expert on this particular bus route, and because I have exploited all of the hilariously crappy bus options, I enjoy forcing stories of my “travels” on anyone who dares emulate my route. Sadly for me, however, he said he was taking a plane home.  Now, I don’t know why, but I have always had this thing against planes—it may be in part because they are expensive, and partly because I find going through security and wandering around the airport inconvenient, and partly because flying means you are legitimately hovering 10’s of 1,000’s of feet in the air, in a huge metal tube, which kind of freaks me out. This being said, I have always preferred traveling by bus and train because of the simple fact that you are given a long period of time to just stare out the window and think about things. Traveling on a bus or a train allows you a few hours to pause and breathe, and knit. I was trying to argue this point to my friend, who said he took planes because they were quicker. I countered this with the fact that it takes about the same amount of time to take the subway to JFK, go to ticketing, drop off your baggage, go through security, find your terminal, wait to be seated, wait for the plane to taxi around the airport, fly there, land, readjust yourself to walking on solid ground, and then find your way out of the terminal, that it does to take a bus home. With buses, all you have to do is take the subway to Port authority, get your ticket, get on the bus, and you are done. Plus, you get to stop at rest stops along the way where wait in line for fast food restaurant bathrooms, and buy lukewarm churros at 2 am. Also, there is something about taking a trip on a bus that forces people to talk there is a certain charm to “being on the road.”

While Theroux was traveling by train, not bus, I feel like he still understood the charm of land travel.  This was especially true when he got to comparing land travel to traveling by airplane. I was particularly intrigued by his statement that “an airplane passenger is a time traveler”(4). He goes on to explain that an airplane kind of exists in this liminal space where time is not a constant thing, it is fluid—and where there is no passing, changing landscape by which you can mark your progress, making  us insensitive to space. On land, you get to watch the progression of things from familiar, to slightly weirder, to completely foreign—an idea which seems to interest Theroux greatly. He talks a lot about the issues he has with travel books which start seemingly in media-res, that talk about the arrival, but not the getting there— what he identifies correctly as the actual “traveling.” Theroux’s book is refreshing because it is about the journey away from the familiar brownstones of Boston and the pillars of everyday life and emerging, gradually, into the unknown. While reading this, I thought a lot about what it means to “travel.” Can a morning commute be consider traveling? Or must you leave this sense of normality and break the routine. How much space and time must you transverse? While Theroux was talking about how airplanes are like time travel because of their speed, and seeming departure from reality, I started to realize that modes of land travel exist in a similarly detached reality. While it is true that it is more gradual than airplanes, and the sense arriving in a place is much more abrupt, even traveling by bus or train, we are physically still but still moving very fast. We are detached from the physicality of walking around, or of exploring—we are still in this transitionary, liminal space, and although we are closer to the landscape, we are still on a track, unable to move on a whim, unless it is to stretch our legs, or to ask the driver to turn down the heat. I guess what I am saying is that I understand why authors often skip over the actual act of being on the road, or in the air, and skip to the parts where they get out of the car, and into the gas station, or when they emerge into a new city from the train platform—because the act of traveling from one place, to another, regardless of the form, is not very interactive. It is hard to understand a place or its people by driving through it; just like having a layover in a foreign city doesn’t mean that you have really been there. It is much harder to make being in a stationary environment interesting—but Theroux does it with poise and insight, helping us to realize that there is still much to learned by simply passing through. 

While I was reading Paul Bowles’ “Travels,” one thing that I was preoccupied with as he wandered from place to place was how he was communicating with the people he encountered. It seemed like quite a range of languages he had to master—from growing up in New York City, to smoking kif in Africa, to prancing around literary circles in Paris, it seems to me that Bowles was truly a man from nowhere, or rather, that he fit in everywhere. Of course, the most important initiation ceremony for culture is to learn the language—especially the slang. I learned this was true the hard way when I was studying abroad in Prague—not knowing the language, especially outside of the city center, could easily get downright dangerous. However, I also learned this lesson in a rather unconventional way. When I was in Prague, I also signed up to co-teach an advanced English class at an international college with kids from all over the world. It was very informal—the students were our age, attendance was optional, we could teach whatever we wanted, and, perhaps most importantly, we could bring alcohol into the classroom. So, each class had about 8 students, usually about half of them were new every session, and we would mainly just talk to them and ask them what they wanted to learn. Without fail, every class, someone would ask for slang words—mostly about drinking, smoking weed, and sex. It being our job to immerse the students in (in this case) American culture, we usually indulged their requests, and they in turn, taught us some of their slang from their different countries. It was funny how these slang words—which, upon knowing how to use them, usually mark that you had been initiated into the culture—also became a currency that we all understood. A lot of times, we would also play American drinking games, and basically put the students into situations where they would be forced to have conversations in English. In a way, unleashing the childlike nature within us allowed us to get to know one another, where as traditional modes of learning—the proper, grown up ways—did not.
While I understand that in “kif” when Bowles says “You must eat, drink, relax and make love the way grown-ups do, otherwise your heart won’t really be in it; you won’t truly be disciplining yourself to become like them” he means it to be a metaphor for the process of westernization, and mowing closer and closer to a globalized world. However, I find it funny how he defines being “grown up” here, not as taking on responsibility, but as indulging in the correct (Judeo-Christian) vices. Where I see how my experiences teaching in Prague coincide with this vision of westernization as showing others the “grown up” way to indulge, I also found myself feeling irresponsible and young, and not particularly religious. While I see Bowles’ argument that the tradition of alcohol being legal and more widely accepted in culture can easily be a reflection of the predominant religions of western culture, where as in Africa it is smoking ( which is not-so-effectively being stamped out by western culture)--I also hardly see how the culture of drinking today, which is now being reinforced abroad in a global era, is far from anything we would consider “holy” or “proper.” While it is accepted here, it is not accepted in the way that it seems kif is in Africa. For example, I would’ve never gotten drunk with my parents when I was young and told stories—it would have been considered taboo. I don’t think I knew what a chaser was until I was 14 or so, either. I don’t know if this is a reflection of the different effects of these two vices, or of our cultures, or of our personal experience. However, I do think that, in terms of drinking in the USA, its manifestation in culture is very different from its manifestation in religion, whereas, in Africa, the vice is intertwined with both in the same ways. Is the circulation of vocabulary, or in other words, slang, a reflection of that? And further, does knowing the slang make you a part of the culture? Does it make you a grown up?

Orwell’  “Down and Out in Paris and London,” really struck a chord with another book that I’ve been reading—Herodotus “The Histories.” While at first, this probably seems like a strange comparison—especially considering how old “The Histories” is—the parallels between the way the books are structured, and the perspectives of the authors are eerily numerous. In “Down and Out,” we get to know Paris and London through a series of stories and character sketches. Because of this, we don’t really see the place from one outstanding perspective; rather, we see it through many eyes. It’s the difference between looking at a photo of a the New York City skyline as seen from the Empire State Building, and searching ‘New York City” on Google images—Orwell’s narrative arises from a myriad of pictures of the place, rather than a singular lens. However, as much as he tries to remove himself from the narrative, and make this a commentary on the poor—he cannot completely subtract himself from the equation. It’s like Alain de Botton says in Art of Travel; Orwell inadvertently brings himself with him on his travels. While Orwell desires to be a fly on the wall, his problems with the social hierarchy infiltrate the way he tells his stories and discerns who the reader will sympathize with. Also, the very fact that he can escape the role he is playing, unlike those he is observing, influences how he reacts to and portrays the people and place around him. The fact that he is somewhat removed from what he is studying is the reason he cannot fully leave himself out of it, and also the reason he can plausibly write about it to a wider audience. If he were really “down,” he wouldn’t be able to get out and tell his story.

Herodotus employs a similar method in “The Histories”—composing the book from a compilation of myth, history, and hearsay. Because he, like Orwell, uses anecdotes and character sketches to fill out his narratives, people often question the truthfulness of the “history” he is writing.  While he does try to balance multiple perspectives, many of them are incomplete, and seemingly concrete pieces of the history often contradict one another. Scholars also cite Herodotus’ personal bias as reason not to trust his account—i.e. being a greek writing about foreign cultures that he may have never visited or had encounters with.  Like Orwell, Herodotus strived to be “a man from nowhere”—he did not want to place himself squarely in his work. However, he did want it to be entertaining as well as informative, so I’m sure some points were exaggerated for his audience (The Histories came from the speeches Herodotus did as he toured around doing lectures). “Down and Out” seems to take a similar approach—it is aware that it has an audience in a way we didn’t see with Flaubert, for instance.

While Orwell’s text isn’t the last remaining testament to that decade in Paris or London, and thus, may not be as crucial as Herodotus’ in terms of understanding world history, its authenticy is still something that concerns a lot of readers. Did Orwell really capture the colorful spirit of Paris, or the blasé grayness of London? Was he truly down and out, or does his station in society disable him from ever  really getting close to the truth? I think in the case of either text, we must take truth with a grain of salt, especially because they were pieces bent on being entertainment. However, I also think that with travel narratives, personal truth, i.e. how Orwell saw things, becomes more important than historical accuracy. A lot of experiencing a place is unquantifiable or forgotten, and so creative license must be taken to link the pieces back together. While Down and Out may not detail how many bugs Orwell saw in Paris, or what the temperature was, it does something even better—it tells a story--and when your goal is to entertain and inform, that becomes much more valuable than truth. 

When comparing Flaubert’s notes from his time in Egypt to the letters he sent, I couldn’t help but notice their differences in style and subject matter. The notes he wrote seemed very staccato and stream of consciousness. Half the time, he wasn’t even writing in complete sentences. The experience of reading them, for me, was like being in a dream—piecing together little glimpses of his trip, wandering through seemingly disparate images, grasping at vague associations. These notes also focused more on relaying or remembering information—he talked a lot about what he was doing, who he saw, what the weather was like—small, compressed details of his trip. The letters to his mother and friends, on the other hand, read much more like miniature stories, he operated under full disclosure when revealing little anecdotes from his trip to them, giving us a much greater sense of how he was interpreting the culture around him.  The letters were much more emotionally charged, visceral, and in my perspective, more interesting to read than the blow-by-blow of his movements and experiences in quick, abbreviated bursts. However, even the subject matter of the letters he wrote was dependent upon who he was writing to—either his mom or his close friend. Of course, when writing to his friend, his observances were much more vulgar and boastful of his experiences, where as the letters to his mother were tame and pleasant.  The notes, on the other hand, lacked a real audience, besides Flaubert himself, which could perhaps explain their brevity and their resemblance to passing thoughts.

I know that Flaubert wasn’t writing these notes in hopes that they would get published, however, I can’t help but look at them as pieces open to consumption. More so than the letters, the notes seem to accurately reflect the experience of traveling. While the letters offer a wealth of description and emotion, these are qualities that we seem to imbue our travels with after the fact. Perhaps this is just my opinion, but when I am actively traveling and experiencing a place, I am not really arranging and embellishing a narrative in my head, I am just taking in the surroundings and the people. I am not contemplating the social and economic implications of race relations; I’m trying to figure out where to eat lunch in 20 minutes--because I’m starving. I think the notes do a better job of reflecting the immediacy and motion of travel, where as the letters are drawn from this movement once it has settled. In this way, the letters become more aware, more analytic, more emotional—they become a narrative; one which can be molded to fit an audience. Thus, one trip can tell many different stories—a fact which is quite clear when comparing his letters to his mother to those he sent his friend.

I guess that is where I see the trouble with pegging Flaubert’s narrative as an orientalist text. I have trouble looking at it as an orientalist text simply because the intent behind the piece was not to be an anthropological study of Egyptian culture. Also, I think it is hard to place a fairly modern concept onto a text that has been consolidated and translated by someone other than the author, and which was originally meant for a very close and personal audience. Of course, one could argue that intent doesn’t matter, and that regardless, the piece still reveals quite a lot about the western view of the east. However, I would like to challenge you to think of it this way. If  someone were to posthumously collect all of the postcards and emails you have sent during your travels—IM’s to your friends, your parents, email’s to mentors, your drunken blog posts at 4 am to no one in particular--do you think they would be an accurate representation of how you felt about the place and people you were visiting? How would the narrative change depending on who you were writing to, or why you were writing in the first place? While I think it is interesting and productive to study Flaubert’s travels through an orientalist lens, I don’t think it is helpful, nor accurate, to label it an “orientalist text.” 

One thing that really strikes me when reading Twain’s “ The Innocents Abroad” is the way in which Twain filters each place he goes through a literary lens. Not only did he constantly compare the venues to what he had read about them, but he was also writing about them himself. One thing I find very fascinating about travel is how we start with a lot of romantic pre-conceptions about a place from books, movies, the internet, etc., and then use them as guidelines for what we are supposed to expect in a place, and in turn, how we are supposed to act, and what we are supposed to take from the visit. It has always amazed me how "moved" we are by our idea of a place—sometimes even more than we are by the place itself. Some places promise relaxation, others, a rigorous schedule of activities, and still, others, a dose of history for the traveler. However, how often does our trip live up to these expectations, and do we even want it to? Do we want to be surprised on our trip, or do we want our suspicions confirmed? Of course, the answers to these questions might differ depending on what kind of tourist you are.

While reading “Innocents Abroad,” and especially the chapter on Venice, I kept thinking about these questions in relation to Twain. Why did Twain want to embark on this voyage? What was he looking for, and did he find it? During his excursions in Venice, he seemed consistently disappointed, and least moved, when he saw what he “expected” to see—when the city lived up to his expectations of it. It’s predictability seemed inauthentic, and commercial—a point which is particularly evident when he sets out on his gondola ride, and in his characterization of the city’s commerce as “a peddler of glass beads for women, and trifling toys and trinkets for 
school-girls and children” (Ch XXII). He goes on to describe this veil of preconception and glamour that the city evokes, and notes that, “It seems a sort of 
sacrilege to disturb the glamour of old romance that pictures her to us 
softly from afar off as through a tinted mist, and curtains her ruin and 
her desolation from our view.” On one hand, it seems that Twain wanted to be immersed in the Venice of the past—a city which physically remains, but temporally, is not longer there. However, at the same time, he is bothered by the city’s effort to reclaim its past glamour and renown, and does not fully buy into it. Later, though, Twain did go on to describe a point at which he felt the Venice he was experiencing was the Venice that he had imagined—at night. He describes the city as such:
There was life and motion everywhere, and yet everywhere there was a 
hush, a stealthy sort of stillness, that was suggestive of secret 
enterprises of bravoes and of lovers; and clad half in moonbeams and half 
in mysterious shadows, the grim old mansions of the Republic seemed to 
have an expression about them of having an eye out for just such 
enterprises as these at that same moment. Music came floating over the 
waters--Venice was complete. (Chp XXII)

What intrigues me about this passage is the fact that Twain only sees Venice as “complete” when he cannot, in fact, see all of it. He enjoys himself the most when thinking about what is happening behind closed doors, and in shadowy corners. In other words, the city becomes whole and alive when most of the city is left to his imagination. This, of course, makes sense. So much of a "place" is what we imagine it to be, so looking too closely at a place in comparison to what we imagined is bound to be disappointing. Perhaps that is why places lose their luster the longer we live in them—it becomes harder to ignore reality—or to live in a fantasy. And so, in a way it is fitting when he ends this chapter, not with a concrete observation of the place, but with a myth about Venice. The myth goes that a man was told by an angel that he must get St Mark’s body and bury it in Venice in order to secure the city's prosperity. Twain explains that the myth persists, and that the residents of Venice believe that if the bones were ever to be removed, that Venice would disappear into the water and cease to exist.  This myth is actually quite a great metaphor for what I am trying to get at here—that a lot of what keeps the idea of a place alive (and, in turn, the actual place) is the travelers desire to grasp at the mystery of it, a property which, coincidentally, finds its definition in an inability to be found. Twain's ability to suspend and incorporate his beliefs into the landscape of the places he visits might be one of the reasons why this narrative still feels modern and intriguing, but it is what is left out, or our belief that he is leaving something out,  that makes us want to visit these places for ourselves.

Photo: Taken on my trip to Venice

When reading Pico Iyer’s article, I was reminded of all the times I’ve traveled—or more specifically, of the pieces of my travels that I have taken back to New York, whether physically, or in the minds eye. The article clearly covered all the bases of “why we travel,” and in doing so, brought to my attention a more interesting question, which I would like to take the opportunity to discuss in this post, and that is: what constitutes “travel?” I ask this question, not only because Iyer gives us a lot to think about regarding the integration of “imaginary” travel via technology and the imagination and communication with the palpable act of being in a place, but because reading this article reminded me of a memory from childhood, a story which, previously, I never considered a travel narrative. The story goes as such:
 When I was thirteen, I moved to a new neighborhood. I remember the day clearly: my hair tied back in a ponytail, cross-legged on my bedroom floor, classic rock drifting up from the kitchen—thinking about the versions of myself that had walked the halls. My room was pretty bare by then—just a few bigger pieces of furniture and a shoebox of old birthday cards that I hadn’t convinced myself to throw out—yet I had only just recognized its bareness. I began to notice the dust and dirt my family and I had tracked in over the years; flocking to the corners, blowing out of air ducts, settling on window sills where our picture frames once sat. The truck was packed full, but we were still leaving so much behind. There were memories in those walls; stuck in the paint, dulling it.

So, in a surge of nostalgia, I did something.

I ran from room to room, collecting things: a piece of a sticker that had permanently attached it self to the window, a puzzle piece from the back of a cupboard in the basement, a piece of burnt wood from the fireplace in the family room, even a daffodil from the backyard. I jammed them into a bag, and closed it with a twisty tie from behind the fridge. There they were, tiny slivers of each room—my home—in a little plastic bag. On the ride to our new house, I clung to the bag like it was a part of me, because, well, in a way it was.  When we finally arrived, I ran upstairs to my new room and turned on the lights. I will always remember that fresh paint smell— and how the color hit my eye, like the sun reflecting off a windshield, so newly blue.

Now before reading this article, my idea of travel was centered more clearly around an intent—I was traveling when I was aware that I was traveling—and also that travel was usually a large physical migration. Previously, the story I just relayed wouldn’t have constituted “travel” to me. However, Iyer’s article has quite literally opened up this perception, in particular, the last two lines of the article, “ If travel is like love, it is, in the end, mostly because it’s a heightened state of awareness, in which we are mindful, receptive, undimmed by familiarity and ready to be transformed. That is why the best trips, like the best love affairs, never really end.” Here, Iyer is highlighting the fact that the idea of “travel” while having a very external, physical connotation, its is actually a very internal in nature—it is a state of mind in which we are unhindered by the banality of everyday life and are changed and surprised by the things around us, like looking at the world through the eyes of a child. This quote, and the article as a whole, also point to the fact that travel is not a stagnant block of time and space, but rather, that it exists and carries on in our memories, and our souvenirs, and our new ways of thinking and doing, and most importantly, in relaying of the travels to others. It is interesting to think that, in a way we are always “traveling,” and that while we may not be moving physically, we are doing so vicariously through books, through our own memories, and through the customs that have pervaded our society by means of travel and cosmopolitan thinking. It makes sense, then, why we are often bored by “sameness” when we visit new places, because living in a very global and technologically equipped society means that most of the reachable world becomes a big melting pot. Seeing McDonald’s wherever we go can get boring. However, I think the reason this idea that “travel is boring” exists is because we have fastened the idea of “travel” to specific temporal and spatial  boundaries, constraints within which we are supposed to glean some higher truth and we are to “change.” However, if we stick more closely to thinking of traveling as a state of receptiveness and malleability, we can start to see that travel can never really be “boring,” and that you don’t necessarily have to go to China and back to say that you’ve been on a voyage. Driving to the next town over can be a trip to another world, and a puzzle piece from an old cupboard can become a souvenir, and a home can be forged in a seedy hotel in Prague or in a sleepy suburban town. I guess what I really take away from this article, though, is that travel isn't necessarily about a conscious decision to move, it is about allowing yourself to be moved--and sometimes you don't see how far you've traveled until you've had a chance to look back and see how far you've come.

In a way, I had to wait for my last day in Prague to write this. This whole week I have been agonizing over the fact that I am leaving—and not quite accepting it, not knowing how to explain the phenomenon of leaving to myself. The whole week has been like that, a lot of goodbyes, a lot of last time we______, and also a lot of firsts, as people try to fit all the places they didn’t see into these last few days. I keep packing things and unpacking them, thinking, “maybe I will use this.” I sift through the odds and ends that I’ve collected in my travels—coasters, ticket stubs, bar napkins—and try to decide which things I can afford to fit in my suitcase. Actually, this last week for me has been just an extended case of that dilemma: trying to decide which memories I will keep with me, and which ones I will slowly leave behind.

It is a sad process, leaving a place. Especially knowing that you probably won’t be coming back in the near future. A lot of the memories we’ve made are engrained in this place, and in shared experience, which makes it difficult to explain to people unless they had been here at the same time and with the same people. That is why I am SO glad I have been in this blogging class all semester. Sure, it was a painful at times for me to reflect seriously on some of the experiences I went through; sorting out my feelings, and picking the proper anecdotes to explain them was more challenging than I expected. However, I am so glad I took the time to pause and write. Now I have a catalogue of memories to look back on that I may have otherwise forgotten. It is good to be able to look back and see how you felt being in place—to see what was going through your head at the time, like reading a diary entry you wrote years ago.

The one regret I have about study abroad is that I didn’t take advantage of just walking around the city. I don’t really regret not seeing specific places, because those will most likely be here when I get back, but more, just being in the moment and being aimless. Of course, there were moments, but I wish I had acted aimlessly more.
Typing this, I actually feel, for the first time, like I am actually saying bye to Prague, and it is bittersweet. I am excited about free water at restaurants, and the energy of NYC, and seeing my friends and family back in the states, but I also am going to miss the laidback but fun atmosphere of Vinohrady, and the awesome teachers who taught me more about life than any others that I have had, and the people I met who were willing to take last minute trips to the middle of nowhere with me. If I could take anything away from this experience, it would be that you can truly make a home anywhere—as long as you are willing to help build it.

Thank you so much for a great semester! And Steve Hutkins, for a great class!
Na shledanou!
Christina

Here they are, my top five tips for studying abroad in Prague:

1) Don’t bring high heels
This may seem like a very small and insignificant detail (especially if you are a dude), but I think it is an important stepping stone to understanding Czech culture. Of course, there are practical reasons not to wear high heels in Prague—they are not compatible with cobblestone, nor are they a comfortable for that 4am walk when you decide you are done waiting for the night tram—but they are also just unnecessary. In general, the Czechs dress very casual. Even out at night, clubs and bars alike, I see many people sporting jeans and a t-shirt. Coming from New York City, where you see people with Manolo Blahnik’s at sports bars, this is a huge change. So, to gauge Prague on a New York scale, I would suggest you dress like you are going to a rooftop party in Brooklyn. In general, I think you will find the going-out atmosphere in Prague more conducive to singing Czech drinking songs than to shaking your booty to Beyonce, however, there is surely a place for both in such a diverse city.

2) Skip the KFC
The temptation of American fast-food chains in Prague is ever-present. There are about as many KFC’s in Prague as there are Starbucks in NYC (and there are plenty of Starbucks here too). I am not saying that you shouldn’t indulge your cravings once and a while, just that you should always try to expand your horizons. I mean, when else will you be able to order pickled sausage with a side of bread dumplings and a Pilsner? Prague has many “authentic” Czech restaurants on the major squares, but I encourage anyone who is coming to Prague to avoid even these, wander the side streets and find a place that sees less foot traffic. I guarantee you will probably get better food, for a cheaper price, and be given better service. The best places I have been were often last minute options when we got lost on our way to a restaurant that got rave reviews in some guidebook. It is easy to fall into a routine once classes start and visit the same places over and over out of familiarity, but I think it is important to try to go somewhere new at least once a week. Eating in Prague is relatively cheap, so (excuse the stupid pun) you can afford to

3) Don’t travel in Groups…. (of five or more)
My first trip of the semester was to Vienna, and although it was a lot of fun, it was also very frustrating.  See, I went in a group of 11 people, and every time we wanted to go somewhere we had to practically hold a tribunal to try to decide what we were going to do. Traveling in a huge group is hard unless you all know eachother very well, and no one has a problem splitting up. This was not true in my case. Since it was the first week, no one had really formed any solid groups of friends, and it seemed like we were all too scared to break into smaller groups because we didn’t want to miss anything. Traveling in a big group is hard mostly because of the logistics of fitting 10 people into small places. Visiting big, public spaces, like the museum, was fine, but for dinner we had to call places hours in advance to make reservations, and oftentimes they were unable to accomodate us. Then, as far as going out at night—forget it. Finding space in a bar for 10 people is near to impossible. I know that at the beginning of the semester, nobody wants to leave anyone out, but I suggest that you try to break up into smaller groups, just to make the decision making process easier. With a smaller group you have much more freedom to see the things you want to see, without compromising for the sake of the group, while still having people to share it with. At the same time, make sure you schedule some valuable alone time, either in Prague, or maybe even a solo weekend trip. Traveling alone is a great way to get to know a city in its purest form, without distractions of conversation. Plug in your ipod and take a walk, or jog around a park, or take a tram you have never taken before and see where you end up. Plus, there is the added confidence boost that comes with traveling alone, being able to navigate a foreign city is a valueable skill that will continue to be helpful, both home and abroad.

4) Get to know your professors
Yup, this one sounds lame, but I think one of my favorite things about the Prague program are the teachers. I swear, about half of the NYU Prague staff played a crucial part in the Velvet Revolution—there are dissidents, student rebels, scholars—not to mention that the director is pretty famous here in Czech Republic. They all have amazing stories that they are very open and willing to share, and that will definitely make you look back painfully at how little you’ve accomplished in your 20 years on the planet. Being in Prague, with such small classes (my biggest had 8 people!), has really opened my eyes to what it means to learn. While some of the teaching styles are a bit unconventional, they alter your sense of reality in a way that doesn’t happen in New York. I have done much less passive learning here, and more active thinking—about myself within the context of what I was being taught. They are not lessons that will fade over the summer, but things that have now become a part of who I am.

5) Join a club
I had never been involved in student government before coming to Prague, but I thought student council would be a great way to meet new people, and be able to influence the events here in Prague. Well, I did get to organize events, but the people I met in student council ended up being the same people I hung out with anyways. That being said, being of student council together has brought us much closer, and allowed us to do and see a lot of things that we wouldn’t have otherwise—and for free! I also volunteered to tutor English at CTU—a local university. That was by far the most immersive thing I did during this semester. I met people from all different countries, and although I was supposed to be teaching them, I ended up learning a lot in return. I wouldn’t have learned how Czechs interpret animal noises (“moo” becomes “bu”!) or how different we interpret the word “menu,” if it weren’t for that class. Joining a club or activity is the best way to interact with a culture in a physical and sociological sense.

At the same time as I am writing this, I am torn over whether I want you, mysterious reader, to take my advice. I think that the best way to learn a city is by making a few mistakes. So now that I think about it, screw everything I just said. Prove me wrong. Do Prague your way.