Sophia's blog

“What, then, is a travelling mind-set?” asks De Botton, “Receptivity might be said to be its chief characteristic…. We carry with us no rigid ideas about what is or is not interesting…. We are alive to the layers of history beneath the present and take notes and photographs” (5). To travel, then, is to be open and, more than that, to be alive according to De Botton. This is why the Cortazar text is interesting. They are not going far, but they are travelling simply because they are open to the experience.
 
I have thought and written before that travel is primarily about expectation rather destination, movement more than arrival, liminality more than stasis. I do not think this is less true in the light of De Botton and Cortazar’s work, but I question the specifics now. What I had meant earlier was that travel was about the idea of the place more than the place. What I never meant was that the place was not important.
 
Simply, when I considered the other writers I placed their imagination of Egypt, or Paris, or London as the most crucial thing to their literature. But the distance still mattered to me. It was the fact that these were distant, unknown places that I considered crucial. The distance, the removal from their homeland I believed mattered to travel because it was about leaving.
 
I am stuck by De Botton’s meditation on De Maistre’s books. Can one travel their bedroom? It seems so and it is because of what De Botton’s proposes. We are acclimated to our homes. “We have become habituated and therefore blind,” as he states.
 
De Maistre, on the other hand, was “alive” to his surroundings. As De Botton summarizes, “he went to his window and looked up at the night sky. Its beauty made him feel frustrated that such ordinary scenes were not more generally appreciated” (6). We have, I’d argue, renounced the beauty of our homes, out of blindness, out of the commonness of it.
 
When I go to Brooklyn, or the Bronx to see my family, do I feel like I am traveling? Often, no. And I think it has less to do with the fact that I’ve become familiar with the areas, but that there is such ease in arriving there. To be certain, there are certain nights when I take the J or the Q to and from Brooklyn and am astounded by the city (these are rare nights), but I don’t feel like a traveler because I have not left, I have not made a voyage, which implies labor and planning.
 
But they are traveling in De Botton and Cortazar’s work and this seems to be because they have the expectation of travel, of new experience. What I think is crucial about these text is to show that travel is not about the distance of foreign places but the willingness to be excited about the places one goes, to expect to witness beauty and singularities. This, perhaps, as De Botton shows, can be accomplished anywhere.
 

The relationship between The European Tribe and A Small Place seems evident. Both works focus on the harrowing effects of Western colonialism and how, even in modern times, these effects continue to do grievous harm. What interests me about The European Tribe, however, is the way that it differs from A Small Place. Phillips, unlike Kincaid, focuses largely on the particular. He becomes an example of the cruelty of Europe and the prevalent racism. Kincaid’s polemic is general; she becomes the self-elected voice of all Antiguans.
 
What, then, is the benefit of this? Unlike Kincaid, one will likely not react too negatively to Phillips’s writing. This, I imagine, is for a few certain reasons. First, Phillips rage is not expressly directed at the reader. There is no “you” he condemns. And because of this, I believe, we can view ourselves as faultless. It is much easier too to distance ourselves from the racism of Europe, which most of us are not a part of. And while Phillips experience of America was no less painful, it was also short and seemingly temporary. His trials in Europe lasted approximately a year.
 
Second, Phillips demonstrates the actual consequences of racism. He gives us examples; he shows us situations. Because they are his own experiences, we do not disbelieve. We sympathize instead. Kincaid hardly shows the day-to-day suffering of herself or her countrymen. Instead, she presents us with the general and that makes it difficult, I find, to sympathize.
 
I do not, however, think Phillips is less angry. Take, for example, his account of his arrival in Norway. When questioned and held up by security guards — while a pair of white businessmen pass — he finally says, “You pair of fucking ignorant bastards” (101). In moments like these his anger seems to be on pair with Kincaid’s. He is rightfully indignant and enraged for most of his trip, in a way that seems to echo Kincaid’s overall sentiment.
 
Yet, there is something more accessible about Philips writing. To reiterate, he is talking about his particular case. How do we deny this? When recounted it is nothing but tragic.
 
It is also important to note that unlike Kincaid, Phillips is presenting a travel narrative. His writing is focused on simple movement and the particulars of each place. He is not even necessarily against travel or tourism, though he is weary of growing Western European and American influence in colonized places (his example of the 7-Up with the “Keep America Clean” straw is a good indicator of this). Yet, he cares about places and what places reveal of the current cultural, and the way it reflects him. He may be alone in his style so far in the course. For every writer we have read glorifies the experience in a certain way, either in a celebration of the people of the place, the beauty of the place, or the narrator’s own heroic triumph in their voyage. Phillips does none of this. His moments of kindness are rare and usually directed at his few helpers. He is not, even, triumphant in my opinion. He suffers and though he learns from the experience, it is hardly a noble feat. 

Jamaica Kincaid’s A Small Place raises several questions that seem to have been largely ignored by other travel writers in the course. First, is tourism only neocolonialism? Second, what is the difference between traveling to Europe or parts of Asia, which have developed, and developing, poor countries?
 
Kincaid’s writing is not, I think, easy to endure. This is mostly due to the sheer antagonism of her writing. And immediately, with so much hostility aimed loosely at me and mine, I could do nothing but offer counter-arguments, other points. “I,” I thought, “Would not be a tourist like the one you describe. I’d be culturally aware, interested in the history. I would know, as you have said I wouldn’t, ‘the number of black slaves this ocean has swallowed up’ for I am consumed with basic, liberal guilt which isn’t noble, but perhaps at least conscious.” (14)
 
Or, I thought, “You are not talking about me. My grandparents on my father's side were poor immigrants. My mother’s side, now dispersed and largely untraceable, seemed to have started in America as indentured servants and haven’t made much progress since. We were not your oppressors.”
 
Or, even, “You are being disingenuous. Don’t say that it was the white man who taught everyone slavery and tyranny. Nobody lived in a perfect, egalitarian land before then. The history of the world is the history of slavery.”
 
But, she is right. Overall, she is right about the effects of travel. And tourism and capitalism and the way America and Europe decides the fate of each and every country we come in contact with through trade, through healthcare, through war and terrorism, is simply neocolonialism. It is not something I believe we are even aware of, but we are complicit with and ignoring it or rebelling against these accusations does nothing to help. The tourist industry in a lot of developing places does amount to exploitation and we should realize this.
 
We should realize there is greater wealth disparity then we are used to in many countries (though, to be quite fair, America is not in great shape itself) and tourism benefits the rich and only provides a way for many to get by. This isn’t progress. Giving money to a country is not progress when it halts progress, when it only reinforces the power structures already in place. The power structure, mind you, that came out of the legacy that we, as the privileged West, left behind. Moreover, Antingua is not the poorest country in the Caribbean. In fact, when looking at the poverty levels in Antigua they are not as high as one might imagine. Roughly 13.4% of Antinguans live below the poverty line compared to roughly 9.3% in America. However, the poverty line in Antingua is $2,366 (American dollars) comparied to $11,702. It is unthinkable, at least to me, to imagine living under $2,500 a year or $198 a month or even $7 a day, for every single living expense. (Living Conditions in Antigua and Barbuda: Poverty in a Services Economy in Transition 34)

Which brings me to my second question. Is it inherently different to visit poorer countries than places like England, which have not known the real hardship? It must be. It is inevitable. England has history, has and has always had power and influence. By giving money to the tourism industry in these countries we are not asserting our essential influence over them as we would if ever visiting a place like Antigua.
 
I think, then, I am curious if it is ever right to visit poorer countries. What if you are the son or daughter of immigrants from these places, should you not have a right to go? What if you are culturally and historically aware of the history of these places, does that mitigate your guilt? What if you’re a socialist, what if you don’t believe in the way your country uses its economy, then can you visit these places? It is hard to say. I don’t think I know.
 
Sources:

Living Conditions in Antigua and Barbuda: Poverty in a Services Economy in Transition. Rep. Kairi Consultants Limited, Aug. 2007. Web. 24 Apr. 2012. <http://www.caribank.org/titanweb/cdb/webcms.nsf/0/63EA7172A19A6608042573D00061C3B3/$File/AntBarbCPAMainReport.pdf>.

"US Census Bureau." Poverty Data. Web. 24 Apr. 2012. <http://www.census.gov/hhes/www/poverty/data/threshld/index.html>.

Mahoney offers a fascinating view of Egypt, from an important time and with a unique view. It is, of course, partially owed to the fact that she is a woman traveling in a land with obvious political tension — or at the least, a land that is reconsidering itself, which is trying to understand the implications of the word modern. Yet, with Mahoney and Schwartz and Conway there is something startling disconnected in their writing that does not appear, for example in either Flaubert or Bowles.
 
True, a writer like Twain does not engage in the same discourse as Flaubert and for this reason I am reluctant to propose that the style choices and the narrative frame is connected to the gender of these writers. Morris, for example, seems as integrated, as authentic as Orwell. It might simply be the choices of the passages we have been given and the fact that all three writers are women that makes me draw this conclusion.
 
It is likely a condition of modern travelers. And while these works haven’t been written in the last year or two, they are still highly modern in comparison to some of the early works.
 
When I say disconnected, I do not necessarily mean entirely unemotional or unresponsive. I do not mean that they do not consider subjective experiences. Mahoney's description of her desire to travel down the Nile, the men she meets, the words she learns are obviously her own and evidently fill her with her certain feelings. But these feelings seem loss in the shuffle of the narrative. I mean when I say disconnected is that these pieces are heady and do not always consider the heart. What interests me about these pieces is the inclusion of lines of quote and expositional history of the places. The narratives feel academic rather than lived, something considered rather than experienced.
 
I wonder if, in part, this has to do with the anxiety of not being the first to discover the place and not being the first to travel. While the idea of being the first of anything is laughable now, and neither Flaubert nor Orwell nor Bowles could be considered the first to view their various sites, there was still a newness to their accounts. Flaubert considered Egypt by oddities in the country rather than the grandeur of their history. Orwell viewed Paris and London in a new, disillusioned light. And Bowles, who I think is an exceptional case, lived so long in these places that his writings on them must have been extraordinarily original.
 
Yet, someone like Schwartz cannot see these places as novel or her experiences as original. They have been done before, writers have written about it, travelers have traveled. And yes, her experience is different and her discourse on the loss of self obviously untried, but she is aware to a degree of the history she is entering into. This is my rambling way of exploring why these writers feel the need to include these quotes, to talk about the history of culture, to explain a place without living it. I wonder if it is a conscious choice, if they believe that the denial of narrative of travel is akin to dishonesty. What interests me, even more, is if this is true then does all travel literature become an echo chamber, in a certain way? Not contemporary writers talking to themselves, but all writers only capable of establishing themselves in line with those before them. And does this anxiety mean an end to works that focus on personal experience alone? Will all literature now be as pedantic, as self-aware? I enjoyed these works, truly, but the removal from the writer and the events seem strange to me after our past readings. I question simply if this is the modern condition of travel.

If Morris is right to suggest “that expectation is one of the great sources of suffering,” then we should ask whether all traveling is bound to lead to some form of suffering (5). Morris explains her reasons for travel: “I had grown weary of my life in New York … so I felt ready for a change… I went in search of place where the land the people and the time in which they lived were somehow connected — where life would begin to make sense to me again” (4). And while she is obviously fond of the places she discovers, what seems more crucial to her traveling is the fact that it is not the place where she is from.
 
Is the traveler, then, only searching for some sort of life of complete transience? Morris discusses early her, and her mother’s, wanderlust. It is described as — not a desire for a specific place or location, those might be completely irrelevant — but rather the actual act of traveling and the imagination of the journey. Similarly, she describes her fondness of maps, saying that she would trace the details of them and imagine routes. I sometimes wonder if the cities the symbols on the map signify are at all important, or is it just the motion of leaving?
 
I say leaving, instead of arriving for a very important reason. It is not that I don’t think she enjoys the places she visits. She seems enthralled by the nuances of every town and person, and like Flaubert she seems drawn to the oddities of each. Nor do I think she is running away. That misses the nuance of her moves. What I mean to say is that I think she is attracted to the idea of Mexico, of small, picturesque towns because in the moment before she arrives their possibilities are limitless.
 
It might even be the same thing with Davidson. When Davidson first arrives she has created a narrative in her mind. She would be a good teacher, she would acclimate to this school and place, she would discover something about the country and the young women she meets. Her embarrassment in the beginning, though understandable, is not simply because of the situation with the doctor examination and her “azure” urine. I’d venture to guess that in that moment of shame, her carefully crafted narrative became subverted.
 
When I speak of transience, I mean mostly the act of moving from place to place. I don’t mean a complete disregard for any concrete relationship one might have with a certain city. I’m simply interested in — even more than the motions of travel — the moment right before arrival. I do wonder if what we are attracted to is the idea of movement, not travel itself. I cannot say why. I can guess that it is related to a proud dissatisfaction with the life one leads, and hope of something else. What I mean to say, is when we talk of traveling are we not simply just speaking of imagination or fantasy, and the dialog between the dream of a place and the reality?

I have noticed with Chatwin’s Songlines and Theroux’s The Old Express to Patagonia a tendency to focus on edges. As Manfred Pfister explains, “in their [the writer’s focus on edges, voids, etc.] vastness and abstraction, they can be seen as participating in the dimension of the ‘sublime’ … where things are coming to an end or have never begun may suggest the kind of ‘apocalyptic’ view of history” (254). Chatwin, more than Theroux, seems to be attracted to this concept. His focus on the Songlines and his explanation for his fascination with nomadic people indicates a desire for what Pfister — and others — call “liminality.”
 
However, the cause of this interest fascinates me. While Pfister identifies an attraction to the Other (i.e. his study of Aboriginal people) as a way to “project … our fantasies, fears and desires,” I sometimes wonder if the original definition of liminality is the actual reason for his attention. When first conceived, liminality was used in terms of rituals as the stage between being cast out and being accepted again. It is the moment of change and transformation, largely because one is no longer bound by customs, hierarchies, etc. They are removed from any structure and free of limits.
 
In this way, I wonder if there is some connection between the sublime and liminality. The sublime, according to Kant, is that which great, formless, and capable of disrupting one’s state-of-mind. It is, of course, terrifying but necessary for art.
 
Then, what I am interested in is this focus on the boundaries, or lack thereof, found in Chatwin’s work. He describes places and people that exist beyond the limits of the political or Western realm. There is something almost ahistoric about this. And I think it allows for a state of complete completion and change.
 
His anecdote early on about going blind from his attention on details is revealing. It would seem that he was stuck in the boundaries of the world he lived in — that of art, of Shakespeare, of a written history. The Songlines not only represent a new sort of understanding in the world (the difference between what is written and spoken) but a place of less constraint, less details. I don’t think we speak enough about travel narratives as a form of art, but they are surely that as well, much in the way the songs he hears are art. Their factuality is not important; we are still talking about creation.
 
Then these voids seem to be important for one thing. They are places where a traveler can transform without being restricted because in them they are not of society, or class, or any thing of the type. They are purely spaces for transformation, which may be the ultimate point of travel. And perhaps, as importantly, they are a place for an appreciation of the sublime, a way to take experiences and put them in to words. 

Source:  Manfred Pfister (1996): Bruce Chatwin and the postmodernization of the travelogue, Lit: Literature Interpretation Theory, 7:2-3, 253-26

When we talk about case, we are discussing a particular that demonstrates the general. Case, as defined by the OED dictionary, is “an instance or example of the occurrence or existence of a thing.” In this way, I wonder if not all travel literature are cases. Of what? I can’t be sure but the writing and sense of detail in all of the pieces we have read seem to both play up the extraordinary nature of the events — travel is, of course, mostly extraordinary — while downplaying the author’s import. This is not to say that Orwell, Flaubert, Theroux, and the others don’t focus on their individual experiences; they certainly do. Rather, one feels, that despite their exceptional places in society, their experiences can still be universalized.
 
On the Amtrak, during the first leg of his trip, Theroux encounters a young woman who he describes: “Her prettiness was remote from my idea of beauty as homeliness and consequently was not all interesting … it is hard to be interesting at twenty” (11). On the other hand, he “was a fairly interesting person, was I not?” (15). Here is why I think the subject of case is so interesting. One may feel while reading The Old Patagonian Express that if he was to take a similar trip to Boston and Argentina his experiences might not be so different. The events would surely be changed but the sentiment (I suppose) would likely remain. He’d feel curious, annoyed, hopeful, overwhelmed in certain turns similar to Theroux. Maybe this is because the anxiety of all travelers is not particular and as such their experience, especially the emotions and idea triggered, cannot vary too much.
 
This is not to diminish the singularity of each experience, but rather to decide whether what we read are actually cases rather than narratives. If they are attempts at community with other travel writers and a desire for a shared reaction.
 
My main concern then is the singularity of Theroux’s experience. In his critique of other travel books, he writes “most travelers … see themselves as solitary and rather heroic adventurers” (XI). And while he admits that “real heroes” rarely write travel narratives, he does not explain his own reasons for his line of work, only saying that he was “seeking an adventure.” There is something often referred to as the paradox of the case or the paradox of the example. It very simply suggests that a case is supposed to be that which can be universalized because the subject is unexceptional, yet by choosing this subject to represent the general he becomes exceptional.
 
Then what of Theroux? His experience is so singular but it is never discussed. He meets many people, and so focused on them he ignores the particularities of his own character. He is obviously well educated, he is married (now to his second wife), he is, beyond everything else, privileged. Similarly he is intelligent, respected, and well read. The way he speaks within the book demonstrates a difference between him and other travelers/tourists. He is above them, somehow, it seems. Though it is hard to say why. There is self-dramatization here even if he claims to loathe it. And the act of writing his “adventure” demonstrates a desire to acknowledge the exceptional nature of it. But I still wonder if those base emotions, which seem to spring up in many of the books we read, can be generalized and how.
 

What interests me most about Bowles writing is that he is so immersed in the countries and cultures he visits. This, I think, is owed to the fact that more than a traveler he is truly an expatriate. After all, he spent a majority of his life in Tangier. It was his home and his writing demonstrates this.
 
“What is a travel book?” he asks, “For me it is the story of what happened to one person in a particular place and nothing more than that.” In this way, his writings are clearly travel writings; they demonstrate his experiences within the countries he frequents (not just Tangier, either, but France, Turkey, etc.). And while he does mention some “hotel and highway information,” it seems secondary to his concerns — an apparent desire to capture the essence of a place and the people within.
 
Is he kind in his descriptions? Not always, but there is something to be said about the way he reserves judgment. The story of the two guards who rape a woman is despicable and the very act of writing it demonstrates a desire to decry their actions. As the essayist Terry Castle suggests, “Writing … is often nothing but revenge” (The Professor: A Sentimental Education 201). But yet, he lets the guards actions speak for themselves. He does not comment and while respectful is not the word I would use to describe this situation, there is something objective and powerful about his resistance to pass judgment.   
 
He also shows a great deal of understanding about the culture of Tangier, and what I read as sympathy for it. Of course there is hint of Orientalism that creeps, but it seemed somehow more benign than Flaubert. Bowles’ interest laid, it seemed, in the exotic as did Flaubert’s, but he was not entirely dehumanizing about this. In fact his inclusion of passages about the muezzins shows, at the very least, an interest in Islam. And again, he is not judgmental about many practices — though he admits to finding some odd (how certain women hide themselves in shows of horror) or annoying (having to be chaperoned when he walks home) — but accepting. He assigns no moral value, positive or negative, to the culture around him often. And why would he? Tangier was his home for over five decades.
 
That all said his experience, I find, is one of an expatriate more than a traveler. He has no precise home so he immerses himself in the countries that suit him. He is more open to the experience because, while he does compare these places to America, he is not planning on returning. He talks briefly about the “cult” of other ex-pats — young, disillusioned Americans — but I think he is not far from them. Yes, he is more immersed and yes, he has made this place a home. But he is still searching for something lost, as he writes in “Windows on the Past,” which may be an infancy or childhood or simple nostalgia for an undefined place, but this feeling of incompletion allows him to be all the more receptive and his writings are one of welcoming the details and sensations of the places he goes. 

“He was a curious specimen, Charlie,” writes Orwell at the end of his chapter, “I describe him, just to show what diverse characters could be found flourishing in the Coq d'Or quarter.” In fact, much of Down and Out in Paris and London is focused on such “diverse characters.” Orwell’s account differs so much from our previous readings because of this; his attention is not on the cities themselves but on the inhabitants. His interactions with the cities appear to be secondary to the men he meets. We are given portraits — mostly lasting a chapter — and it is through these Orwell attempts to define both Paris and London. It is one thing to say poverty and slums plague Paris and London, it is another to describe a “rash … that … was due merely to under-nourishment.”
 
There is something myopic even to the descriptions of place. The hotels and shelters he frequents are an obvious part of the cities but they do not seem to define them in the same way his descriptions of roads, certain cafes, and parks do. This to say, the bug-infested places he stays are not indicative of the cities themselves but rather of his experience there unlike Twain’s visit to Notre Dame or Flaubert’s visit to the Sphinx. Twain and Flaubert work to describe these places as they has been narrated to them; they work to construct their splendor.
 
Orwell’s focus on the squalor of Paris and London removes, in a certain way, the singularity of these destinations. Why would recognize London by its specific type of poverty? Orwell offers that “everything was so much cleaner and quieter and drearier” and “there were bugs too--not so bad as in Paris” as a few choice comparisons, but it is still poverty. There is something universal about it.
 
It a certain way I imagine Orwell a predecessor of Kerouac. On The Road is similarly concerned with painting portraits of destitute men that Sal encounters. Kerouac’s novel was an attempt to capture the American spirit and he did so by creating multiple characters damaged by the economy of the time, running counter to the optimistic, capitalism-minded rhetoric of the time.
 
Down and Outappears to have similar goals. It has de-mythologized these great places and leaves the reader only with the reality of poverty. At the same time, it is authentic, it is the essence of these cities. Is it total and is it complete? No, but the focus on character rather than place, the focus on poverty rather than the glory of these great cities, captures a spirit of Paris and London that is unique and amazing. The glory of the city has faded, it would seem, and the reality is simply the misery of its humanity. 

“You [Flaubert’s mother] ask me whether the Orient is up to what I imagined it to be. Yes, it is; and more than, it extends beyond the narrow idea I had of it,” wrote Flaubert. But Flaubert is not engaging in any sort of discourse with the land and he is not searching for authenticity. Instead he is taking up with multiple prostitutes. The act and language of the sex underscores his alienation from the woman he sleeps with and denies them a sense of simply humanness.
 
His description of Egypt itself is beautiful. The Sphinx: 
   
[I have been to Egypt once. It felt like Benjamin’s theory in reverse. I had seen the reproduction so many times that the original had lost its aura.]
 
The narrative of Egypt, of the scenery itself, it mostly free from Orientalism. It only becomes clear in his discussion of the women he frequents. The descriptions of men too are problematic — “our Arabs”? — but markedly less so. Perhaps this is owed to the fact that because Flaubert’s description of men are hierarchical, but they retain human qualities. Yet Frederick Brown explains Flaubert and his contemporaries traveled in “hope to find a pre-moral world where the Oriental woman, vested with erotic prestige… figured as a primitive divinity” (Flaubert in Egypt).
 
In theory, if the Oriental woman would be “figured as a primitive divinity” in the European man’s fantasy than, at least temporarily, the situtation would not appear awful. However, as Said explains, “[there] is an almost uniform association between the Orient and sex”  (Orientalism 188). The constant sexualization of the Egyptian woman within these passages does not turn her into a goddess as Brown might hope but something subhuman and id-driven, nearly animalistic.
 
Take this scene: “Her words in Arabic that I did not understand…. Lovemaking by interpreter.” (40) There is novel called the Sheltering Sky by Paul Bowles, which takes place in north Africa, by the end of it the character of Kit ends of hypersexualized and barely speaking. She simply says nothing. She reminds me of the woman Flaubert meets or how he chooses to present them. Kit is animal in her wanting. She wants to eat, to fuck, to sleep. That is how Flaubert shows these women. It not unexpected, of course. He is a product of his era. His writing is undeniably beautiful. But is an interesting thing to behold. 

Leaving aside the satire of Twain’s work — which is pervasive and expected — the issue of mythos, I believe, is central to his and other travel narratives. There is sometimes something beautiful and highly romantic about the way he describes these ancient places and the people within them. For instance, in Egypt: “A girl apparently thirteen years of age came along the great thoroughfare dressed like Eve before the fall.”
 
Consider that statement. “Like Eve before the fall.” Egypt, is of course, broadly speaking, connected to the holy land and even if it were not, it shares some of its characteristics. In similar ways, it shares the features of the orient. It is other and fetishized; a land of pure myth.
 
“It surprises me sometimes,” Twain writes in Paris standing in front of Notre Dame, “to think how much we do know and how intelligent we are.” But what he is talking about is rather how much has conformed to what has already been learned. It is of course not unreasonable that a group of well-educated people would recognize a historical landmark, but the implication means more.
 
“Like Eve before the fall.” He goes onto to say in Egypt that when girls are thirteen they are nine. What does this signify? And to what end? What is troubling about this remark is that he sacrifices individuals for the sake of narrative. He is talking about a small child as a religious symbol or a plot device. He is forcing her into his mythos. The humanity of the natives does not matter.
 
Edward Said has a stunning book called Orientalism that posits that the orient was an invention by the west. He says Europe had to define itself in contrast to an other: Europe was white, the Orient was dark, Europe was masculine, the Orient was feminine, Europe was modest, the Orient was sexual, etc.
 
I think in certain ways Twain inherited this tradition. In Egypt this is the most evident. He is preoccupied with the habits with the Egyptians. They, however, seem interchangeable.
 
The mythos, however, does make for moments for high literature. And his writing is sometimes very beautiful, if not mocking. Yet even his moments of his highest satire cannot escape this very framed narrative. Twain is, for all his intelligence, echoing the expectations of each country. The mockery does not change that. He does not rid himself of his assumptions. It is more than simply Egypt and Jerusalem are holy. It is that, when we discuss them, we use holy language. We discuss holy things. I believe he gets close. I believe the satire is an attempt at disregarding this mythos. But I think his amazement at the sites he sees — which maybe, my envy forces me to read at such — does not allow this entirely.
 

“And if travel is like love,” writes Pico Iyer, “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.” But, one could ask, what are we ready to be transformed into? Iyer and Redfoot both describe the “ontological problems” of travel. Iyer views it as a pure experience, an exchange of perceptions and values, a love affair. Redfoot, too, sees it as an experience, but an elusive one and one that is, perhaps, impossible in the modern world. Redfoot discusses the goal of the tourist — notably the Second- and Third-Order Tourist — as a desire to experience “it;” his language is reminiscent, and possibly conscious, of Kerouac’s On The Road:

"Yes . . . Yes . . . Yes . . .That's what I was trying to tell you — that's what I want to be. I want to be like him. He's never hung-up, he goes every direction, he lets it all out, he knows time, he has nothing to do but rock back and forth. Man, he's the end! You see, if you go like him all the time you'll finally get it."

"Get what?"

"IT! IT! I'll tell you — now no time, we have no time now." (Kerouac On The Road)

Redfoot’s language, unlike Kerouac’s, is markedly spiritual. He talks early on about the “religious experience” of early pilgrimages, setting these in contrasts with the modern trips of tourists. Even his discussion of the hero, which he contends the modern person is divorced from, introduces a world of divinity and deities. But I think we should not consider his argument as such. The quest of the modern traveler, the desire for the authentic, might be spiritual but it isn’t religious. Even those Fourth-Order Tourists who go off East for a pure, authentic experience for the sake of true salvation don’t need to be considered in a religious light. It is easier to consider it all secularly. They are, as Iyer would say, simply in love.

The issue from these two articles I see is the desire to experience anything authentically, to gain knowledge, to have a moment of “salvation” as Levi-Strauss says, when tourists are inherently removed from the worlds they are visiting. The recognition of their once-removedness doesn’t necessarily solve this problem; it just heightens their anxiety, increases their alienation. Iyer’s solution doesn’t guarantee results either: love doesn’t mean union. That the desired goal is ineffable makes it all the more difficult (what is authenticity after all? and salvation from what? how does one consummate a love affair with a place?).

If the traveler is only seeking knowledge, if the problem is only ontological then perhaps there is an end. Perhaps, with enough time and enough travel, one could satisfy any deep-seated curiosity and be satiated. But Iyer seems to suggest other. “Abroad,” he writes, “we are wonderfully free of caste and job and standing … people cannot put a name or tag to us.” It seems that the purpose of travel, the authentic experience, is the act of motion, the moment of liminality, where we are “ready to be transformed.” Rather than an end, it seems about potential and reception, an openness to experience. 

In a small café in Cyprus, Alex threw down his bags. The café was small and mostly empty. It was late afternoon; people were just working to work after their naps. Alex figured the place would fill up shortly. He observed the area. There were planks of wood overhead wrapped in vines, heavy with grapes. The fruit was overripe; it filled the air with a sickly, sweet scent that clung to everything.
 
Whenever anyone would walk, they’d kick up a small cloud of dust, or dirt, or sand—Alex wasn’t quite sure. The street in front of him was nothing but dirt. It was a burnt-orange color, almost like clay, but much more brittle. Flies buzzed everywhere. Alex watched them hover on people’s cups and dishes, land on the grapes overhead and quickly fly off. He swatted at one that got too close to his face and sat down.
 
He was so tired that he felt he could fall asleep right there if he let himself. He hadn’t slept since his plane touched down in Larnaca. He spent three days in Nicosia, bitterly walking the sidewalks at night. Nicosia had been crowded; it smelt metallic. He hated looking up and seeing nothing but buildings on the horizon. He thought he had left that behind.
 
Now he was in Asgata, though—this small village (barely on the map) that his grandfather had come from. He wanted to do what he had to do, and leave. The afternoon sun was painfully bright; it hurt him. He wished he had his sunglasses but he had lost them along with his phrase book on the bus his first day here. It was horribly hot, as well. His shirt was damp; his skin clung to the plastic chair. He just wanted to take a shower. He wanted to leave.
 
A waiter approached him. He was a young man, with dark olive skin and darker eyes. He asked what Alex wanted in quick curt, Greek. Alex tried to formulate an answer in his own broken Greek. He wished he had his phrase book. He could tell by the way the waiter’s lips turned up that he made a mistake. After confirming what he wanted, the waiter left. From inside, he could hear something about the americano outside. It wasn’t a surprise. Alex spoke in a crude parody of inland Greek. There was a different music to the Cypriot dialect, different sounds, difference significances—but the same words, overall.
 
After a few minutes, the waiter brought him his coffee and left before Alex could thank him. The café was beginning to fill up. There were four men to his left, all just about the age his grandfather had been. Alex thought, any of these men could be his brother and wouldn’t that make everything easier?
 
The men were loud and they seemed happy, slapping their thighs in amusement every once in awhile. Alex tried to listen to their conversation, but he couldn’t make out a word. He tried to find his own features in their faces. He saw nothing.
 
They were looking over at him curiously. It was a small village; Alex would bet that these men knew everyone of its inhabitants. Finally, one of the men introduced himself. Putting out his hand, he said, “Kali spera. Pose se lene?” Good afternoon. What’s your name?
 
Invoking the name of his grandfather, whom he was named after, Alex answered, “Aleco.”
 
“Constantine,” the old man replied with a smile. “Call me Dean.”
 
When Dean spoke English, he did so with a pronounced accent, just as his grandparents had, but he spoke it clearly and musically.
 
Alex laughed, a little embarrassed for being recognized as a foreigner. He thought of his phrase book again, how lost he felt without it even now, even hearing his own language. He wanted to ask what gave him away. He began to speak, but couldn’t find the words.
 
The old man must have guessed, though and offered, “Just call it a sense. Where are you from, agori?”
 
“Chicago,” Alex replied, wanting to add “America” but realized how foolish and condescending that was.
 
“Beautiful city,” Dean nodded in approval. “I had a hotel business a long time ago—in London. I wanted to move it to America. I spent a few years there, but it never worked out.”
 
Alex nodded because he really had nothing to say. He looked over at the other men at the table. They were still smiling, nodding, joking with each other. They obviously had no clue what was going on. He wanted to talk to this man about his grandfather and his great-uncle, but he held his tongue. He waited for the man to ask him.
 
“Have you been here long?” asked Dean, with warmth and genuine interest.
 
“No, I just arrived,” Alex admitted. “I stayed a few nights in Nicosia. I wasn’t sure how to get here.
 
“But now that you have, what do you think of our little town,” Dean prompted.
 
“It’s beautiful,” answered Alex, sincerely, “It’s a remarkable place.” But he wanted to add: I’m not much on those sort of places.
 
“Yes,” agreed Dean, “so what brings you here?”
 
Okay, Alex thought, now I can explain. He told Dean about his grandfather, who was from this village. How his grandfather’s brother had never left. His grandfather had passed away a month ago. They left messages for the brother, but he never returned them. Maybe the phone was off. Maybe he had moved. But they still wanted him to know.
 
“What was his name?” Dean asked with more interest.
 
“Aleco Zaimas,” he replied, then added quietly, “I’m his namesake.”
 
“His brother was named Yirgos, yes?” Dean continued.
 
“Yes,” Alex repeated. He felt his heart strain against his ribs. He thought, this is it. I can be the bearer of bad news, and we will cry for awhile. Then I will leave. Alex wondered what he would say to his great-uncle. What should he call him? How should he greet him?
 
“I regret being the one to tell you this, but your theo passed away last year,” Dean said, taking Alex’s hands. “He was a great man, a dear friend.”
 
Alex nodded; he wanted to say thank you but that seemed wrong. Instead he said nothing and Dean slowly withdrew his hands, turned back to his friends. Alex was struck by how empty he felt, though he expected nothing. He finished his coffee slowly. Dusk was beginning to settle on the horizon. He wondered how he was going get back to the city tonight, or if he even should.
 
He could walk the same streets as his great-uncle and his grandfather, retrace their steps, breathe their air. Maybe he could ask the villagers about them both, hear their stories, the histories his grandfather never recounted for him. It seemed silly. Still, he was not ready to return to the city. He felt something calling to him. A siren’s song, he hoped to ignore.
 
Taking one last sip of coffee, he called over the waiter in his sad Greek, and asked for the check.
 
 
 
***
 
Interviewer: What was the inspiration for your story, “If You See Him, Say Hello?”
 
Ioannou: What strikes me most about travel stories is the fact that most characters are searching for something. Sal is searching for bliss, or IT. Port is searching for the authentic. Jake is searching for meaning—and he’s running away. Similarly, my character, Alex, is on a quest to find his great-uncle, but it’s more than that. A reunion with a relative, especially one that you have never met, is a reconnection to your past. I believe, by learning about your history—and your family’s history—you better understand yourself. Alex may think he’s just abroad to do an errand for his family (and he obviously detests the errand), but it’s really more for that. The ending of the story suggests he does want to understand his relatives and through that, he may learn more about himself.
 
Interviewer: Why did you choose to never allow Alex to meet found his great-uncle?
 
Ioannou: Well, there are two reasons for that. First, at the heart of a lot of travel stories is the conflict between people wanting something and being unable to obtain it. Winterbourne wanted Daisy Miller. Jake wanted Brett. K wanted Sumire. Alex, in many ways, wanted to reconnect with his roots but could not really do that. Still, I think this inability to get what you want, or came for, is the beginning of self-discovery.
 
Interviewer: There seems to be a lot of ambivalence in Alex’s character, was that intentional?
 
Ioannou: It was. Overall, I think Alex has no clue what he wants. He knows what he is supposed to do (find his great-uncle and break the horrible news) and he knows what he doesn’t like (the city, his life back home), but he isn’t quite sure on the specifics. That’s why at one moment he may admire the rural way of life, and the next want to leave. He isn’t really too sure of himself, and won’t be until he better understands his roots.
 
Interviewer: What are some of the elements of your story that you believe echo traditional travel narratives?
 
Ioannou: Even though its not explicitly said, I believe language plays a significant role in my story. First, Alex loses his phrase book and is unable to communicate with many people he encounters. He has the benefit of knowing some Greek, but as he points out the Cypriot dialect is very distinguished, so he has trouble fully understanding what is occurring around him. Even when he finds someone who is able to speak to him, he still feels lost and this touches on the theme of miscommunication. Dean and Alex may understand each other perfectly well, but as Alex points out, there is a still a distance between them because of their respective backgrounds. Alex’s conversation with Dean also touches on the idea of befriending the natives. Furthermore, the movement from the urban to the rural is an important aspect, since Alex is very tempted by the rural perhaps because his family has their roots their, or because he is tired of his urban life. Lastly, the description of places (especially rural places) is particularly common in travel narratives, such as The Sun Also Rises.
 
Interviewer: Speaking of The Sun Also Rises, I noticed a few allusions to the work. Was this intentional? Are there any other allusions in your story?
 
Ioannou: Yes, the allusion to The Sun Also Rises was intentional. When Dean asks Alex what he thinks of the village, Alex replies, “It’s remarkable” but notes that isn’t much for remarkable places. This is actually a quote from Harris, one of the natives that Jake encounters. Harris says this about the city, however. The purpose was to emphasize Alex discomfort in an unusual place. The description in the beginning is also meant for the reader to recall The Sun Also Rises when Jake goes into the country to fish. It was meant to emphasize the beauty of the rural area, since Jake was so focused on the beauty of his temporary pastoral life. Finally, Constantine—or Dean—is a reference back to On the Road. Like Dean Moriarty, the Dean of my story is used in order to fulfill our protagonist main quest. Sal used his Dean for experience and bliss; Alex uses his for information and a connection to his uncle.
 
Interviewer: Thank you.
 
Ioannou: Thank you.
 

Haruki Murakami’s Sputnik Sweetheart is an effective exploration of the connection between otherness, the search for identity and travel. The three main characters in the novel—the narrator (K), Sumire, and Miu—are all, in many ways, alienated from society. K notes that he was always different from his family and, because of that, took to books. Sumire, essentially embodying counter-culture, idolizes Kerouac and dropped out of college to complete her “total novel”. Miu is a Korean who grew up in Japan, never truly part of Korean or Japanese culture. They are all, in their distinct ways, outsiders. Without the guidance or cues from society, their search for self and identity has to be a mostly private and personal struggle. It is through travel that any sense of self can be understood. Yet, Murakami’s novel is unique because the characters do not only travel on a physical level; they also travel on a metaphysical, alternate-reality level. Despite the type of travel, though, otherness and the search for self always remain central ideas.
 
On the physical level, all three characters travel to an unnamed (probably fictional) island in Greece. Prior to this, Miu and Sumire have travelled around Europe for business purposes. It is in Greece that Sumire has a dream that leads to a revelation which she recounts: “I decided to make it clear to Miu what I want…I want to make love to Miu, and be held by her…It’s not too late. I have tobe with Miu, enter her” (140-141). In Japan, Sumire realized that she was in love with Miu, but in Greece that relationship takes on a physical aspect. It is only abroad that Sumire is able to understand the nuances of her feelings of Miu. Miu, herself, seems to realize her feelings for Sumire—which, though not sexual, are still loving. Again, this happens abroad. Additionally, Miu is able to accept her composed self, even though it means the loss of her sexual self. This is evidenced by her refusal to continue to dye her hair. Similarly, K is only able to experience the this-side/other-side phenomenon on the Greek island. All of the important revelations occur abroad and they all reveal precise and significant aspect of the character’s self. Sumire and Miu need each other to form some sort of identity. K, similarly, needs to experience the other-side to ever connect to Sumire again, but also to be open to duality of his person. Overall, the search for self is only accomplished through travel.
 
The other type of travel present in this novel is the movement between this-world and the other-world. This duality of worlds, along with the duality of persons, remains a central aspect of the novel. Miu recounts the tale of her night on the Ferris-wheel, watching herself make love to a man whose flirtations she tried to ignore. The next morning, she was left with only her composed self and had completely lost her free or sexual self. The composed self had grey hair and was sexually barren, in contrast to the young, adventurous other self. Sumire’s travel to the other side in order to find and possibly restore Miu’s other-self has important consequences. It is during her “travel” that she realizes her true feelings for K. As she says, “I really need you. You’re part of me; I’m part of you” (209). Without her travel to the other-side, Sumire may have never had this realization. As for Miu—she is introspective enough to realize that she simply could not manage both of her selves, so one had to leave. However, while she accepts it, she can never reconcile both selves. It is unclear why, but perhaps if she had followed Sumire to the other-side she would have been able to do so. Thus, true revelation seems to only occur during moments of travel.