wanderer's blog

 
I
           
The previous night was a blur of cheap shots and bad whiskey, the burn of brown elixir making it hard for her to rationally recall much of anything. The logic behind her motives last night remained enigmatic. But like liquor becoming medicine, she developed a heightened sense of confidence, enough confidence to allow her to be someone else, if just for one night. A persistent migraine she had had since this morning followed her to class, a mocking twinge of pain and a branding of irresponsibility on her cerebrum. But that was what she wanted, not her specifically, but the person she thought she needed to be. Like a scratched record, this reminder played in her head repeatedly.
 
She looked at him as he bit the end of his pencil. Tension wafted through the air. No longer sexual, just uncomfortable. He seemed pensive, but then again so was she.
 
II
 
If not for this strange, foreign, idealized self, she wouldn’t have come to Germany to study linguistics. She could do that at any respectable institution. That was beside the point. She had once been the master of the keys, the two-drink maximum, the one to never run all the bases. Innocence has a way of trapping you in a dark corner, demeaning you, and stealing all the power left in your pockets. To regain control was to learn through experience. She felt these experiences were present in the loose sexual culture of Germany, a reprieve from the stigma of casual sex in small-town America. This stigma didn’t simply follow her, because to follow suggests an innate physicality, with the act of running away becoming a possible solution. This stigma enveloped her, controlling the way she thought and acted, making it almost impossible for her to do anything irrational. Truly a parent’s dream.
 
 
III
 
The bar was situated along a main road, the kind of place you could pass a thousand times and never realize it was there. Nothing but a broken neon light distinguished it from the adjoining businesses. The sign flashed “die Entkommen”, the radiance escaping briefly then returning just long enough to illuminate portions of the cracked door and reinforced window panes, the shadows of passing cars and approaching humans. She was not here by chance, but by invite. Not by him, but by another student in her class. Female, White, 24 years of age. A slight pang of nerves graced her stomach as she entered the bar, like a child on her first day of school. Her outfit came with pretense. The black dress she wore had an ulterior motive, a mind of it’s own as gripped onto her body when she walked. She saw her friends, or rather, her acquaintances, seated at a long wooden table. It was hard for her to establish close relationships with anyone, even in the comforts of her hometown. Now that she was in Germany, the distance was exacerbated. She felt an overt disconnect between the two cultures and it was difficult for her to ignore the clichés she knew about Europeans. Sorting fact from fiction became a game she played tonight, silently judging her fellow students as they gulped down one beer, two, three. Some were American, but most were German. She wondered how much she could get away with.
 
He looked her way, triggered by a joke she had just said. Something dirty, appropriate for the situation but not for her usual style of conversation, and she was suddenly overcome by the sense of brashness she had always lacked. This wasn’t her, she thought, glancing over her shoulder to see if someone else was there, someone with a louder voice. The same voice as hers, just louder. But there was no one. It gave her a rush of dominance, breathing life back into her power-hungry soul. She noticed his attention, and fed into it, slightly leaning his direction, always catching his gaze.
 
IV
 
 
He came from the type of family that discouraged creativity, elating in the idea of him taking tennis lessons rather than dance classes. They ate in every night, but Saturdays, when his mother would order out. The table was set exactly the same way, by the exact same fleeting figure, placing each fork down with the precision and swiftness of a highly skilled painter. Guests were welcomed with stiff arms and greeted by static rituals. The rigidness lingered in the house, and so his bedroom became his sanctity, the only place in which the atmosphere was not already assigned, the day not already planned. He spoke little English, but he understood what she had just said. Oh, how he would be reprimanded if he spoke those words in his household. His parents shared a prudishness that often subconsciously translated to their three children, including him, although if questioned, he would try everything in his power to deny it. He had several sexual encounters in high school. Once, a he copped a feel in the unisex bathroom of his high school. The girl was a first year, and wasn’t even wearing a proper wire bra. The moment was foreign to him, but not just because it was his first time.
 
V
 
Neither of them knew why they were there, in this overly beige hotel room. Any other color would have suited the occasion perfectly well, but beige’s purity had a way of taunting them. Her body was soft. Her skin had a tenderness that his callous palms lacked, like the smoothness of glass. It brought back the image of his grip on a beer stein. A little too firm of a grip it seemed. The beer had a way of mysteriously refilling itself a little fuller after each sip. Her confidence, not her sexuality, seduced him into bed. And he wasn’t sure if she knew otherwise. The alcohol was allowing him to fall victim to her sudden change in personality, and he felt caught in the trap. This wasn’t the first time they had met. He remembered her shy face from class. Her subtle, indistinctive features blended in so much so that they became noticeable. Drawing conclusions from the one or two brief conversations they had had weeks ago, he wasn’t expecting this kind of flagrance.
 
She knew what she was doing when she poured him that second glass. She was cheating in her own game. Instead of sitting back and watching as the players each took turns spinning the dice, she decided to join. Her pawn moved forward, while his moved backward, farther and farther into oblivion. He was cute, yes. And the accent added to his appeal. He knew more English than she knew German, allowing the instructions to be written in her native speech. She had the advantage.
 
The way he touched her seemed to agree with her motives, as if they were on the same page of an erotic story. Yet something about the way he handled her seemed inexperienced and timid. The language barrier kept both of them from neither protesting nor approving, so they instead used the language of their bodies to speak. He would ask, and she would answer, their lines becoming crossed in a tangle of sheets. She didn’t care who had been in this position before her, if anyone at all. This moment wasn’t about him, it wasn’t even about the sex: it was about her playing into this image she had in mind, the one about the girl who always gets the guy. The one about the girl that can have casual sex completely void of emotion, and get away with it. They took turns taking off different articles of clothing. She gave him this, at least.
 
VI
 
The tension in the classroom slowly dissipated as she reflected on the one night she spent outside of her own body, allowing someone else to take the controller for a change.
 
Happiness is not a goal, she realized, and by turning happiness into a goal, contradiction ensues. People eventually adjust to whoever they want to be, and the new state of elation that comes along with it. With adjustment comes regularity, the regularity you wished out of when you hoped for the key to happiness, when you hoped to be someone else, even just for one night. Not even Germany can change you completely.
 
He looked over and gave her a knowing smile, as if to ask, “Have I met you before?”
 
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Interview Magazine’s editor-in-chief has a chat with Sarah Angileri, the author of the short story Escape.
 
Interview Magazine: Why did you choose to keep the characters anonymous?
 
Sarah Angileri: I think this is my favorite way to write, by removing their names and stripping the characters of identity. This not only allows the reader to connect by placing themselves in the role of the characters, but it also removes any associations the reader might have to those names. I also prefer writing in third person because I think it gives this mysterious narrator a chance to describe certain moments better than the characters could themselves, without seeming unrealistic.
 
IM: You only give brief background information on “He”, mainly about dinnertime. Why?
 
SA: To me, family dinners greatly represent not only the dynamic of the family as a whole, but the culture of that family and the country they are from. German culture is more rigid than American culture. Mealtime is ritualistic and an important time for families to catch up on each other’s days. I wanted to show the type of strict family He came from. In America, many families rarely eat dinner together, loosely respecting this important tradition.
 
IM: Why did you decide to make the native the victim, rather than the tourist?
 
SA:  Travel stories; such as McEwans’ The Comfort of Strangers and Guo’s The Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers portray travelers as these innocents, completely naïve to native culture. I wanted to switch the roles around, and show how the native can, too, become the innocent. When you travel, you have the opportunity to be somebody else for a change. The native gets caught in the trap of sudden change in persona because even if they didn’t know the traveler before, the traveler doesn’t know how to “successfully” be someone else, and so the native falls victim to their awkward, abrupt shift in confidence. Also, I used The Comfort of Strangers as inspiration for the sly way She comes on to He. Unlike Robert/Caroline vs. Colin/Mary, the matriarchal force in my story is dominating the patriarchal.
 
IM: How did you tackle the idea of travel stereotypes?
 
SA: There is definitely a stereotype associated with certain countries, and as tourists, we feel we can get away with anything because we do not live in that country (so we feel we won’t impact it) and also because we feel that the county is more lenient about certain topics, namely sex. But stereotypes are stereotypes for a reason, as demonstrated by He, who, unbeknownst to She, is bashful about sex and drinking. The Americanized acceptance of a one-night stand is also brought to Germany, where it is presumably also accepted, when really the traveler could be/is mistaken.
 
IM: What is the effect the character’s language gap?
 
SA: I took cues from Guo’s The Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers by creating a strong language barrier between He and She. Like the story says, lines of communication can easily get crossed when neither party can properly communicate their true intentions. This makes every action you take in a foreign country that much more difficult to assert. I wanted this distance to be apparent.
 
IM: Last question, I swear. Where did you get the idea for She’s identity crisis?
 
SA: Murakami’s tale of love and loss, Sputnik Sweetheart. In the novel, one of the protagonists, Miu, had an incident occur that made her feel as if she lost half of herself. Even her hair turned white to distinguish these two halves. I liked the idea of playing around with change, because many times people travel to try and reinvent themselves.
 
 

Right now, I’m thinking of three groups that travel. Some travel simply to find a place, generally accomplished by getting a chance to view a certain location first hand and experience its “authentic” culture (on a side note, after taking this course I don’t think I can ever use the term “authentic” without quotes, because really, what is “authentic”?) Then there are the existentialists. Half travel to find themselves, and the others travel to be lost, to lose control by situating themselves in an unfamiliar location with unfamiliar faces. Miu, K, and Sumire fall a criteria or two short of each group.
 
K’s reasoning for travel was rather unconventional: to lead a two-man search party, garnering clues and playing detective for a couple days on a remote Greek Island. The luster of a Grecian vacation never took flight; and K was left unfulfilled from experiencing the enlightenment a traveler should truly experience. A few trips to the beach, a couple bottles of wine and fresh Mediterranean seafood could only fill up his stomach, not the gaping hole he becomes when Sumire isn’t within reach. It seems like he floats through the few days he is in Europe with a looming numbness, and his conversations with Miu, although intriguing, elicit only slight physical response.
 
It’s uncertain whether or not Miu is in search of her second half; the Miu she wants to see when she looks into the mirror, but a different Miu than what is reflected back at her. The ease of the Grecian sunshine, simplistic routine and carefree sexuality, relax her. The island lifestyle suites the white-haired Miu nicely, and she feels no pressure or obligation to work.
 
Although Miu feels comfortable swimming nude with Sumire, a brief sexual encounter seems to push Miu’s boundaries, not physically, as Miu would oblige to any of Sumire’s requests, but emotionally. After she lost half of herself on the Ferris wheel, she doesn’t have enough of herself to give. Not to her husband. Not even to Sumire.
 
Sumire, the novels most dynamic figure, is constantly frustrated with her stagnant pen and it’s inability to produce anything meaningful. She neglects to realize that very few literary works worthy of claiming the title “Classic” can be written by someone so young, with so little life experience. Sumire’s willingness to escort Miu, and to be her “Sputnik”, wasn’t just an impulsive act of lust, but a search for material. Maybe Sumire’s disappearance was a necessary way for her to throw herself into a place she doesn’t instantly understand, and can’t instantly describe with words. Sumire’s travel to Greece was the efforts of a young author to find her literature, not herself.

I’ve been immersed in English since day one. My parent’s native tongue is English, their family speaks only English, and the most commonly taught second language is also English. So it seemed that learning any other language fluently besides English was unnecessary. Sometimes I think about how unfortunate it is that I was born in a country that natively speaks English. I feel that to some extent, I’m being held back from experiencing the world around me: I really only see the world half as much as I should because I can only use one single language to describe it.
 
A bilingual speaker, like Zhuang, not only knows what Fertilize mean in English, but she knows what Shi Yue Huai Tai means in Chinese. Consequently, both these two words have similar, but not exact, meanings. In English, Fertilize is to provide a plant or animal with sperm or pollen to bring about fertilization. Z claims that in “Chinese we say Shi Yue Huai Tai. It means giving the birth after ten months pregnant.” (54) “I think this became the greatest obstacle in the way of Z learning both the meaning of words in the English language and their cultural applications. Languages are not created equally, what means something in one language could mean something entirely different in another. Most words do not have an exact translation. We know exactly what the word “annoyed” means, when to use it and how to apply it to the appropriate situation. In China, the closest translation for “annoyed” could be more similar to “bothered”. Although synonyms, these words carry slightly different meanings and aren’t interchangeable. For Z, this makes learning difficult; grappling with the simple nuances of a word, nuances that take years of living in London to pick up on.
 
Occasionally, Zhuang is familiar with certain English words, but to her, they are useless. Take privacy for example, “the freedom from interference or public attention” (85). Privacy has very little place in the Chinese culture because privacy creates boundaries and forces people apart. To Zhuang, privacy creates a distance between lovers and between family. Maybe this is why Westerners don’t know how to love fully, she thinks.
 
Sex seems to be a language that both Zhuang and her lover can speak fluently, and so the two not only find pleasure in the act itself, but in he joining of their beings, the conversation they can have without saying anything at all. Touch is a universal language, and since Z was unfamiliar with sex before moving to London, she delights in indulging her curiosities with You. Guo’s A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers is probably the most sexually charged novel we have read, but it needs to be. It needs to have a third, mutual language that’s not literate in order for the reader to understand exactly how two people that are so different can fall in love.

One aspect forThe Elephanta Suite’s, “The Elephant God” that added to the novel’s uniqueness was its ability to leave out almost all details of the past. Most novels begin with a simple saga of the character’s pre-trip lives; maybe a few facts about their broken marriage, the obvious catalyst for a vacation, or maybe the character struggles with school or their home life. The only bits of information we are given to create a foundation for Alice’s development as a character are her insecurities with her appearance. Only three key points are mentioned: she went to Brown, she used to be overweight, and since losing that weight and dropping her reputation as “fat”, she has been regarded as ugly and plain. These multiple personas resonate in the novel, but take on new forms: as Alice travels from place to place, her outlook is often molded by that particular place.
 
Alice at the Ashram isn’t the same Alice that teaches telemarketers English in Electric City; or at least Alice tries to keep these two selves separate in order to maintain a sense of balance between work and play, purpose and solidarity. Before considering the idea of finding a job while on sabbatical, Alice find the ashram to be a paragon of spiritual India, a retreat away from the hectic lifestyles in Mumbai and the sudden abandonment she feels when Stella leaves. But something was missing at the Ashram and it began to feel cult-like. What was once a place of complete selfless regard for one another became a place where Swami ruled. Patrons confused safety for freedom.  Upon realizing that nothing, even her stay at the Ashram, is free in life, Alice chooses to look for a job with the help of Amitahb, regretfully: “With the job, her life changed. The inner Alice was released, and she was able to be two different people in the two different parts of Bangalore…but really she was the same person using two different side of her personality.” (Theroux, 215)  Carrying on two different lives in the same place and keeping those lives completely separate from one another was a way for Alice to feel like her trip to India had principle.
 
Both situations harmoniously played off one another: “the ashram was a retreat from the ambition and worldliness of Electronics City. Electronic City was a refuge from the selfish spiritualism and escapism of the Ashram.” (229) But, the harmony Alice found in her life in Bangalore ended just as quickly as it was sought out. When Amitahb begins to learn American English, his personality changes for the worst, and of course, Alice blames herself for teaching a means of communication that generates such a change: “Indians were much ruder speaking English. They sounded more impatient. Naturally confrontational, these Indians now had a language to bolster their tendency and no longer had to rely on the subtleties of Hindi.” (223) After the rape incident, Alice experiences a drastic character change similar to Amitahb’s: “she was cold, she was sad, she was someone else now.” (251) Theroux constantly keeps the reader on his toes as he bounces back and forth between the ever-changing characters. By creating new situations, Theroux allows for the characters to become dynamic, and the dynamics keep the reader guessing what the next plot twist will be.

Generally speaking, the most obvious (and assumingly deliberate) motifs in McEwan’s “The Comfort of Strangers” are sex and sexuality, topics that, whether it be in a novel or a movie, tend to keep any audience interested.
 
Before visiting “the strangers”(Robert and Caroline), both Mary and Colin feel a sense of disconnect between themselves and their relationship towards one another. Although on vacation in a romantic getaway like Venice, Mary and Colin can’t seem to find themselves, and if they struggle with their own identities, they will obviously struggle with understanding each other’s. Throughout the novel, McEwan makes a point of noting their use of maps and disorientation within the city. Each time they uncover themselves becoming bitter with frustration over the unfamiliarity of Venice, they have to remind each other that they are “on holiday” (McEwan, 12). This struggle is mainly mentioned in the beginning of the novel, acting as symbolism for Mary and Colin’s relationship.
 
Once in Robert and Caroline’s house, gender roles become a prominent discussion topic. Caroline foreshadows her struggle with Robert’s dominance when she cynically mentions that it’s nearly impossible to have an all-female play. Mary claims that “you could have a play about two woman who have only just met sitting on a balcony talking.” (67) Caroline’s abruptly disagrees: “Oh yes. But they are probably waiting for a man. When he arrives, they’ll stop talking and go indoors. Something will happen…” Caroline is subtly noting the affect of a man’s constant need to declare his masculinity, and how that need tends to belittle women. Mary is clearly influenced by this because she brings the argument to bed when she discusses the potential difference between male and female orgasms. Mary, recalling evidence from a news report, thinks they are the same, but Colin disagrees. The role of dominance within sexuality is also mentioned, when, for the first time in the novel, Mary and Colin become open enough with each other that they can discuss BDSM.
 
Like their relationship between one another, there is also a similar disconnect and dissonance between themselves and the city. Only after visiting Robert and Caroline do Colin and Mary begin to rejuvenate their sexuality. Venice is given a sense of anonymity, and Mary and Colin rarely, if ever, mention famous places and monuments within the city. McEwan does a fantastic job of emphasizing Robert and Caroline’s role as catalysts, rather than giving Italy the credit. 

Again, we read a novel about a writer, a homebody looking to expand both their knowledge and understanding, and their perception of the world around them. Of course, such protagonists always feel most connected when they are at rest in their study, jotting down notes and rephrasing sentences to make them sound more eloquent. In Death In Venice, Aschenbach’s persona is not unfamiliar to the reader, for we have discovered many a character just like him. Aschenbach hopes to leave the routine of his “note-jotting” and “sentence-rephrasing”. This leads to the mystique of a tourist: the moment when they first decide to travel, and what possesses them to leave their comfort zone and belongings to explore foreign places.
 
At first, Aschenbach’s frustrations with travel are noted within the initial few pages of the novel, as he regards travel, tourism specifically, as a “hygienic practice” (Mann, 7). While Mann gives no specific definition for “hygienic practice,” it can be inferred that it is a routine maintenance activity for cleansing the mind, a regular affair that everyone should do just for the sake of doing it, and just because they feel obligated to do it to keep up with their neighbors.
 
Even though Aschenbach decides to travel two weeks later, her demonstrates cynicism towards the flippant custom: “The thought of leaving his desks for months to go gallivanting around the world seemed to frivolous and disruptive to be taken seriously.” (8) Aschenbach disregards the benefits of travel, and the amount of stories and raw material for his novel he will undoubtedly bring back with him upon his return. Like a true artist, Achenbach becomes so involved with their work he begins to see it as a “duty”, a “humdrum routine of a rigid, cold, passionate duty.” (8)
 
Many attempt to define “art”, failing to capture its allusiveness in a simple sentence. Mann’s focus of defining art within the first chapter sheds new light on how art can be perceived. For many artists, some struggle was present in making their body of work. It seems to be a common pattern among artists: messed up family, death, suicide, drugs, alcohol. Aschenbach states that “everything great owes its existence to ‘despites’: despite misery and affliction, poverty, desolation, physical debility…”  (16) By stepping outside of the comfort of ones home, these “despites” are bound to find the artist. Achenbach’s decision to travel becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy: he travels to seek his own pain, his own “despite”.

I’m thinking back to the first day of class, the first time I sat through a discussion facilitated by a professor instead of a teacher, and felt rather intimidated by the amount of travel insight that was being tossed around the room. Our introductory seminar focused on why people travel and what draw humans to migrate, if only for a short while. Two distinct boundaries were drawn around the concept of a home life, the place where we spend most of our days and always feel connected, even when we have been displaced from it for yearlong stretches, and the areas we travel to. Looking back at this discussion, I realize that we neglected to talk about the “In Between”, an area where we aren’t originally from, but don’t intentionally mean to travel to.
 
We don’t just travel to forget about our day to day routines and take a break, as Cohen’s “recreational traveler” does, but to experience a place unlike our own, who’s cultures vary so drastically, that is has the affect of a liminal space. When we enter theses places we can establish new relationships with the surroundings and forget about those we have made elsewhere. Liminal spaces are places where normal social conventions are set aside, boundaries are broken down, and the concept of right and wrong blend together. Liminal spaces are the “In Between”
 
In Kerouac’s On The Road, Sal Paradise rarely finds stability in his life, especially while traveling, so I found that his stay in a ramshackle one dollar tent in Sabinal, Texas to be a rather interesting arrangement. The tent’s original appeal was its cheap price tag, and for a desperate traveler with only four dollars to his name, this is paramount. Sal takes on the role of a father figure, traveling with his new love interest Terry, and her son, Little Johnny. Sal is used to fending for himself, bearing his burdens and his burdens only. A man on the road is responsible for no one but himself, until he finds so-called love. For this reason, the “place” becomes representative of a temporary home, not just because Sal finds a temporary family to fill a vacant space, but because his stay is more lengthy than anywhere else he has been; so lengthy in fact that he has time to get a job. This temporary “home” also signifies a liminal space, where people are free to give in to what they really want at that moment, as demonstrated by Terry and Sal having sex in the same room as Little Johnny. As disturbing as this is, I had to set aside my own preconceptions to attempt to understand it. As the days pass, the tent develops into a symbol for Sal’s relationship with Terry: brief, organic, simple; but more importantly, it’s a break from anything he is used to back at home.
 
It’s hard to clarify whether Sal’s description of this tent is sarcasm or not. After noticing the bed in one of the tent’s corners, followed by a stove and broken mirror, he regards it as “delightful” (Kerouac, 87). Shabby accommodations wouldn’t seem delightful to most, but to Sal, a wannabe hobo, anything better than cold hard ground is idealistic. On the Road could be considered a quest for simplicity, and the tent is representative of his day-to-day lifestyle; working only enough to buy a nights worth of groceries, and living comfortably enough to survive. Because the tent is situated so close to nature, it becomes a place where Sal doesn’t have to forget his love of “the Road” thus adding to its appeal.
 
In The Sheltering Sky, sex becomes an area of “In Between”. Society tells us what sex is and how it is portrayed. For most sex is seen as a sacred, personal act between two people, presumably in love. In Sheltering Sky, the protagonist, Port, creates his own definition of sex. It no longer has to be ritualistic or amount to anything, but can instead become a simple, enjoyable task. In Turkey, Port meets Smaïl, a lonely Arab pimp who leads him toward the dark corridors of a brothel. The brothel is set in yet another tent. From inside the brothel, there is no liminality. Sex is paid for, drugs are offered, and culturally, this is typical of prostitution. But outside the brothel, where it’s taboo to pay for sex in any way other than love, the liminality of this place begins to take shape. As Port’s navigates possible perils of the position he is in, guilt takes hold of him and he wonders what got him into this situation. Port feels that his friend Tunner has been after his wife and thus claims that he is “using this as an excuse to get out of here, because I am afraid” (Bowles, 26) In actuality, we can see that Port running away from Kit stems from sexual frustration and disconnect between himself and his partner, a better explanation for his need to fulfill sexual desires elsewhere. Port uses this tent as a refuge.
 
The tent, set at the end of a staircase in an alleyway, looks suspicious, as candles burn bright, their pink shadows seeping through thin canvas. The eerie environment should have acted as a warning sign, but once again, another character is drawn the appeal of this liminal space, where, in that moment, there is no right or wrong. This place in time reflects Port’s subconscious, as he battles with his id and superego. The tent, which he knows will induce short-term bliss, acts as his Id, the part of our personality that is responsible for our basic, uncontrollable need to seek out pleasure. Port’s superego is the life he has back at the hotel, his wife and his responsibilities he holds towards her to be a faithful partner. If the Id is hedonistic, the superego is moralistic, and the conflicting subconscious battles until Port reaches a final consensus: the pull of liminality is too tempting to resist.
 
Once inside, Port begins to notice specifics about the environment: soiled clothing, empty cans of sardines, torn pieces of bread, candles, and straw matting strewn across the floor. The vulgarity of the tent’s unkempt atmosphere begins to charm Port, almost as if it parallels the way his conscience must be feeling: dirty, unchaste.
 
The problem with liminality is that it is only temporary. When you are in the moment, you lose a sense of time, much like the entire journey Port, Kit, and Tunner face as they travel through Africa. “Because neither she nor Port had ever lived a life of any kind of regularity. They both had made the fatal error of coming hazily to regard time as non-existent. One year was like another year. Eventually everything would happen.” (Bowles, 127) This lack of regularity Kit mentions describes her mentality: she is neither here nor there, and he husband follows suit. This is the reason why they are able to travel on a moments notice, taking a bust to Ain Krorfa one moment and a train to Boussif he next. Unfortunately, Kit and Port never seem to be in-sync, and while Kit is mentality in one place in her life, Port is somewhere else, and vice-versa.
 
While on the train heading to Boussif, Kit regards how it is a metaphor of the incomprehensible vastness of time: “The train that went always faster was merely an epitome of life itself.” (Bowles, 66) No matter how many “liminal spaces” you might find yourself in, time never stops. If only Sal, Kit and Port knew this before their travels.

Sal rarely finds stability in his life on the road, so I found that his stay in a ramshackle one dollar tent in Sabinal, Texas to be a rather interesting arrangement. The tent’s original appeal was its cheap price tag, and for a desperate traveler with only four dollars to his name, this is paramount. Sal takes on the role of a father figure, traveling with his new love interest Terry, and her son, Little Johnny. Sal is used to fending for himself, bearing his burdens and his burdens only. A man on the road is responsible for no one but himself, until he finds so-called love. For this reason, the “place” becomes representative of a temporary home, not just because Sal finds a temporary family to fill a vacant space, but because his stay is more lengthy than anywhere else he has been; so lengthy in fact that he has time to get a job.
 
It’s hard to clarify whether Sal’s description of this tent is sarcasm or not. After noticing the bed in one of the tent’s corners, followed by a stove and broken mirror, he regards it as “delightful” (Kerouac, 87). Shabby accommodations wouldn’t seem delightful to most, but to Sal, a wannabe hobo, anything better than cold hard ground is idealistic. On the Road could be considered a quest for simplicity, and the tent is representative of his day-to-day lifestyle; working only enough to buy a nights worth of groceries, and living comfortably enough to survive.
 
To some extent, the tent could also be regarded as a liminal space, a place where normal social conventions are set aside, boundaries are broken down, and the concept of right and wrong blends together. In a liminal space, people are free to give in to what they really want at that moment, as demonstrated by Terry and Sal having sex in the same room as Little Johnny. As disturbing as this is, I had to set aside my own preconceptions to attempt to understand it.
 
The tent was situated outside, obviously, and the thin tarp it was made out of was so light that even dew could weigh it down, so much so that it sagged during cool mornings. Because of the tents closeness to nature and its surroundings, it gave Sal a chance to live “outdoors” more comfortably. He could listen to “twangy” cowboy music echoing across fields and see the sun rising each morning. The tent becomes a place where Sal doesn’t have to forget his love of “the Road”.
 
 

As described by Cohen in A Phenomenology of Tourist Experiences, there are numerous ways in which a single person or a group of people can travel. Although Cohen discussed the philosophy behind tourism, he neglected to discuss the concrete details of travel, such as backpacking vs. staying in a hotel, traveling without direction vs. an itinerary.
 
In On the Road, Sal Paradise embarks on the former style of adventure, leaving most of his belongings at home and embarking on a journey without plans, schedules or agenda.  His main form of transportation is hitchhiking, an outdated novelty in today’s society, but a common occurrence in the 1950’s. The only “planned” aspect of his voyage is the destination: West, specifically, Denver. Both Sal and Dean have an obsession with intellectualism. They enjoy philosophy and writing, and these passions are most likely the catalyst for such an ambiguous journey. Sal seeks inspiration for a novel he is in the middle of writing.
 
This narrative lacks a typical plotline: details building up to an inevitable climax and then watching the storyline wane. But what it lacks in plot, it gains in its vibrant descriptions of character. One way to look at it is that the characters Sal encounters are the plot: Montana Gene, Mississippi Slim and the various others that offer him rides create the plotline by sharing their own stories in each chapter.
 
When reading, a habit of mine is to compare literature or film with other bodies of work. Christopher McCandless’ journey in Into the Wild seems as if it were derived from Kerouac’s cult classic, and the beat generation in general. Like Paradise, McCandless goes in search of inspiration in a life full of predictability and consistency. McCandless’ journey starts much later in the 1900’s than Paradise’s, but both bear striking similarities. Both McCandless and Paradise get to and from locations by hitchhiking or public transportation. Their stories are  also developed by the characters they meet while “on the road”. McCandless, however, starts out with everything going for him: wealth, education, guaranteed success, and throws it out the window, whereas Paradise doesn’t start out with much. I’m exited to continue reading this novel and am anticipating many more connection between the two.

Cohen’s essay on The Phenomenology of Tourist Experiences ties together the relationship between the consciousness of the tourist, and what experiences the tourist is seeking, whether those experiences are realized within the traveler, or if those experiences are rooted subconsciously.
 
Upon the conclusion of Cohen’s composition, I pictured his five  “modes” of tourism not as modes, but more as “levels” in which the tourist, or traveler (but more explicitly the tourist), must climb in order to gauge a sense of self-fulfillment. Because each tourist is different, the level they will reach differs depending on the type of travel they choose to embark on.  As Cohen explained each level, I noticed a strong correlation between The Sheltering Sky’s protagonists, Port and Kit, and their own personal journey through Africa. Instead of attempting to classify the two as being on one specific level, I found that they traveled through the last three modes during the course of the novel; starting with experiential and ending with existential. Port and Kit have turned themselves into video-game characters, wandering through each level with only one life and an abundance of gold coins.
 
I’m ignoring the modes of recreational and diversionary travel because I don’t feel it applies to this novel. Port’s decision to travel to remote parts of Africa is not for the purpose of “recharg[ing] the batteries of a weary man” (Cohen, 184). If Port’s sole intent for travel were to gain a superficial, almost uncommitted sense of the country, he would not choose the Sahara as a vacation spot.
 
Port, Kit and Tunner start off on the “Experiential” level: a place where “people who have lost their own center and are unable to lead an authentic life at home” (Cohen, 187) go. Because of the havoc of post-war America, the three head off in search of a place that’s wholly new and virginal; untouched by the bloody hands of combat. Tourists experientially travelling also find “strangeness and novelty” (Cohen, 187) in their new setting. Although Port utilizes the novelty of prostitution to find refuge from his marriage, he still has not felt a sense of a “real” religious experience, and further attempts to climb to a new level of tourism to seek fulfillment.
 
The experimental mode of travel is appealing for people who are without a sense of clear-cut priorities and obligations, those that have the ability to travel because nothing at home is keeping them from doing so (Port, for example). These tourists participate in the authentic life of the country they are in, but never fully give themselves to that country. Kit’s attempt at seeing another way of life when she is riding the train with Tunner exemplifies this. She wanders to the fourth class car, but upon seeing how drastically different it is than the life she is used to, she vomits.
 
The last mode of tourism, existential tourism, resembles an uncanny parallel to The Sheltering Sky. Although part I of the novel focuses on the first two modes, parts II and III embody existentialism. Port’s fascination with death and the nothingness of the afterlife subconsciously connects to his rejection of receiving immunization. This is revealed in part II, where Port falls deathly ill. Port feels that death is the only authentic thing, because after death, there is nothing else, and what is more authentic than dying in, and possibly for, a new country? Cohen describes existential travel as “switching worlds” and “living in exile”. Travelers may “attach themselves permanently and start a new life”, which is demonstrated by Kit, after the death of her husband. You could argue that Kit is either fulfilling a spiritual desire or fantasy by being captured and used purely for sex, or that Kit has become completely brainwashed, but I think it’s a little bit of both. Kit is indeed affixing herself fully to one culture, most likely in search of enlightenment, but whether Kit does this out of choice or mental instability is left of to the reader to decide.

Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises was set about 25 years prior to Paul Bowles novel, The Sheltering Sky, and I must say that I strongly prefer reading post WWII literature to post WWI. Maybe my preference is just a matter of different authors, and has little to do with the era and more to do with writing style, but either way, I found the characters in Sheltering Sky to be much relatable than those in Sun Also Rises. Bowles describes social conflicts between Kit, Tunner, and Prior matter-of-factly, and doesn’t use old-English to sugarcoat taboo affairs. Because of this, I felt like I could throw myself into the novel, and really get inside the minds of these travelers.
 
The two main conflicts in the novel are both about progression. The first, deals with the progression of relationships, namely the failing marriage between Port and Kit, but also the tryst occurring between Tunner and Kit, and Port’s indulgence with prostitutes. The second conflict with progression involves the westernization of post-war Africa and it’s evolution into a more “tourist-y” place.
 
Port has his own idea of what a “traveler” is, and he feels he embodies the concept not just within his voyages, but in his life as well:  “Port had never lived a life of any kind of regularity. They both had made the fatal error of coming hazily to regard time as nonexistent. One year was like another year. Eventually everything would happen” (127) Port begins to describe the idea of time, and how travelers disregard this as tool; they don’t need set schedules, and they don’t have any obligations forcing them to come home. Their purpose in life is to belong “no more to one place than to the next” (6)
 
The beginning of the novel doesn’t waste any time giving us proper definitions of what a true traveler is, and what a tourist attempts to be.  We learn quickly how important it is for Port to not be classified as the latter, for tourists constantly compare their travels to their homeland, disregarding any aspect of their journey that’s not up to par with the comforts of the familiar.
 
Port’s initial instinct going into Africa was that it would be completely stripped of anything authentic, and modernized from the ground up: “It was merely that the institution of tourist travel in this part of the world never well developed in nay case, had been, not interrupted, but utterly destroyed by the war.” (101) The streets would be teeming with non-Arabs and western folk in search of existentialism. In some cases within his journey, this was true: hotel food was anything but authentic local cuisine, certainly nothing like what native people were cooking in their homes, but on other occasions, Port found himself surprised at how little the country had changed.  
 
When Smaïl takes Port into a café, Port is astonished at the lack of diversity. He didn’t realize “there was anything like this left in the city…with nothing but Arabs…. [he] thought the war had changed everything.” I found this to be an interesting point. If you stop looking for authenticity, you begin to decipher what’s real and what’s bullshit. In my quest to become a true New Yorker, I found that if I stopped trying so hard and started living my life without this “goal” in mind, I gradually started discovery interesting venues and restaurants, eventually getting a taste for the city.

As I read Ernest Hemingway’s novel The Sun Also Rises, I began to view it in a different perspective than what was originally intended. Hemingway’s story about a group of friends, lovers, and enemies in their early-thirties gallivanting around Europe turned into a saga of sex and alcohol, starring a group of college students on a study abroad trip.
 
As the characters move from country to country, they always employ the same “When In Rome…” mentality, striving for a taste of the local culture and nightlife: wining and dining in Paris at Café Select, walking through Montmartre and past Notre Dame. Even though Jake looks down upon tourists, he fails to realize that he is one himself. In Pamplona, they put an emphasis on attending numerous Spanish events, such as bullfights and fiestas. These events might differ from country to country, but each character turns them into a typical occasion filled with flirting, teasing and gossip.
 
The overall writing style Hemingway uses comes across as a repetitive drone of dialogue. Although the country may change and the scenery becomes something new entirely, Bill, Brett, Cohn, Jake, and Mike never seem to diverge too far from their comforts zones. Anywhere they find themselves, a bottle of wine is sure to be present. It might be made of glass in Paris and leather in Pamplona, but their motives never seem to change. Drinking themselves into oblivion and fleeing from country to country is a coping mechanism they find themselves using to avoid problems and memories of war.
 
Jake remains a stable character and noble confidante throughout the novel. Although his personality is respectful and more passive than most, I feel his impotence is to blame for his neutrality. Because he is unable to have sex, the fellow men in the novel don’t view him as a threat, and Brett, the only female lead, won’t view him as a potential romantic partner. Poor Jake always has to play the “good friend” role.
 
I think I would have enjoyed this book more had their been another female lead in it besides Lady Brett Ashley. Her indecisiveness when it came to men, sex and romance became increasingly more annoying as they traveled throughout Europe. One minute she was confessing her love to Jake, and the next she was with Cohn but planning an engagement to Mike. I almost felt pity for each man as they tirelessly vied for Brett’s attention and admiration. Although Brett’s character lacked an innocence that keeps me from classifying her as a “Daisy Miller”, her and Daisy share a few similarities: youthful, wealthy, American women whom men can’t help but fall for. 

As Henry James’ eloquent novella unfolds, I noticed that the main elements of travel are concentrated within the first chapter, as each key character contrasts their home life with their present life, exploring a curiosity for the destination they have decided to venture to.
 
The first character to exemplify a need for the comforts of his hometown is Randolph, Daisy’s ruthless and insomniac brother. When Winterbourne inquires about his future journey to Italy, Randolph exclaims “I don’t want to go to Italy, I want to go to America!”(6). Although his reasoning falls short (Italy’s presumed lack of sweets), it’s enough rationale for child. Winterbourne also accounts differences between Vevey and Geneva, one of his hometowns.
 
Upon his first meeting with Daisy, Winterbourne remarks on the ease at which he can speak to single women. In Geneva, Switzerland , his previous place of residence and the last place he visited, he notes the stark differences from town to town. In Geneva “a young man was not at liberty to speak to a young unmarried lady except under certain rarely occurring conditions” (7). But as he relocates to a different city in Switzerland, Vevey, chance encounters and modest flirtations became more socially acceptable. 
 
Daisy’s brashness is revealed within the first few pages of the book, when she asks Winterbourne if he is a “real American” (9) This brought to my attention a topic we briefly touched upon in class.  What is authentic? How should certain cultures act relative to one another? Since this novella was written more than 100 years prior to technology’s widespread advance in society, we have to look at this with a discerning eye. Cultures were more isolated than they are now. What Daisy took as “American” could very well have been mannerisms that Winterbourne could’ve only picked up in the West, thus making her generalization more accurate.
 
Unlike today, where Europe is regarded as a place of class, elegance and style, Daisy finds herself scoffing at Vevey’s lack of society in comparison to Schenectady. She feels Europe is a place dominated by hotel chains and tourism. Daisy’s reluctance to experience “authenticity” represents a sense of immaturity and narrow-mindedness.  And although Daisy thinks that her hometown and state have a reputation of refinement, where “gentlemen” take “ladies” out to dinner, Winterbourne sees through her flirtations right away: “This young girl was not a coquette in that sense; she was very unsophisticated; she was only a pretty American flirt” (12)

I am a warrior for enduring the eight-hour flight, engines roaring, with the occasional turbulence.

My refusal to pay anything more than the bear minimum lands me in a seat tucked nicely against a window, a stranger, and another stranger. Conversation floats between travel and the stuffiness of the cabin, but all I want is a minute of silence so I can quickly assemble my earphones and proceed with the long journey ahead of me. Pretzels, peanuts, or cookies are the last bits of information I can recall before drifting into a peaceful state of Ambien-induced sleep. 

My mom is behind me, and my shoulder is poked and prodded multiple times before I regain consciousness to see what she wants. We have arrived, and I can quit feigning deafness in the hopes of avoiding small talk with the man to my left.

After exiting the aircraft and entering the Athens airport, I have suddenly forgotten all about the cons of travel: the cramped flight, the stingy selection of snacks, the smell of stale nothingness. As I avert my attention to the many signs welcoming me to Greece, I no longer care about my luggage or security, all I’m concerned with is finding customs and receiving the one thing that makes travel worth it: a stamp in my passport.

Some airports neglect to acknowledge this crucial step in travel, while other use it as a seal of approval: you’ve paid for your flight, you’ve sat through it’s dullness, and now I grant you permissions to experience our country. For me, the stamp means much more than that.  I use my passport as a collection of my travels, and if one of the countries I’ve visited goes unmarked, it’s as if I’ve never even been there. Sure, I will be taking hundreds of pictures and acquiring countless memories of Souvlaki feasts and ancient ruins, but it’s not enough. I need that stamp. Nothing is more pathetic than a blank passport, with it’s stark pages conveying cultural ignorance. I’m not culturally ignorant! I’m traveling to Greece, damn it!

I take a few quick strides away from our gate and into the airport’s abyss, a sea of unfamiliar faces. When we reach customs, I fill out the necessary forms and shuffle through the line as quickly as possible. My parents and sisters take the lead, while I pull up the rear.  The security officer takes their passports, briefly looks through them and stamps, stamps, stamps, stamps. Suddenly it’s my turn to hand over the small blue book. I try to steady my hand but it drops on the floor regardless. I pick it up, and pass it too him. He looks through it and hands it back to me. No stamp? I question. I’m out of ink, he says.