14. Final

Through all the commotion and bustle of a local Greenwich Village bar, a horn cuts through with the reedy sounds of alto saxophonist, Stacy Dillard. The crowd ranges in age from a few children (who aren’t allowed to sit at the bar of course) to old jazz enthusiasts who have hung onto the scene since the hey-day 60s. In the back corner, three teenagers chat amongst themselves.

“I can’t do with this New York jazz anymore. No one seems to have IT. The people are uptight, and the horn players think they’re the shit. What the fuck is up with the diva vocalists too? Graduating from the New School doesn’t make you good.” Pat complains.

Pat attends NYU in the Gallatin school of Individualized Studies. His brunette hair is short but waves off at the end with a flow that emulates the sea. Originating from New Orleans, the music scene drastically differs.

Katrina nods in agreement. She enjoys letting Pat take the dominant role in their relationship when they’re in public, so no one knows. “This attitude in New York really is something. Do you think it’s an east coast thing?”

“I can’t imagine what else it could be! Every club and bar I visit, the music all has this edgy element to it as if no one knows how to lay back anymore. But, San Francisco I hear is quite happenin’.”

Stacy Dillard blows through the last notes concluding his set and a few file out. Most choose to stick around the bar and discuss jazz standards, and how to maneuver through 2-5-1 progressions.

“It would be mad cool to make a trip over winter break. I mean… hella. Is that the right terminology?”

Ted interjects, “But where ever will we find the funds on our poor college funds? My mom doesn’t really give me any allowance.”

“Well… you don’t have to go. We didn’t even invite you.”

The trio turned duo makes it through the rigor of Gallatin finals. Pat convinced his parents it would be helpful towards finding himself and it’s actually directly related to his concentration. Katrina just has the bills to afford it.

Jet Blue flight 2930 arrives at SFO gate 37 in the afternoon on December 31st. Pat and Katrina take a taxi to the Hyatt on Columbus Avenue in North Beach. Columbus Avenue is littered with strip clubs, but this is a special evening. New Years Eve parties will be rampant and fireworks will occur over the bay.

A bell hop heaves their luggage onto a cart and Katrina insta-flirts with him.
In the elevator, Kat’s finger runs along the bell hop’s back.

“Damn, that California sun really makes a boy hella tan.”

“You’re mistaken. San Francisco is perpetually cloudy. I just did swim team all through high school,” responds Javier as he shrugs off her weak attempt. A rectangle of plastic does brush against his hand though. He pauses, contemplates, and grips down. Pat’s too busy awkwardly staring at the walls and floor numbers.

They get off at their floor and the three of them head over to room 906. Javier drops off their bags and Pat leaves him a generous tip.
The room is gorgeously simple yet generic. They have two queen sized beds because Katrina doesn’t feel comfortable enough for the one king sized. Their relationship has been consistent since freshman year yet they have not explored sexual interests. They don’t even know what the other is into.

“So, where to?”

Katrina responds, “I just want to rest… I don’t even think I can go out anymore tonight after that six hour plane ride. We haven’t even gotten anything to eat.”

She pulls herself up and peers out the window. Masses crowd in celebration. The streets are littered with people drinking or looking to get drunk.
“Maybe that cute bell hop also does room service.”

The subject is dropped.

“Lets go out tonight. New Years is such a festive holiday” continued Katrina.

“I really wanted to see Brubeck appear at Yoshi’s on the Fillmore though. He’s old now but it has to be incredible especially for a New Years concert. He’s planning on showing up with his quintet.”

“I get it. You like jazz more than us. That’s why you ditch date night for stupid music. I should just run off forever with John Mayer or something.”

“Fine, I’ll dress up, but I won’t dance.”

Reluctantly Pat lets himself get dragged by the wrist down to the street. He looks good though in a grey striped dress shirt and slacks. Katrina goes all out though, donning a suede minidress that reminds one of Scarlett Johansson. Simple black heels complement. They restrict her movement at 2mph compared to the usual accelerated rate that women will try to walk at. It’s comfortable for Pat now to have this dominance of walking speed.

The two arrive at the New Years Eve Ball at San Francisco’s City Hall after a 20 minute walk. A mashup of a Kanye West song and another unknown song plays. Around a thousand people fill the venue.

“Come on,” ushers Katrina, as she tugs on Pat’s left hand. “You don’t look cool standing at the bar,” she wines. Pat refuses and sticks to his comfortable stool, while Katrina walks off into the crowd quickly getting lost.

Pat’s cool with that. He purchases overpriced drink after overpriced drink content with himself.

“Are you forced to be here too?” comes a voice.

“My girl lacks taste. I really planned on coming here to check out the jazz scene.”

Theodore responds, “I dig. I really don’t find any interest in the top 40s or this new hip-hop. I want bop to return, but it doesn’t seem to be happening soon. The Roots are doing well as far as improvisation in hip-hop though. Not many groups appeal, like Nicki Minaj can’t rap or sing so…” and seats himself at the bar.

“I know! My roommate falls head over heels over ankles over Nicki Minaj, but I don’t hear it. Auto-tune…”

An hour passes. The music gets to Pat’s head. He hasn’t seen Katrina the entire time. He gets off his drunk ass and decides to sift through the crowd. Every drunk bitch looks the same now. Every song sounds the same now. She’s nowhere to be seen. His own room key is missing from as well as his ID, cash, social security card, and passport.

Interview with the SF Chronicle

SFC: What is your motivation for writing this award winning short story?

EC: I chose the first setting after reading about jazz clubs in Kerouac’s On The Road where Dean gets enthralled by a jazz group. I wanted my character to be disappointed with the New York scene so he would find a desire to head west. With San Francisco as the second scene, I wanted to put a retro mind into the club scene and see the reactions of him and the people around him to him. Also, the idea of seduction is taken from Comfort of Strangers. I wanted to turn this around and have the newcomer up on the local, but it’s never resolved who goes through with what and why Pat has none of his stuff at the end. Also, Katrina is disappointed that her boyfriend doesn’t want to spend time with her similar to the rejection in Sputnik Sweetheart so she disappears indefinitely. She might return Pat’s stuff in the future, but it’s never confirmed.

SFC: Where do you get the names for your characters?

EC: I chose Patrick and Katrina because I’ve always loved the nickname Pat and calling Patricks “Pat”. And Katrina is from the reference to New Orleans. Pat is from New Orleans and loved it there and would like to return to a city that has a larger sense of community, but he’s in New York. He tries out the west coast for a change, but loses Katrina and himself with drinking. In The Sun Also Rises, escape is found through alcohol in order to forget traumatic war scenes that may lurk in the veterans’ memories. Pat drinks so he forgets that he’s at a lame club.

SFC: Are some of your own opinions mixed in with the opinions of your characters?

EC: Yes, I’m not much of a Nicki Minaj enthusiast, and I totally spin off what I’ve heard about the music scene in New York. I’ve seen the edgy sound in person at jam sessions around here, but great music too. The stereotype is not all encompassing at all. I don’t agree with all my characters. Katrina does have good taste though in that John Mayer remark.

SFC: How much time went into writing this work?

EC: An artist does not disclose the processes going into a masterpiece.
 

 
Tony dragged his suitcase through the cramped aisle as he made his way back to his seat. He looked around at the faces as he passed, paying particular attention to his feminine company. Married, single, widowed, divorced but secretly sleeping with her ex, single, horny, cougar, divor-
“Oi lad, watch it there, will ya!” Tony quickly averted his attention to the overweight, balding, and currently red-faced man whom he had unconsciously knocked into.
“My apologies, sir, I’ll just…squeeze…past…you…and…ah! Here we go, 21D." He turned to give his obstacle a nod of defeat, but the man was too busy yelling at the next passenger who dared to dance the airline tango with his overly large frame.Tony lifted his luggage into the overhead compartment and sunk into the faded blue, plush seat, letting an emphasized sigh creep from between his lips as he peered out the window at the Manhattan skyline. He was clearly in seat 21F, but if he made the effort to be first in his row, he thought, why not snatch the coveted window-side throne while he had the chance? He flipped open the flap of his father’s old leather messenger bag and reached his hand inside a well-concealed pocket, puling out a case of malleable earplugs. After slipping his bag carefully under the seat in front of him, Tony inserted the miniature sound blockades into his ear canals, and buckled his seatbelt over his light washed jeans. He combed his fingers through his chestnut-brown tresses, pleased that his thick head of hair didn’t resemble the man’s from the aisle, and turned his head towards the window, slowly closing his eyes as the sun made its retreat beyond the horizon.
 
---------------------

“Excuse me Miss, would you mind tapping the gentleman beside you and let him know that this is the last call for snacks?” breathed the rather unenthused stewardess.
“Of course.” She reached her arm over the middle seat and tapped Tony on the arm. With no response, she led her hand down to Tony’s thigh, squeezing it gently just above his knee.
“Uhhhhnn,” Tony moaned, still half a sleep. The woman giggled as the stewardess began to grow impatient. She squeezed his leg again, her action reciprocated by an even louder groan, garnering cold looks from the family across the aisle.
“Sir, Sir!” The stewardess shouted. “Wake up! It’s last call for snacks.”
Tony quickly came to and stared through blurred eyes at the scowl on the stewardess’s face, and then at her nametag, as he pulled the rubber from his ears.
“Excuse me, um, Bridget is it? Hi Bridget. Don’t you think if I wanted food I would have made sure to be awake during the first three times you came around? I’m flattered by your concern, but really, I’ve packed enough peanuts to last me until next Thursday. Now see that family across the aisle? They don’t look too happy.  I bet they’re starved.”
Bridget glared at Tony for a few seconds before turning around to tend to the other passengers.
Tony shook his head and laughed in harmony with his new companion. When the laughter died to a mere chuckle every few moments, Tony took a glimpse at the figure next to him. She was thin, but curvy. Her powder blue dress hugged her body in all of the right places, reminiscent of a ‘60s housewife, who was having an affair with the milkman. Her auburn curls hung down just below her bare shoulders, and her lightly tanned skin illuminated in the fluorescence of the overhead light. Too many times had Tony found himself encountering beautiful women, but never being able to breathe a word. He enjoyed the unknown, the opportunity to fantasize about the “what if’s,” that came along with every chance meeting, but for a change, he didn’t want to have to wonder. How’s the weather? No. We’re in a plane. You have a great laugh? No. Creepy. Would you like my nuts? No. The Stewardess was here, she had her chance. As he was about to compliment the precise manner in which the bows were tied on the tops of her white ballet flats, she reached into her bag and pulled out her iPhone. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as she navigated through the screens to her iTunes library, proceeding to click on her recently purchased audio book of On the Road. As she began to place her headphones into her ears, Tony interrupted:
“He was simply a youth tremendously excited with life, and though he was a con-man, he was only conning because he wanted so much to live and to get involved with people who would otherwise pay no attention to him."
She turned to him. “So you know Kerouac?”
“Know him? For all intensive purposes I am him!” She tilted her head as her forehead wrinkled, her eyes penetrating his gaze. “Well, I mean, I was like him, or like Sal and Dean, traveling across the country and what not.”
He paused.
“Well,” she said, intrigued, “aren’t you going to tell me about it?”
He smiled. “Oh, of course, sure! I didn’t think you’d be interested.”
“In a modern-day Dean Moriarty? How could I not?”
He unbuckled his seatbelt and shifted his body so that he was square in her line of sight.
“A few buddies of mine from my office wanted to take a trip since we’d all piled up a weeks worth of sick days. Europe seemed nice, but Steve didn’t want to shell out the cash for a flight. My pal Peter brought up the idea of a cruise, but Jim doesn’t do so well with boats, you know, he gets sea sick. So I thought, hey, why not take a road trip to California, just us guys. They went for it, and for a week we traveled the country in my beamer, down the east coast, and across the open land. It was great, really.”
“Sounds exciting.”
“Nothing less. How about you? Been anywhere recently?” Tony inched his body farther into her personal bubble.
She mirrored his movement. “Yes actually. I spent my summer in Madrid. My uncle recently bought a house in Canillejas, so my sister and I went down to spend time with our cousins.”
“Did you see any bull fights?”
“Of course. I even fell in love with a matador.” A coy smile played across her lips as Tony’s expression faded into one of defeat.
He wasn’t going to let her get away that easily. He reached down into his messenger bag and unveiled a miniature bottle of merlot. “Would you care for any?” he asked, motioning the bottle towards her.
“No thanks, I had two glasses of my own while you were sleeping.” She reached into her lap to put her headphones back into her ears.
“Oh, that’s nice,” Tony said too loudly, hoping to encourage further conversation. “You have to be prepared when you’re going to a wedding. Look, I’ve even been working on my British accent.”
A look of disinterest entered her eyes.
“Here, have a listen. I’ve been a real wanka. My bollocks were stuck up my arse and I’m sorry.” He looked at her, but her expression hadn’t changed. “Well, what do you think?”
She turned her head toward the aisle as the pilots voice erupted over the intercom, signaling that they were beginning their descent into Heathrow.
“What, already?” Tony asked in surprise. How long was I sleeping for?
“Six hours.” She didn’t turn to face him.
“Look Michelle, I’m sorry. I fucked up, I know. But I’ve changed. I really have.”
“Changed, Tony? You haven’t changed a bit. I keep in touch with your sister, you know. I know full well that you didn’t travel across the country. Jim and Steve aren’t even your friends anymore. They gave up on you when they realized you were a cheat, just like I did. And you drive a Chevy, for Christ’s sake.”
Tony looked out the window at the hints of land taking shape beneath the melting clouds.
“Chelle, I’m sorry. I’ve tried calling, I’ve tried writing, I’ve done everything. There’s a reason Mike and Julie sat us next to each other on this flight. Weddings are supposed to be a time of celebration. Why don’t we just give it a chance?”
“You know, the last wedding I went to was ours, in Vegas.”
Tony turned his body in her direction. Her head was down, her hands fiddling with a loose thread on her dress.
“Dinner. Have dinner with me. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Tonight’s the rehearsal dinner, Tony.”
“Fine! Then drinks. Meet me after for a drink.”
“It’s not going to change anything.”
“It might.”
Her eyes met his gaze and she stared, unwilling to look away.
“Yes,” she sighed, “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”
 
----------------

Interview by Entertainment Weekly columnist Diablo Cody, with the author of Round Trip.
 
Cody: So I’ve read the story, and I love it. You definitely seem to be on the same wave I’m on when I write. What was your inspiration for the story?
Cordero: Thanks, that means a lot coming from the woman who wrote Juno. When I was coming up with ideas, I knew I wanted it to be a one-setting story, I have a tendency to go into too much detail, and with a 1,000 word limit, I knew I wouldn’t be able to allow changes in setting. As you can see though, I still managed to go over the limit. I’m really not one for boundaries, if I do say so myself. Anyways, I originally wanted my story to take place on a train, but on a train there’s room for movement. Having it in mind that I wanted my characters to have actually known each other from the start, I felt it’d be more appropriate on an airplane where they’re constrained to their assigned seat. This would mean that they would have no choice but to interact.
 
Cody: What made you decide to add the bit of irony at the end? Why did you have the reader believe that these were two strangers throughout most of the story?
Cordero: My main motive for writing my story this way was a passage that I liked in Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice. The passage discusses the curiosity and delicacy of a relationship between people who know each other only through sight. They may encounter each other often, but there is something that causes them to keep up the pretense of being strangers. While the reader is later led to understand that Tony and Michelle had a past together, I wanted to make it seem that they hadn’t seen each other in a long time. The curiosity then sparks from wondering what the other has been up to during the lapsed time and whether or not they changed enough where they truly were strangers and could potentially start anew.
 
Cody: Were there any other literary allusions present in the story?
Cordero: Yes, the most obvious being Kerouac’s On the Road. I chose to have Michelle listening to the book rather than read it, one, because it set the timeframe in which the story took place, and two, it mirrored a bit of society’s disconnect with the world around them because of the constantly changing wave of technology. I originally wanted to have Death in Venice be the book she was listening to, but I chose On the Road because it was an easier text to use to transition into the conversation between Tony and Michelle about their recent travel experiences. When I was searching for a good quote to use, I remembered the one about Dean being a con man, and I chose to use it because it set up a nice framework for the contextualization of Tony’s character, as well as the crux of the couple’s break up. The idea of Americans in Europe can be seen in Daisy Miller andThe Sun Also Rises. I chose to incorporate The Sun Also Rises in other ways, referencing Madrid and the bullfights and how they acted as a sort of distraction for Michelle. I also chose to end my story with Jake’s final line from the novel. To me, this tied together the relationship between Tony and Michelle, much the same as Brett and Jake’s relationship came full circle in Hemingway’s novel. They were in the same place as they had started, uncertain of what the future would bring.
 
Cody: Was that idea the inspiration for the title Round Trip?
Cordero: As a matter of fact it was. I liked the idea that here were Tony and Michelle, two lovers who had long since parted due to a mishap, but found themselves together again, forced to talk. The reader is left unsure of how far their relationship go, as the story ends with Michelle seeming fairly against any sort of reconciliation with Tony, but they are both going to London for the same wedding, and both will have to go back to America at some point, presumably on the same flight – round trip.
 
Cody: Was there any inspiration for the characters names?
Cordero: Funny you should ask that. I’ve recently been following the British television show Skins. Two of the characters were named Michelle and Tony, and in the show, the two were lovers who were forced to find a way to rekindle their love after (spoiler alert!) Tony gets hit by a bus and has trouble remembering how to perform everyday tasks, let alone the aspects of his former relationship. One could find a slight parallel between this idea and the themes of my story, but mainly, I just have a fascination with British culture and I’m still on a high from the series finale.
 
Cody: Thanks so much for your time Kristen. I’d love to get together again soon.
Cordero: Could you bring Ellen Page?
Cody: No.

(The photo is my own)

I never really had a clear idea of what I wanted to do, but before the inheritance I wanted to become a writer. Writing sounded like the perfect bullshit job, and my parents were down for it. They sent me to all sorts of writing camps and shit, but in all honesty I never really wrote anything. I just never felt the urge to do it. Anyways, last time I talked to my parents I told them that I just wanted to live off my bank account and backpack around Europe. They didn’t seem too psyched on it. As I left, my mom said, “whatever you wanna do with your life is fine, just check in with us once in awhile, because your father gets worried sometimes”.

My parents were always worried. I think its because they both came from a family of alcoholics. I remember my parents giving me lectures about all of the horrible calamities suffered by my aunts and uncles. “It’s a disease you know,” they used to tell me all of the time and I would sit and nod silently. I always knew they were full of shit. I always maintain my composure. The bigger threat is all of those liver ailments that people get when they’re really old and about to die anyways. Besides, I don’t really plan on making it past forty.

It just so happened that yesterday I decided to call my parents for the first time since I left. Jan, the girl I’ve been staying with, was hosting some after party for her designer friend Rikke who had just graduated from Magretheskolen. The party was packed with “arty types”. They’re here too. The only real reason I was there was because of Andreas Hjort. Andreas was a real douche bag, but he was one of the only dudes in the EU with a legit hookup at Farrar, Straus, and Giroux.

Last time I was at a party with Andreas, about three months ago, I tried to sell him on the novel and he gave a flippant “Well, I’ll look at it when I get back to the states”. I’m convinced he never looked at it because I’d been emailing him constantly and I even called FS&G a few times, but every time he was conveniently “out of the office”. Maybe it just wasn’t that great.

I was a few drinks in at this point, and I was certain that my life was a failure, so I figured it would be best just to hear the words from that asshole Andreas once and for all. First I needed another drink. Champagne perhaps? When I finished that shit off, I found Andreas in the corner, macking on Jan. What an asshole. I walked up to him, put my hand on his shoulder and said, “Where the fuck have you been? Did you even look at my shit?”

Andreas turned around, “Oh fuck, what’s up?” “I’ll tell you what the fuck is up,” I replied. Before I could start my rant, Andreas cut in, “I’m so sorry dude, I had to move out to Roanoke for a few weeks to sort things out with my parents. They’re getting old. Sorry for the wait man. I just heard back from the acquisitions editor yesterday, he really liked it and we want to go through with it. I was gonna call you yesterday, but I figured I’d tell you in person.”

I really couldn’t believe it. I popped off another bottle and danced in ecstasy out the front door and into the poorly lit cobblestone street. “First things first, I gotta call my mom. Just to prove I’m not a total fuck up.” I crossed the train tracks over Tietgensgade and made my way to my favorite telephone booth.

There was my phone, in a red booth designed in the classic British style right across the street from Tivoli Gardens. I could see the neon lights of the tilt-a-whirl glowing like the Christmas lights my mom used to hang up in my bedroom every year. I started to debate the best possible way to break the news.  I put in my coins and got connected. My dad answered the phone.

“Hello it’s your daughter.” “Which one?” he asked jokingly. “The one who just landed a book deal with a subsidiary of a major publishing house!” I said. The call cut off before “just”. “God fucking damn it!” There was no way that I could have fed the coins fast enough into the slot to keep the call going. All I needed was to say, “Hey mom, I made it, I’m OK, I got a major book deal”, then I would be satisfied. I checked my pockets. I left my calling card with my wallet back at home. I needed some coins.

I stepped out of the booth and looked around. The fountain! “Do people throw coins in here like they do in the states?” Indeed they do, and with seemingly greater enthusiasm. I reached in and made a grab for the shiniest ones I could find, but it was too deep. I needed those coins. I had to call my mom; I needed her approval. I carefully climbed over the edge, hanging on to the sides of the fountain, “Fuck it’s deep.”
I pushed off the edge towards the bottom of the pool.

The coins reflected off the lights and I grabbed at them, completely submerged. I had about five in my hands, but I needed one more krone, so I swam as close to the center as my leaden Carhartt work boots would allow. I couldn’t make it. I reached for the surface and gasped for air but got only frigid water. I started coughing, making pathetic little underwater bubbles. I was flailing, thrashing around in an oversized champagne bottle. Soon the bubbles stopped and the neon lights of the tilt-a-whirl were brought perfectly in focus as I looked up towards the surface of the water, “Matters are as clear as crystal.”

Q & A:

Q: Why did you use that quote from Sputnik Sweetheart to end your story?

A: Well, that specific quotation from Spunik Sweetheart, was from Sumire’s first document on the floppy disk and it’s the moment that she decides to make it clear to Miu what she wants. At that moment, the main character in the story has finally found an identity that she’s excited about and she wants to tell her family that she has made something of herself and is getting it together. Unfortunately, her crystal clear vision of the amusement park ride comes while she is drowning only a few inches beneath the surface of the water in the fountain outside the park.

Q: I thought that the main character reminded me of Sumire in many ways, right on down to her Kerouac-inspired work boots, was that intentional?

A: Well, I was actually trying to model the character more after Sal than Sumire. The narration is all in first person using colloquial language, just like in On the Road, and the character shares many of Sal’s mannerisms, including his contempt for the “arty types” and his desire to capture the “it” moment, which she seems to grasp at the end of the story. There were a couple of Sumire references, like the telephone booth where she makes her important calls and the anxiety surrounding her desire to become a writer, which is also in a couple of other books we read for this class, most notably A Concise Chinese English Dictionary, but the use of profanity, the sometimes comedic interior dialogue, and the use of the colloquial was intended to project more of a Sal vibe.

Q: I noticed that there was a lot of drinking, is there any significance behind the drinking, or perhaps the drinks themselves?

A: Well, drinking in this story is more straightforward when it comes to alcoholism than The Sun Also Rises, but in both drinking is associated with having a good time. Alcoholism ties the narrator in with her parents, who aren’t alcoholics, and creates a form of psychological guilt that layers atop her preexisting guilt for skipping off to Europe and living off her inheritance instead of going to college and going through the motions like her friends and her parents’ friends’ kids.

Q: Let’s talk sociological themes; Alienation from a place, search for a new center. Those are a few that pop into mind. How does that play into the story?

A: Well the main character, alienated from her home in the states, goes off to Europe in search of a new center and finds it in Copenhagen. While living the expatriate life for a few years, she embraces her new center, but she also finds that in many ways, like at her friend’s party, it’s just like her old one.

Q: One last thing, what’s up with the title?

A: Well, that’s a snippet of a quote from The Sheltering Sky right as Port sees it open up and take him. There’s this feeling of understanding, a kind of calm that takes over when Port sees the “blood and excrement” converge he reaches out towards the fabric of the sky to “take repose”. Like Port the main character sees a sort of “black star” in the sky in the form of the neon lights of a tilt-a-whirl and experiences a sort of repose similar to Port’s where she stops struggling against death and gives in. Her hands reach up from beneath the “fabric of the sky”, in this case, the surface of the water, and to try to pierce through only to come up short.
 

When the bitter chill of winter swallows up New York, the annual family vacation ensues. You know the one, Christmas in a Caribbean paradise. It wasn’t out of the question for this family in particular to spend a relaxing and rejuvenating week in Belize or the Bahamas just to write it off as a one-time visit and move on to another B named island the following year. It is said, “We travel not to escape life, but so life doesn’t escape us.” Indeed, in light of experience, we travel in a continuous game of catch-up with life. We’re always hopping on the connecting flight even when it’s the third of the day or enduring the extra bus tour to Versailles, which, even in its beauty, becomes familiar by the second visit. All of this for the sole purpose of adding the experience to our repertoire of stories which we will draw out at the first inkling of a travel conversation.
 
The traditional Caribbean getaway begins: a flight to Florida, from there to Puerto Rico, then a plane, only big enough to hold the six members of the family and a pilot, jumps across the water and arrives in the British Virgin Islands. Virgin Gorda is a rolling span of soft mountains, representing its name to perfection. The clear aqua water makes the muddy, polluted Atlantic found in New York only a distant memory for these travelers. As they stare adoringly at the sea, the family disembarks and proceeds to the conventional one-room “airport” awaiting them. Customs and security are quick and soon two parents and four siblings are huddled in a rented van. First stop, as with any trip, is the island’s grocery store. This one is situated on the marina where huge, busy cruise ships and simple white sailboats alike are docked, waiting for their vacationers and owners to climb back on and set out again as a speck on the open sea.
 
It is an odd feeling, to stand in the beaming sun on a day that you know to be winter back home. The heat seems warmer on a bare shoulder than usual and the sky is bluer in comparison. The interesting aspect of a vacation is that the vacationer is so far removed from the reality they have grown accustomed to. This makes the new location appear idyllic, even heavenly, in the simple fact that it is detached from all things common. The blissful atmosphere does not extend itself to the grocery store. Upon entering, the overwhelming smell of fish clings to each person as they wade through its invisible permeation to get to the milk and bread, family staples. All items are double the price as compared to America, which should be expected due to the seclusion of the island from any food supplier. The family gathers their items, the three sons holding bulky bags containing a week’s worth of food, the parents directing and lugging bags as well, and the daughter walking along with no bags to burden her, forever the princess of the family.
 
As they load the van, imagining the days ahead of luxurious relaxation and great food, the family tiredly decides to head to the welcoming beach where their charming rental house is located. Forgetting that they are in British territory the law is to drive on the left side of the road, the father proceeds to cause a traffic jam in the parking lot. Not only is another van involved, but also an island “taxi”: an open-backed pickup truck with cushy benches for seats and a carnival tent for a roof. Luckily for the foreigners, all of the drivers involved laugh casually at the situation and carefully maneuver their cars into their respective sides of the road once again. This entire scene, however, proved to be futile.
 
The music starts softly, faintly, almost imperceptible to those in the vicinity. The family believes it to be wafting into their van through an open window of a close by car. As far as they can see ahead, all of the cars in the parking lot are back up at the entrance, which opens out to the main road of the island, a dirt road. The street itself is bare save for a few natives who seemed to hold some sort of superiority in that they were allowed to be there. Typical chatter arises in the family van, as it would while waiting in traffic any other time, but ceases instantly as a small child in a Santa Clause hat stomps down the road, the music increasing in volume, drums beating more heavily with every step he takes. And he dances down the road, a sole performer with no apparent stage freight, while the music blares. Traditional Christmas favorites recognized by all but with a reggae twist, the tunes are unexpected but likeable. Two more little Santa-clad children followed the first, then four, then too many to count, too many to consider that this isn’t something significant. All of a sudden, the crowd of irritated drivers stuck in the parking lot transforms into a crowd of appreciative spectators to the sporadic island show. Any natives around instinctively join in with their celebrating neighbors and the island becomes alive with dancing, singing and Christmas festivities. Timidly, the family inches towards the sound of the cheering audience that engulfs the performance. As they reach the threshold of the music the daughter’s hand is clutched by a tiny one and she is pulled into the sea of natives. Her pallid skin makes clear her presence in the collection of exotic, dark faces. The young girl stands for a moment, suspended in the overpowering aura of the parade; she is a part of this strange festivity now and it would remain a part of her.
 
Without a tangible transition, the entire family surrounds her, dancing and clapping and singing with the wrong beats to the holiday music that seems to be emanating from the island itself. The brothers emulate children half their size in the Caribbean dances and in the exhilaration of the instant all were one. Life is captured as the family members lock eyes in loving enjoyment. Indivisible are travelers from residents when the street becomes a vessel of fusion for those fortunate enough to happen upon it. 



Interview with the author:
Q: What was your inspiration for this travel story?
A: I pieced together a family vacation I had as a teenager while keeping in mind certain conventions about family travel. My family and I visited Virgin Gorda twice during Christmas and the second time we were there, we experienced this impromptu parade of native children on Christmas Eve. Not only was the celebration unexpected and welcomed by my family, but we also walked several blocks with the natives in the parade and joined in on the dancing. I traveled a lot with my family growing up but never had I had such an authentic experience as this. Even in the same trip to the British Virgin Islands, we went to see the tourist attractions such as the ruins and certain beaches or restaurants but somehow this event stood out as more genuine. I felt like I had stumbled upon a secret ritual and was lucky enough not to be excluded even though I was very clearly a foreigner. The welcoming nature of the island and the innocence of the happy children who sang and danced through the streets made my visit extremely unique.
 
Q: You mention a quote at the start of the piece: “We travel not to escape life, but so life doesn’t escape us.” How does this apply to the entirety of your story?
A: Travel is critical for a full understanding of the world, life and what you want to get out of it. Therefore, we travel to gain experiences and gain knowledge of new places and to refuse to let life pass us by. There exists the idea that when people travel, they are running away from something or someone in their life at home. Although this may be true in some cases, traveling with good intentions means opening oneself to new culture and ideas and this leads to a more satisfied and rewarding life. The idea of escape is evident in many travel novels, such as Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises and Guo Xiaolu’s A Concise Chinese-American Dictionary for Lovers. Both of these, being two of my favorite books that I have read recently, expose the idea that a character is attempting to get away in order to create a new lifestyle. In my piece, I chose to write about the opposite: finding oneself in the experience of a new place.
 
Q: Why did you choose to write in the present tense?
A: I felt that by relaying the story in this way, the reader could feel more immersed in the moment. I wanted the reader to feel as though they themselves happened upon an island parade. It was difficult to stop myself from writing in the past tense because it is more natural but the present tense makes the story seem more current and less of a remembered occurrence. Also, I refrained from using names as to make the family seem universal. I chose to allow the family to remain nameless in order for the reader to have the ability to superimpose themselves into the characters’ places.
 



(My own picture above)

The first thing I noticed were her hands. So small, so sweet, so graceful. A bit freckly and a bit pale. Almost as delicate as the girl herself. Looking up, I encountered the softest, most beautiful girl. Simple, clean skin, hair as black as can be, and the face of a child called me towards her. 
I saw her standing by a shop window, map of France in hand. Picking up my black trench coat and briefcase, I made my way over to the girl. Ten feet away. I began to notice the sunshine reflecting off her hair. Five feet. The stitchwork on her sweater became clearer. Two feet. I began to bask in the scent of her perfume. Teased, I found myself longing for her. 
Finally approaching, I asked, “Pardonnez moi, Mademoiselle, you appear lost. May I be of any assistance?”
A little flustered, the girl responded, “ I’m looking for the Coquelles station. I’m on my way to England at the moment…”
“Right this way mademoiselle, not a problem I will lead you there myself. Allow me to take your bags.”
Rolling her small duffel, I dared not walk the most direct route to the station, for I wanted to get to know her better.
“How did you spend your time in France? Holiday? School?”
The girl didn’t answer. She simply walked besides me looking ahead, almost weirded out. Her silence intrigued me.
“Now child, what are you up to all alone here?”
After a little hesitation, the girl finally replied softly, “Because of my father.”
“Where is he? Is he here?”
“China,” she replied quickly.
Now we’re finally getting somewhere. After more silence, I asked, “Are you Chinese?”
“Yes. If you don’t mind, I’d appreciate you showing me to the train station. I’m supposed to be leaving in less than an hour and I don’t want to be late.”
“D’accord mademoiselle. We’ll be getting you to the train in no time. But first, lets get a bite to eat.”
“There’s no time, please sir just show me where I need to go.”
Grabbing her arm, I assured her in an almost seductive manner, “Don’t worry my darling, but first, we must eat; I’m starving,”
“Really please,” she pleaded.
“It’ll be quick,” I assured her.
I dragged her struggling body to the café off the square of the church of the Assumption. I could tell she was uncomfortable, but I didn’t understand why. I couldn’t bear it. I just couldn’t grasp what I was doing wrong. I think it’s time to explain a little more about myself. I’m something society doesn’t foster; I can’t help it though. I’ve gone to doctors but each time I’m shooed away because I’m thought to be a creep; I try to blend in. My problem is that I’m attracted to women much younger than myself.
In order to make up for grabbing her, I told her, “Buy anything you want from here.”
She still looked upset.
Silence.
In desperation to get a conversation going, I asked, “Tell me about China.”
Still silence.
“I’ll just tell you about myself then. I’m an Englishman, turned French gent. I was born in 1970. My mum and dad and I lived in Northern England, right in the heart of the coal mining culture. Once the strike started my dad was out of a job and since me and my mum didn’t work, we didn’t have much to live off of. We were hungry a lot, and the politics of the whole matter brought out the worst in my father. He was always yelling at my mum and me, and he even hit me once. It sounds a little ridiculous, but it messed me up and all I wanted was someone to care about me. At the same time, I had finally found my love. Her name was Rose Miller. She was truly beautiful. A brunette with a pale complexion, I was so in love with here, and she loved me too. We had been courting for some time before the strikes began, and once they started, we wanted to support our fathers, who were both temporarily unemployed, so we went to the pickets. While there, the police showed up, so everyone started running away and in the stampede that pursued, the crowds trampled over people, Rose included.”
The girl looked up at me.
“Devastated, I left England as soon as I could and ended up here. Not wanting my family to recognize me and not wanting to give myself any reason to remember what happened in England, I adopted a new life, learned French, and started speaking in a French accent.”
The girl simply stared at me, with nothing to say, almost contemplative.
We sat in silence until our croissants and coffee came.
“I’m also leaving to start afresh,” she finally said. “For several years, I had a boyfriend a bit older than me. I was shocked to find out one day that I was pregnant. I didn’t know what to do and for a couple weeks, I struggled with my options. When I finally told my family, my father was outraged and yelled at me, saying “Goya, Goya you are too young! You are only fourteen!”
So she has a name! Her trust in me made me fall for her even more. She continued, not even noticing my growing affection.
 “My father took me immediately to get an abortion. There weren’t any complications, but people found out and began gossiping. They told my father that I had disgraced the family name and that I had lost their honor. We figured it would be best for me to move away for a little while, so that’s why I’m here now.”
More silence.
“So your name is Goya.”
“I’m going by the name Gina now. But yes, my given name was Goya Zheng.”
“I’m the same as you. Originally Kurt Tromper, I go by Christian Tromper now, pronounced Trom-pay, to make it the most French, of course. “
Gina smiled at me. I was overwhelmed with happiness just to have someone to talk to whom I could make happy.
“It’s almost time to be getting you to the train,” I said with sorrow.
Looking at her watch, she exclaimed, “Yes, yes. We need to go.”
She hurried out of the restaurant in front of my slowly moving self.  We caught a cab and the whole ride back, I kept thinking that this was it; this was my chance. But as we approached the station, the girl hopped out with her bag and said the sweetest little “Thank you sir” before smiling and running off. Alone, yet again, I drove away as she caught her train.
 
 
Tell us Ben, what were some of the themes and ideas you wanted to get across in your story.
I definitely wanted to refer back to themes from other books I’ve read, so there are several interspersed throughout the story. First off, Christian’s character is supposed to resemble Gustav from Death in Venice, with his attraction towards a younger person and attachment to them as well. Also, relating back to Sputnik Sweetheart, I tried to play with different times of people’s lives. Christian was never able to get over Rose’s death, so the hormones of his fourteen year old body remained while he grew to be an older man. Unable to control his attractions to girls, he went to a doctor but was judged disapprovingly and thus tried to hide it. When he saw Goya, his hormones became especially turned on because of her physical similarities to Rose. Goya and Rose were made to be similar to each other, so that Christian would begin to fall for Goya. Additionally, Christian and Goya share similar stories as well. The fact that they both had comparable life happenstances was supposed to draw Christian to Goya even more.
Well you certainly did a lovely job doing that.
I would have liked to elaborate more, because my notes for this short story are much longer than the story itself. There’s a lot more to each of the characters and I felt that with the short nature of this story, it was difficult to add those while actually having some form of action. One thing I wasn’t able to touch upon was elaborating on the similarities between Goya and Rose. I tried to make it clear that they looked alike, but I would have liked to show how their personalities were also alike. I also wanted to talk more about Christian and get the reader to feel more attached to him in a sympathetic way. I originally had a segment about him going to doctors trying to figure out what was wrong with him, but it didn’t flow with this part of the story, although it did add another layer of reality to his character.
Anything else?
Yes, just one more thing. I had hoped to be able to explain more about why it was Goya that Christian was falling for. It was supposed to be a play off of Sputnik Sweetheart, when Miu aged overnight without any logical explanation.
But at the end of the day, are you content with your work?
Yes of course.

“It began with fear, fear and desire and a dire curiosity about what was to come,”-Thomas Mann, Death in Venice (pg. 126).
 
They were leaving Florence tomorrow for the Amalfi Coast.  And for their last night in town, they had decided to go and see Fellini’s La Dolce Vita.  They watched a buxom blonde put a cat on her head and voyage into the Trevi Fountain.  “Gosh, she’s fantastic,” thought Alex.  Beforehand they had tried to be bold and edgy by going to a restaurant that was not plastered with ratings from him or this or that.  They ended up at a discotheque pizzeria hybrid near the Dome where one waiter was dressed as Sophia Loren and the lights were turned down so low you couldn’t even find the booths.  Anne, Alex’s mother, flustered by the darkness and not having her glasses, decided to go back to old faithful: the British restaurant near the hotel.  Shepherd’s pie again.
 
Earlier in the day at Brunelleschi’s Dome: skirting through passageways meant for one-way traffic, they felt with one misstep they would fall backwards into oblivion.  Reaching the top, with sea legs, they sat on opposite sides of the dome, building fantasy fortresses.  Anne wanted something to happen when they went to the coast.  She wanted something to enliven her.  Alex, her son, did too yet he could not quite figure out the form it would take, though he had a vague idea slowly morphing in his mind.
 
The suicidal curves of the road to Positano were like a rollercoaster laid flat. Alex took Dramamine, but the Looney Tunes-like rapidity of the ride made the need to vomit inevitable.
 
Like everything in Positano, the hotel fit into its requisite nook.  Anne rang the bell in the lobby.  From a door behind the counter, a man emerged wearing a suit tailored so well it cut like a knife.  His whole presence cut like a knife.  
 
“May I help you?” the knife asked.
 
“Yes, hello, Anne….um…Hanson, checking in,”
 
“Ah, yes, here you are,” the knife said, smiling at both of them, allowing his grin to linger on Alex for a second or maybe an hour.  Alex wasn’t sure and didn’t want it to end.
 
The Knife handed them a key with a vampy mermaid hanging from it. 
 
“Welcome to La Sirena Anne and…sir, your name?”
 
“Alexander…Alex” Alex replied feverishly.
 
“Alex and Anne, welcome.  I am Nerio.  Let me know if you need anything, anything at all,” 
 
 
The next morning, Alex and Anne came down for breakfast.  They walked into the room and were promptly blinded by the positively acute sun accurately stabbing through the floor to ceiling windows.  The only table left was in the zone where the sun mauled the worse, and they reluctantly sat down, secretly fearing sunburns.   Nerio blossomed out of nowhere with coffee in hand.
 
“Good morning, Anne and Alex.  Coffee this morning?  Or is the sun enough to wake you?”  He smiled again, the-chef’s-best-knife-used-for-special-occasions smile.
 
“I would love some coffee thank you…Nerio is it?”
 
“Yes, madam, that is it.  For you, Mr. Alex?”
 
“Um, yes, coffee is wonderful in the morning,” Alex blubbered.
 
“Why yes it is. It certainly is.”  Nerio responded and as he came around to fill Alex’s vacant mug, Alex felt him press against his chair and side with something that felt like intention.  It all lasted a moment too long to be just coffee related.  Nerio smiled and left them to be ingested by sunlight.
 
 
At five AM the next morning he took to the balcony.  He felt he should do something unexpected to make the day real.  The ocean seemed an appealing option.  He changed into an awkward swimsuit that he had had for longer than he would care to tell and walked to the water.  He dove in, feeling the water claim him.  Raw, cold, and angular.  Alex dunked a few times and as he came up the beach had a newcomer.  Carrying a suit on a hanger, wearing one of those European bathing suits, Nerio was approaching.  Alex looked about searching for a loophole to escape, but all he could do was dunk down.  And why?  He would have to come back up eventually.  He opened his eyes underwater and saw the impression of Nerio diving in.  All of the sudden, Nerio looked over, and they made strange eye contact.  He smiled and pointed upward.  Alex drifted to the surface obligingly.  Face to face, Alex wanted to dive back into the safety covers of the sea.
 
“Is your mother a good travelling companion?”
 
“Yeah, I guess.  We don’t really do anything too adventurous.  She likes calm,” Alex replied, surprised at his cognizance in the moment.
 
“Do you like calm?”  Nerio asked, insinuating the world.
 
“Yeah, sure.  But, I mean, I’m in Italy on vacation.  You know?”  Alex said, once again surprised he could form words in the knife’s presence.
 
“Well, to balance out this calm, why don’t you join me tonight?  There is a gathering going on.  It might perk you up,” Nerio trilled evocatively.
 
“Oh and try swimming like this,” Nerio dove down and remained there for a while.  When he returned to the surface, he had his bathing suit in his hands.  He stretched it above his head and turned around.
 
 “Meet me in the alleyway behind the hotel at nine. See you tonight, Alexander” he called slinking out of the water, grabbing his tailored suit.
 
Alex remained in the water, unable to move for the next half hour.  Anne stood on their balcony, looking on with confusion, curiosity, and a faint tinge of excitement for what it all implied.
 
After a day of scaling vertical streets and shopping with Anne in a little store near the tiptop of the town where she treated herself to clothes in a way she hadn’t in years, Alex could barely make it through dinner.  Nothing about the upcoming evening called for the risotto in front of him that he usually loved.  Anne noticed.
 
“So that concierge, Nerio, guy is kinda a card, huh?”
 
“What do you mean?” Alex asked, knowing completely what she meant.
 
“He is very smooth…it’s almost funny,”
 
“I guess he knows how to carry himself,”
 
“That’s always a good quality in a man,” Anne said laughing uncomfortably.
 
Alex half-smiled, “Yeah, sure.”  There was a pause filled with uneaten risotto.
 
“Honey, there is a dance in the town square tonight.  I think I’m going,” Anne said somewhat confidently.
 
“That would be good for you, Mom. You always liked dancing.  You can wear one of your new shirts or something,”
 
“That’s what I was thinking.  I’m quite excited for it,” she said confidingly.
 
“You should be.  I think I’ll just stay in,” Alex said very off-handedly.
 
Alex helped his mother get ready, offering opinions on which purchase of the day she should wear.   She looked beautiful and Alex told her so, sending her out the door with a long hug.  When she was out the door, he had to stumble about, figuring out what in the hell he could wear.  Scouring about he found a pair of jeans and a light blue dress shirt.  It wasn’t ideal. 
 
Nerio was there in the alley, wearing a gray t-shirt and jeans with vicious boots.
 
“Here.  We’ll take this car,” Nerio motioned to a fetus of a car.  “You look nice tonight,” he continued.
 
“Thanks, uh, so do you,” Alex replied, completely serious.
 
They drove through the rail thin streets and out of Positano.  Nerio started to speed up. 
 
“So where are we going?” Alex asked after a few moments of silence.
 
“A party that a few of my friends have put together,”
 
“Ah, I see,”
 
They came to a clearing filled with other cars.  Nerio got out and Alex followed. 
 
“When we get in there, open your eyes,” Nerio said in an addictively ambiguous way.
 
He grabbed Alex by the hand and started running.  And then, they were in a lemon grove, a never-ending grove filled with lights and club music.  Everyone was a shadow.  People were hidden behind trees doing who knows what. 
 
“Come over here.  You can have the best Limoncello in the country,” Nerio said.  Walking through the Dionysian masses, of which Nerio seemed to know every person, they reached a fountain that had luscious lemon heaven floating down from it.
 
“Just stick your head under it and drink or drown if you like” Nerio said.  And Alex did because he did not care.  He did not want to care anymore.  He let the Limoncello go in his mouth, on his face, in his hair, let it drip down his neck.  Nerio did the same and pulled Alex to one of the euphoric clusters.  The club music became tribal and tropical and everything dripped and oozed lemons.  Alex thought his body was pressed up against Nerio’s for eternity.  Alex was passed around or maybe others were passed around, but every face started to look like Nerio’s.  And then it rained and rained and rained.  Alex opened his eyes as wide as he ever had in his life.  And everyone slipped and fell in the mud and poured the Limoncello over each other.  Alex was by a tree, under the Christmas lights, and Nerio was there too, pressing all over and Alex pressed back.  Everything felt too tight, too contained, and the knife was reaching for and pulling at the lemons!
 
The knife soared gleefully, cleanly through Alex’s body and he grabbed voraciously at the lemon tree, squeezing and mashing lemons and leaves to bits, letting the juice meet his eyes. 
 
“…and goading one another on to dance and fling their limbs about they never let it fade,” (Thomas Mann, Death in Venice, pg. 127).
 
 
 
 
 Interview:

Interview with the author-New York Magazine
 
NYMag: Mr. Bruce, who were your influences for this odd little tale?
 
Mr. Bruce: Well, I wanted to tell an ominous sort of travel story à la Ian McEwan’s The Comfort of Strangers.  The Nerio character is supposed to function as the Robert character of the story.  He is just this magnetic stranger.  I wanted to make Nerio be very forward.  If it were anybody else but him doing what he does, it would be awkward.  Another influence was Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice with the lemon grove rave scene in particular (pg. 126-129).  I wanted to have it echo the dream Aschenbach has about the Dionysian ritual near the end of the novel.  That type of hedonistic, primal, and guttural behavior is positively fascinating.  That’s why I quote Mann at the beginning and the end.  Alex desires more from the trip, from life and he gets it in the form of Nerio and Positano.  Also the difference between the Apollonian and the Dionysian functions as homage to Mann because Alex is torn between the two in a way (calm and predictability of travelling with his mother and the thrill of what Nerio promises and insinuates).  Also there is a reference to On the Road in the lemon grove scene because it is supposed to be a moment of bliss.  I tried to use the descriptive style of Paul Bowles (The Sheltering Sky), Kerouac, and Mann too.  The writing was also influenced by Nabokov’s Lolita, which I was reading for another class.  I just wanted the description to really pop.  I also wanted to reference Fellini’s La Dolce Vita in the beginning because that woman is so fancy free when she goes in the Trevi Fountain and puts the cat on her head.  That is why Alex is intrigued by her.  She’s a hint of the Dionysian.
 
NYMag: What is the back-story or context for Alex and Anne being in Italy?
 
Mr. Bruce: Well, it was supposed to be a family trip with Alex’s dad too that they had been planning it for months, but then the parents got divorced.   So Alex and Anne decided to go on their own.  They are very close.
 
NYMag:  Are any parts of the story autobiographical?
 
Mr. Bruce:  I did go to Positano with my mother on vacation when I was 11 after Christmas.  And our room key was a bodacious mermaid.  There is a hotel in Positano called Le Sirenuse, but we didn’t stay there.  My mom did buy some new clothes at a little store in the town, and the roads were very curvy, but I didn’t throw up.  Oh and a year and a half ago, I did go to the top of Brunelleschi’s Dome with my class.  And my mom and I went to an English restaurant in Rome, not Florence.
 
NYMag: What does Nerio translate to in English?
 
Mr. Bruce: According to 20000-Names.com (thank you!) it has a Greek origin (Nereus) and that means, “wet one”.  It’s supposed to be a blunt sexual reference, and it also fits in with the beach scene with the swimming and the mermaid theme.  Nerio is clearly a very blunt character.  But his actions wouldn’t be sexy or attractive (if the reader sees them as such), if he were anyone else.   I guess I could have named him the Italian word for knife, but that seemed a little heavy-handed, a bit of overkill, you know?
 
NYMag:  Why is Nerio called “the knife” anyway?
 
Mr. Bruce:  It has to do with the feeling he produces in Alex.  Seeing Nerio and engaging with him, sometimes feels like being stabbed with a knife.  It’s a very clean stab though.  It’s deliberate and precise.  Nerio is supposed to be sharp, slick, angular, and completely fascinating. 
 
NYMag:  What happens to Alex?
 
Mr. Bruce: I’m not quite sure.  I wanted it to be slightly Sputnik Sweetheart-like in the sense that Alex gets lost in this odd lemon grove rave.  I like to think it’s a moment of lucidity and self-discovery.  Nerio isn’t trying to hurt him.  He’s not like Robert in that regard.  I like that image of Alex in the grove in ecstasy as a closing shot of sorts. 

“Being with you and not being with you is the only way I have to measure time.” - Jorge Luis Borges. “The Threatened”, from The Book of Sand [ El Libro de arena]
 
I had always imagined my life thus far to be a wry variant of metafiction. I lived books. I lived the words I read and I respired them, the ink blots fusing to form alternate worlds all settled in my lungs and bred with my atoms. Being such an invested participant in literature, it is really no wonder I became a scholar of Argentine writer Jorge Luis Borges. He wrote of simultaneous futures, of forking paths and of labyrinths, of magical realism infused in the quotidian. He manifested the world as it appeared through my kaleidoscope eyes.
             I am not yet sure if meeting her was an emulation of the dream or the rupture that sundered the dream forever.  I remember seeing her for several mornings before we actually spoke. Café Las Violetas, on Avenida Rivadavia, Buenos Aires. They came to know me there very quickly.  I was the twentysomething American  who sat in the same table near the window each time and rotated between two drinks ( un cappuccino or un espresso por favor): always surrounded by my usual entourage- that is, a variation of feverishly annotated, dog-eared texts and ink-stained journals.
            I think I only noticed her because of the euphony of her footsteps.
             (My mind worked in a series of unfathomable mechanics that to this day baffles me. I was constantly navigating the world as if it were a maze. Ambiguity is thy name, an un-amused former girlfriend had once said to me. A real fucking living paradox you are, Cameron. She took an emphatic drag from her cigarette and I said Yes, isn’t it pretty to think so?)
            Her walk…it sounded like spring rain on dampened April soil. Tender  soft-lipped passion.
She gingerly touched her feet to the ground, her spry cocoa  legs extending like Degas’ ballerina’s. She walked right up to the counter and asked for un café con leche y una media luna por favor.
            She was wearing what appeared to be a private school uniform. She coquettishly puckered her lips and blew on a stray piece of caramel hair, revealing a fey-like countenance and azure eyes. I shuddered imagining the heat of her breath. And she left, with her languid lilting footsteps.
            My mornings became marked by her ephemeral visits- it was as if the upper left chamber of my heart calculated the precisions of her movements. She was the cadence to my pulsations.
            It was the seventeenth morning. As always, I was entwined in the limbs of my latest textual endeavor, a deconstructionist analysis of Borges’ Ficciones. There was a singular phrase I highlighted and re- wrote endlessly:” A labyrinth of symbols... An invisible labyrinth of time.” I must have repeated it out loud to myself quite a few times. It was quite consuming, actually. Which is why I didn’t notice her approaching me.
            “You should be careful. People start to get suspicious when a young gringo sits alone in a café muttering riddles to himself.”
A demi-mirage? It appeared to actually be her, she of the mellifluous gait, standing before me- hair in a tousle, leather bag slung over slender shoulder, coffee and pastry in hand, eyes infused with cerulean ardor.
            I somehow pulled some words from my chasmal larynx.
“It’s not quite a riddle, per se,” I replied. “It’s a line from a story by Borges, called”-
“The Garden of Forking Paths,” she responded in her lyrical accent. “We just read that in Literatura Avanzada. Really perplexing, yes? I was not entirely enamored with it.”
            I realized she was now sitting right across from me, taking bites from  her media luna and looking expectantly in my direction.
            “What are you reading that for anyway? Are you a literature major at the university?”
            I shook my head, attempting to mask the incredulity that my morning chimera was sitting a mere heart’s tremble away.
            “I graduated from the University of Chicago two years ago. I’m working on a book about  the life and works of Borges, and I got a grant from my graduate program at Brown to study under one of the professors here for a year  to supplement my research. I’ve been here for a month so far.”
            “You’re American,” she stated spartanly. Before I had the chance to reply, she added, “Americans are always enraptured by Borgesian phenomenology. Russians, too, incidentally. ”
            “You don’t find it interesting?”
She arched her back and drummed her fingers pensively.
“It’s not that I don’t find it fascinating,” she finally said. “I really do. It’s just a matter of personal taste, I suppose. Borges is about consciousness, about imagination and delving into the psyche. It’s about finding missing pieces and navigating your way through abstractions. It’s all very interesting. But when I read it, I don’t feel much. It’s all cognitive, not sentient. And I think that reading should do more than make you think.”
            An Innocent Reader, I thought to myself.
“I definitely agree that he isn’t the great romantic. But I don’t think that it’s completely fair to say that his works are pure cognition. Take “Funes, the Memorious’, for instance. Have you read that one?”
            She half-nodded. “I think so- that’s the one about the man with the supernatural memory, right? He can painstakingly recall every minute detail he’s ever encountered, but lacks the ability to make generalizations and form abstractions- including love. He’s tormented by his genius.”
            “Exactly. It’s tragic. That such a form of genius comes at an immense cost. And The House of Asterion?”
            “That’s the bull one, right?”
“Right you are. The Minotaur, to be exact. He spends his days in solitude, just running around the corridors of a maze- he sees his reflection and pretends that another minotaur has come to visit him. How is that not heartbreaking?”
She sighed. “You’re right. I guess what I’m talking about is love. I want to read about love. I think that love is what makes one human. That’s why I like Neruda’s poems, and Nabakov and Marukami’s novels, and even Kerouac delves into love. Life is a love story. Life is a fiction.”
            I was speechless.
            Life is a love story. Life is a fiction.
            She was my missing character.
She continued. “I guess I’m just waiting for my love story.” Her eyes flickered.
“I’m Camila Julieta by the way. But really just Julieta. Julieta Errante. ”
             ” Cameron. Paradiso.”
Julieta ( foreign vibration of that name delicious upon my tongue) cocked her head.
            “Where did you say you were from, Senor Paradiso?”.
            “I didn’t. I grew up in Manhattan, went to college in Chicago and last year I moved to Providence, Rhode Island to start my graduate degree at Brown. And now I’m here. Are you from Buenos Aires?”
            She laughed. “Of course. I’ve never lived anywhere else my entire life. My father even wants me to stay and go to the University of Buenos Aires next year. It’s one of the best schools in the continent, but I want to travel. Get experience. Paris, maybe. Or Madrid. Maybe Venice. Anywhere with a beautiful name.”
            I nodded. “Wanderlust has always been one of my greatest vices.”
            Julieta smiled wanly. “Do you ever write fiction of your own, Cameron Paradiso? Or do you just analyze it?”
             “I also believe that life can be an odd sort of fiction,” I replied. “It’s like an intertext- a novel comprised of bits and pieces of stories you pick up along the way. But as for writing my own short stories… I had write some in a few creative writing classes in college, and I suppose they were good, but the main problem was they were all the same. They all involved a puzzle of some sort,” I recounted.
            “No love stories?” She leaned back in her chair, and I could tell she was teasing me.
            “Not in the traditional sense, I suppose. But sort of. My love life was always a maze.”
            This made her laugh. Effervescent ethereal.
“I’ve had silly infatuated boyfriends in garage bands who wrote me love songs and scribbled off-rhythm sonnets on napkins. One even gave me a nice little bruise. But,” and she sighed “No written story.”
            I shrugged. “I just couldn’t write it. I’ve  been in love, I think. Not great passion, but I’ve cared about a girl before. I just couldn’t put it into writing. I guess it just wasn’t ready to be worked into my story yet.”
            Julieta grinned and stood up. “I have school. It was lovely to meet you, Mr. Ficciones.”
            Exeunt. All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. Is this accurate? Reality is not always probable, or likely. Life is a moving, scintillating narrative. We construct the story as we go along: does that make it true or does that make it a dream? Neither? Both? It seems to me that the objects of my affections are the closest things to fixed points in my own interior galaxy. I know I love you, and soon little else becomes relevant or reliable. Being with you and not being with you is the only way I have to measure time. The ticking of a clock is replaced by your in take and out take of breaths.
            “Put your pen down, silly.” Pause, your arms folded over bare chest. “Look, it’s raining outside.”  
            Droplets streak down the window pane, my fingers trace your spine.
            I roll over to your side of the bed and kiss the side of your neck. Julieta of the symphonic saunter, this is your love story, my dear. Even though it is  wholly and completely true. 
 
***The writer’s interview with The New Yorker
 
TNY: This story covers a lot of ground. Can you briefly give some background as to what inspired you to write it?
 
AC: I visited Buenos Aires last March with my family and fell in love with it, so I knew that’s where I wanted my story to be set. It’s such an interesting city because of the amalgamation of European and South American values. I also studied Borges last year in my AP Literature class and he has become one of my favorite writers, so I wanted to incorporate his works into this story as well.
 
TNY:Can you explain some background about Borges and his works, for those who may not be familiar?
AC: Jorge Luis Borges is said to be the greatest Latin American writer. He is certainly the most well-known outside of South America. He wrote mostly short stories and poems, and developed a theme called magical realism- basically the fact that surreal events are part of everyday life. His short stories are all sort of like maps or puzzles, with things to decipher along the way.
 
AC: TNY:What’s the significance of all the mentions of labyrinths and mazes?
Two reasons. First off, it’s an allusion to a collection of short stories by Borges called Labyrinths, with maps and mazes being a key theme. The other reason is because I wanted to have a symbol that tied together Cameron’s navigating his way through life and the more universal notion of physically travelling.
 
TNY: What are some other direct allusions, literary or otherwise, you make here?
 
AC: Well, I loosely based the idea of life being a dream or fiction off of Marukami’s Sputnik Sweetheart, as well as the “Right, Right you are” line.. Cameron’s response to his unnamed ex-girlfriend ( Yes, isn’t it pretty to think so) is a reference to the last line in Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises: I wanted to do this to try and embody Jake Barnes’ ironic quips into Cameron’s personality, and also to try and help the reader make a link between Cameron’s unsuccessful relationship and Jake’s hopelessness in relationships. Cameron’s last name, Paradiso, is an allusion to On The Road’s Sal Paradise: I wanted to secure the theme that he was constantly travelling and searching, and like Sal he is a writer. Julieta’s name is also literary: Camila is a loose reference to Camille from On the Road, to try and supplement the vague reference Julieta makes to being abused…I wanted to try and portray her as a hopeless romantic who still hopes for the best despite being let down. And obviously Julieta refers to Shakespeare’s Juliet, an age-old symbol of true love and romanticism.
 
TNY: Anything else?
AC: I use some lines from other works towards the end. “All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women are players” is from Shakespeare’s As You like It. There two direct quotes from Borges: “Reality is not always probable, or likely” and “Being with you and not being with you is the only way I have to measure time.”
 
TNY: Are there any works that inspired your story but were not directly referenced?
 AC: I think that the idea of Cameron watching Julieta and admiring her beauty is very reminiscent of Death in Venice. Just like Aschenbach wathed Tadzio walk by him every day, and admiring him as if he’s a work of art, Cameron observes Julieta very closely and compares her a work of art, Degas’ paintings of the ballerinas. Also, one of the reasons Aschenbach loves Tadzio’s name is because of how exotic sounding it is, which I also referenced with Cameron. I was inspired by Death in Venice and Sputnik Sweetheart to create the themes of the nature of writing and life as if it were a story or work of art that is constructed. I used the idea of an intertext that Cameron and Julieta discuss- the combination of all different stories and writings, just as life itself is made up of collective experiences and observations.
 
TNY: What were you hoping to convey about Cameron and his ability or inability to love?
I just wanted to show that prior to meeting Juliet, Cameron still believed that life was a sort of story, but his personal story was lacking a main element. And that element is love, or a special interpersonal relationship. That’s why he constantly felt like he was travelling through a maze. He couldn’t write about love because as he said, it wasn’t a part of his story yet. And then Julieta made it a part of his story.
 
TNY: Why did you jump from their first meeting to a seemingly developed relationship?
It’s a story. Boy meets girl. Simple as that.
 
TNY: What is the reader supposed to make of the meta-fictitious twist at the end of the story?
 
AC: Whatever they want, really. To decide for themselves if life is a story, and is a story necessarily true or not true? It was supposed to invoke thoughts about the nature of life and creativity, of realism and surrealism. Not necessarily to provide an answer. There really isn’t one. 

 
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?”
 
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
 
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.
 
 

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.
 

Vladimir hated his parents for dragging him here. He hated his grandmother’s creaky wooden house and he hated the dirty smelly locals. He missed their apartment in downtown Moscow. Most of all, though, he hated his mother because she didn’t speak to him anymore. His grandmother, her mother, had died one month ago and now his mother was a ghost. It was as if her mind was off, wandering lost somewhere. Vladimir understood that this trip was for her, but that didn’t make it any less painful.
 
To have a break, Vladimir’s father had told him, to get away from the city.
 
But I like the city…
 
You’re fifteen, Vlad. One summer at your grandmother’s old summerhouse won’t kill you. Do it for your mother.
 
Will there be a computer?
 
No.
 
A TV?
 
No.
 
A telephone??
 
Yes, in the town center. Just bring some books. You’ll be fine. With those words Vladimir’s father ended the conversation. He was a big man with a thick beard.
 
Vladimir couldn’t remember a time when there hadn’t been computer games or TV readily available to him. He even had a girlfriend back home. She wore shorter skirts than any other girl and bright red paint on her lips. He sighed, now here he was, in the middle of nowhere. Vladimir’s father was reading last week’s newspaper and his mother was looking out the window. The sky was getting dark. Vladimir stood up and walked out into the blue evening. He turned right and walked to the little store up the road. As he walked into the store the shriveled old woman behind the counter woke with a start. Her lower lip hung down and revealed three, brown teeth.
 
Um, Where are the candies? Asked Vladimir.
 
Candies? Repeated the old woman.
 
You know, can-dies? Vladimir waited, … sweets?
 
Ahh, you want sweet! The old women reached below the counter and pulled out a cup of deep, red, wild strawberries and arranged her drooping lips into a smile.
 
No, no. Vladimir sighed. He left the store and headed toward the old summerhouse. Moon glowed silver off the tired tops of dried-out weeds that grew thick along the edges of the dirt road. Vladimir heard a hushed rustling in the roadside weeds, like whispers in the dark. He stopped dead and spotted a dash of moonlit white before everything was still again and too silent. Vladimir stood frozen on the road. Wide-eyed, he craned his neck to see through the plants. Nothing. Vladimir walked back to the house accompanied by the sound of his own footsteps, distant piano and a chorus of crickets.
 
In the morning Vladimir couldn’t sleep in with the sun blaring through his window and sweat dripping down his face. He groaned irritatedly several times before finally going to the kitchen. His parents weren’t there. The house was so hushed. He looked through the back doorway into their overgrown yard. The early sun lit up floating dust and pollen like speckles of gold drifting idly from the sky. Vladimir watched the sunlit air with sleepy eyes. Far off someone was playing piano again. Then there it was—that mutter of disturbed weeds and a little glimpse of white. The rustling began scurrying away. Vladimir took a few steps after it, but his father’s huge frame appeared in the doorway, his mother close behind. Vladimir pushed past them and stood with one hand on the doorframe, squinting in the sunlight, but the plants were quiet and still. Only bugs hummed and children faintly giggled in the distance.
 
As afternoon approached, Vladimir found himself sitting in the dust in his yard. His clothing was dusty. There were smears of dirt left where he had wiped sweat from his brow. He waved bugs out of his face and grimaced in the sun as he repeatedly hit one stone against another. His mother was picking flowers and his father was reading the paper. Vladimir thought of home. With a start, he noticed his mother was at his side. Vladimir shielded the sunlight from his eyes and looked up at her sullen face. She was holding out her hand and in the palm rested one, tiny, dusty, wild strawberry.
 
Eat it, Vlad. She said, good for the soul. Vladimir took the strawberry with his filthy fingers and put it in his mouth. It was so small that he swallowed it in a second. He didn’t take his eyes off his mother’s.
 
Yum, he said. She smiled vaguely and ambled away. Vladimir looked after her; she is so lost and gone, he thought.
 
Vladimir spent the rest of his day outside thrashing the parched plant stalks with a stick and squashing any helpless bee, beetle, or fly he could find. He waited eagerly for that familiar rustle, and squinted to catch just a peek of that white. But there was nothing. As the sky grew darker and the crickets grew louder, Vladimir abandoned the back yard and joined his parents at the dinner table.
 
That night Vladimir watched dust float through a beam of moonlight from his window, flecks of silver dancing in the air. In the yard the weeds swayed gently in the breeze and the crickets were silent for once. Vladimir looked at the clock on his wall, but it was broken. Lying awake in the hazy night, Vladimir waited for sleep to come. The instant he heard a disturbance in the weeds below his window, he shot out of bed and into the yard. The overrun weeds shook wildly as the cause of the disturbance ran off. Vladimir chased it through increasingly knotted weeds, then through tall reeds growing in marshy earth. He burst through the last of the reeds and stopped sharp. All was still.
 
In front of Vladimir stretched wild grass all the way to the edge of a pond. Moonlight glowed all around him and there was not a house in sight. At the edge of the water stood a very young girl in a white dress. Vladimir couldn’t tell how long they looked each other in the eye. Soon the girl turned away from him and sat down on the soggy pond bank, her feet stretched into the water. Vladimir approached her slowly, silently. As he got closer he saw dirt stains on her dress and dust smears on her arms. Her dark blond hair was badly in need of a wash. He sat down beside her and looked at her eyes. She only stared straight ahead. After time had gone by, Vladimir turned his own face to the glowing expanse before him. Water lapped around his earthy feet. The girl put her hand softly on his dirty knuckles. Everything was still and silent. Vladimir thought of his mother.
 
Interview With the Author, Rachel Sipser:
 
Q: What was the inspiration for this story?
 
A: Well, I wanted to write a story that tackled some of the themes we looked at in my Travel Fictions class this semester, but from a different angle. Since none of the travel stories were from a child’s perspective I thought it would be interesting to examine how some of these very adult themes might apply to someone younger. Also, most of my experiences traveling have been with my parents so writing about a family felt familiar. Another familiar aspect was that of Russian culture: My grandmother grew up in rural Lithuania (in a town called Daugai) and my grandfather grew up in Russia. I spent lots of time with them when I was younger. None of this story is true, but the character of the little girl is based on a little girl I met one night on a playground in Vladimir, Russia two summers ago.
 
Q: What are the themes you feel you “tackled?”
 
A: After reading Sputnik Sweetheart, I was interested in the theme of dealing with trauma. As a result I made Vladimir’s mother, having recently suffered the death of her own mother, somewhat lost in her own world. This also tied in with the broader theme of being lost in general, except I wanted to apply this theme mentally instead of geographically. The main theme in my story is that of going from an urban setting to a rural one. In The Sun Also Rises, Jake’s transition into a pastoral environment purifies him and I wanted the Russian countryside to have a similar effect on Vladimir. It seems in today’s culture, kids are growing up and losing their innocence so quickly. In my story I wanted Vladimir to regain some of his lost innocence (represented by the girl in white). Some other smaller themes were descriptions of places, interaction with locals, miscommunication, and familial love.
 
Q: Is there a message you are trying to send with this story?
 
A: I have always been fascinated by the honest beauty of nature. I feel that this honest beauty also stems from innocence. It saddens me to see children these days enthralled by computer games and television where people are just shooting one another, so I guess I was just trying to say, don’t grow up too fast, or appreciate nature more, or something like that.

Q: Why did you choose to include the details about wild strawberries?

A: I feel that wild strawberries are more natural and and beautiful than the large, processed strawberries that most americans (including myself) buy in super markets. In most small Russian towns, young children and/or old women sell cups of wild strawberries on the streets. When I was in Russia, the group I was traveling with thought I was really weird because I would obsessively buy these little, deformed strawberries wherever we went. They actually taste much sweeter and more earthy than the super-market-straberries I mentioned earlier. In my story, I used the wild strawberries to represent the pastoral countryside as opposed to the superficial/artificial city. 
 
Q: Okay, last question, what did you find to be the greatest challenge in writing this story?
 
A: I definitely had a lot of difficulty telling an effective story (with beginning, middle and end) in around 1,000 words. I have always admired short stories, but writing this story gave me a whole new appreciation of their genius. It was actually a lot of work for me to come up with a way to examine such complex themes in such limited space. I didn’t dislike this challenge however, I felt it quite added to my understanding of the themes I chose to explore.

Chopin’s Nocturne #2 in E flat played clumsily from the apartment across the hall. Every afternoon at around two, her young neighbor practiced whatever piece had been assigned to her that week. She usually tried to avoid being home during these practice sessions, but with her recent layoff from work, this had become increasingly more difficult. 

On some level, Aurelie welcomed this need to find a new direction for her life. Too long had she been going through the paces of her nine to five office job, following the guidelines set down by her younger boss and enduring the flirtatious behavior of her co-workers. 

Setting down the fresh bread from her local boulangerie, Aurelie shooed away the hungry cat from under her feet. Dejected, the scrawny creature slunk back to her window seat, curling up on the back of the faded arm chair all the while staring down her owner. With her boyfriend back in Spain for Christmas, the cat was her only companion. They were not at the point in their relationship when he would invite her to meet his family, and besides, she wasn’t sure that she were up for such an awkward and stress inducing activity. She had no intent to marry him, and she had resolved to never meet the families of her flings. That would be showing attachment, something that Aurelie refused to do.  

He had suggested that she should go visit her mother in America. It had been over twelve years since she had seen her, and occasionally she felt a nagging guilty feeling lingering over her head that she knew had to do with neglecting to make the trip. Aurelie had grown up in Boston until she was ten. After her parents divorced, she had moved with her father to his native France. It wasn’t what the family counselors had suggested, but her father’s temper scared her mother into abiding by whatever rule or regulation he set down. So with her stuffed suitcases packed away in the trunk of the taxi, Aurelie said goodbye to her mother and the life she had known. Tears mixed with the misty humid rain, restricting her vision to the point where everything blurred together. The entire ride to Logan airport was spent hugging herself in the corner of the cab, keeping an ample distance between herself and her dad. She would have preferred to stay with her mother in Boston, but she too feared his occasional outbursts. 

For the first few years, she would go back and forth to the States for vacations. However, she soon became attached to her friends in Antony and the number of visits dwindled down to zero by the time she was seventeen. Phone calls were more frequent, once a month at the least, twice a week at the most. As her mother aged and her health deteriorated, the calls became more serious, focusing almost entirely on subjects that Aurelie detested. Her most recent conversation had been about nursing homes. Years of an abusive marriage had taught her to be subservient, so when her doctors told her it was time to move into an assisted living community, she was more than willing to comply. At the end of the last call, her mother’s voice saddened and Aurelie felt that her time to see her was waning. 

Maybe she should go see her, she thought. Her cat purred as if in agreement. She had no responsibilities to uphold here and her job search had been futile. Only one company had replied to her resume and even they seemed less than enthusiastic about having her as an employee.  Sighing, Aurelie logged onto her computer and booked an one way ticket for the following week. 

Touching down in Logan had brought on more emotions than Aurelie had expected. She knew that returning to her home would make her sentimental, yet she had not anticipated the force of the feelings that swept over her. Nothing looked the same and the foreignness of the supposedly familiar place made her feel like a stranger. Consulting a map of the terminal brought her to tears. This wasn’t the homecoming she had imagined. Aurelie wanted to flee back to France and forget this misstep; she should never have come. 

Her mother was supposed to be waiting for her at the gate and Aurelie realized with a jolt that she wasn’t sure that she would be able to recognize her. Feeling dizzy with exhaustion and nerves, she made her way to the waiting area, unable to focus her eyes long enough on each person to scout out her mother. Her surroundings began to spin and Aurelie frantically grappled for something to hold onto. Everything she reached out for disappeared before she could steady herself and the result led her farther into a sense of panic. She realized that the trip that was supposed to make her whole again had broken her down; she was alone in a strange new place.

Aurelie fell to the ground. The last thing she saw before blacking out was a white haired woman smiling down at her. 

Nothing was the same. 

Her eyes opened to see a nurse standing over her. Unaware of her awakening, the nurse continued monitoring Aurelie’s vitals on the beeping machines by her bedside. Aurelie slowly began to process her surroundings. The white walls, the pastel colored hospital gown, the sterile looking appliances and the face of the nurse gave her no clue as to what country she was in. She could have been anywhere, and she found herself not caring. Aurelie felt a liquid trickle down her forehead and reached her hand up to wipe whatever it was away. Bringing her hand back down, she was startled to see that it was blood. Still, she was not bothered, and once again, closed her eyes.

The door opened and Aurelie raised her eyelids just long enough to see her boyfriend walk through the door. 

She pretended to go back to sleep. 

 

Q+A with the author:

 

What was the main message of this story?

In all the stories we read in class, the characters always traveled to a new place. They never revisited an old place with a new pair of eyes. The idea that returning to a changed place and confronting the change intrigued me. How would someone react when realizing that she did not recognize a place and people that once meant so much to her? Would she feel that she had lost a fundamental aspect of who she was or would she be able to accept that this was natural? 

 

What are the allusions to Sputnik Sweeheart, and why did you allude to the novel? 

Besides the woman with white hair that Aurelie sees at the airport, the reference to classical piano is mirrored in the description of Sumire and Miu’s first conversation and the instruments used in the recording of the song after which Sumire was named. The aspect of trauma is also featured heavily in the novel. Sputnik Sweetheart delves into the metaphysical more than any of the other novels. My story is primarily about how being unable to recognize one’s home can dramatically impact an individual’s sense of self and make them feel emotionally as well as physically lost. Sputnik Sweetheart focuses on how an individual can feel broken apart and Aurelie’s feeling of being a stranger in a place that should be familiar leads her to a loss of identity. 

 

This is a personal piece (as in it follows intimately one character). Why is it not in first person? 

I felt that third person could capture the lost identity better than first person. If she were still telling her story, she would obviously still have to be aware of everything about her. Third person lets her have some gaps. 

 

What prompted you to provide so much detail on Aurelie’s childhood. Why did you include the aspects of trauma?

This was also an allusion to Sputnik Sweetheart. When people go through extreme trauma like abuse, they occasionally dissociate and revisit the trauma in their heads. When this happens, they lose touch with the current world and focus only on the past (like Miu’s experience on the ferris wheel.) With a history of trauma, Aurelie’s reaction to coming home is more understandable.  She is overwhelmed by the unfamiliar and is also coming back  to the place where she originally left her mother and started her life with just her father.  The taxi ride on the way to Logan when leaving Boston was an extremely emotional time for her, so coming back to Logan later would probably bring on similar feelings. Her desire to not feel attached to her boyfriend can also be attributed to her feelings towards men that stemmed from her father’s treatment of her. And because she tries to feel disconnected, her desire to ignore him while in the hospital makes more sense. 

 

How is this travel fiction?

This is travel fiction in the sense that in the act of going somewhere, the main character comes to a conclusion about herself that could only have been brought on by an experience like this. It is the act of coming home that forces Aurelie to confront how the distance she has maintained for so long from her origins has affected her and how even though she identifies Boston as her home, it has become a foreign place over time. She still feels like a stranger and goes through the same stress that comes from being a lost traveler. 

 
Doors closing. Grace leapt out of the subway. The crowding people traded places with her and she was left alone on the platform. The subway cars screeched away and into the next tunnel.

Grace was a girl with shorts, a t-shirt and a small backpack.

She looked for directions pointing to the exit… There! She followed the signs, glancing at the advertisements along the walls. People had torn off and re-arranged the celebrity faces and text. Some of the jokes were pretty funny, “JOHNNY DEPP STARS IN ENGLISH SCHOOL”

As she started climbing up the stairs she began to feel the heat again, the cruel sun. It wouldn’t have been so bad if there had been a breeze, the baking cement sucked too.

Grace reached street level and felt the sun drench her body. She looked around to try to locate herself. Down at the corner she read 50 Street and 8 Ave. Okay, the West side.

She was already sweating through her t-shirt. She needed her breeze. She saw a pizza place called Mario’s Empire and walked towards it. Pushing the door open she felt the gust of A/C hit her face.

The pizzeria was pretty small with only three tables lined against one wall. There was an old man at the table beside the door. He was leaning against the window. Along the other side was a counter with tons of different spices to cover your pizza. She walked up to the cashier.

“What can I get you?” A man asked while pushing a pie around in the oven. His back was to Grace.

“Just a slice and a small Coke,” Grace said casually.

“Sure thing.” He flipped a slice on to a paper plate and got her Coke.

“That’s gonna be two fifty.” He was sweating a lot; the A/C didn’t help with the heat from the oven. He used his apron to mop the sweat off his face. There were some photographs of firefighters poking from the top of the cashier machine. Grace stared at the smiling faces.

She pulled a five-dollar bill from her pocket, got her change and carried her lunch over to the middle table. It felt good to sit down and think without any rush.

“You really gonna go to New York City, Grace?“ She remembered her little brothers asking her. They could not imagine the journey their sister must have taken to get here, but it really wasn’t that bad. The train was comfortable and, for her, this “journey” was long overdue.

Grace was from a town with about five stores. She had been saving money from work that whole year, and New York was at the top of her list. She paid for everything.

It had been pretty great so far. She found a cheap hotel and did something new each day. She walked all over Manhattan; the other boroughs didn’t interest her too much. It was Manhattan that was in the movies and T.V., who cares about the Bronx?

Grace had been in the city for about a week. She felt good wandering around by herself, there was no mystery back home. Her mom didn’t know where she was. Grace’s mom was pretty neurotic and always knew who she was hanging out with, but it was only a train ride after all, no big deal. She knew she couldn’t stay much longer though. She was running out of money quicker than she’d expected, a cheap hotel is not too cheap she realized.

Also the days had been getting hotter and hotter. This made her less motivated to walk around so much, so she started riding the subway. While thinking about all of this she suddenly remembered her pizza, it had cooled down. She had a bite of cheese pizza and washed it down with some Coke.

She looked to her left. The old man was still leaning against the window. He wasn’t sleeping but just stared out into the street. People who walked by would catch his gaze, but would immediately look away and walk on. He just stared on. Grace tried to look as comfortable as him.

During the trip she’d try to melt into each environment like any New York local. Oh sure, this was her favorite pizza place. She came here all the time, who the hell are you?

She took a few more bites and finished the small Coke, but she didn’t want to leave yet.

Soon a family walked into the pizza place. The father and son wore khaki shorts with button down shirts. The mother had a summer dress. They quietly conversed about what they wanted to order. They did not melt in. The sweaty pizza guy perked up.

He pulled out a glob of dough and started tossing it into the air. The family stopped whispering and stared at the show. Small smiles crept into their faces. Grace watched. The old man in the corner stood up.

“AH HELL, THAT AIN’T SHIT!” He hollered at the family.

All three spun around in horror. The pizza guy missed the falling dough and it slapped on the floor. Grace tried to act cool. The old man pushed past the table he was sitting at and marched to the door. When he had left there was an awkward silence in the pizza place.

“Hey well, uh, welcome to New York! Ha-ha!” The pizza guy was embarrassed. The family was still frozen, staring at the old man who stumbled across the street. They had heard about this. They would remember this.

“You all take your time with the menu, have a seat.” The pizza guy said cheerfully.

“Hey, kid.” He turned to Grace. “Get the hell outta here, you finish your slice? Now GO.”

Grace liked that. She tried to stagger out of the pizza place just like the old man had done. She could not stand tourists in the city.
           
The streets were still roasting.
 
INTERVIEW
Q: First of all, I just have to say I love the story.
A: Oh, thanks a lot.
Q: Why did you choose to have it set in New York City? That’s where you are currently living, correct?
A: Yeah, I chose the city because I’m still trying to get used to the shift myself, and I thought it’d be appropriate to use. I wanted to base this project on my own experiences, and not use Google Maps to try to make up a story, which I tried at first.
Q: I saw a similarity between your writing and Ian McEwan, specifically his novella The Comfort of Strangers. Is this coincidence?
  A: No, I was definitely thinking about that book while I was writing this story. I really liked the simple yet ambiguous narration of that story and tried to emulate it in a way. But I also looked at a lot of other travel fictions as well.
Q: Like what?
A: Oh, well the character Daisy Millerwas a sort of foundation for Grace. I wanted to take the challenge of using a young girl as the main character. I wanted Grace to have similar cockiness, but not to such an extreme degree. I was also interested in the idea of losing yourself in your travels. I was specifically thinking about Paul Theroux’s short story “The Gateway of India”. The main character, Dwight, genuinely feels at ease in the crowded streets of Mumbai. I tried to recreate that in Grace’s “melting” into the pizza scene. Also when I chose the name “Grace” I was sort of referencing the heavenly or just religious aspect of the name “Sal Paradise”.
Q: What was the idea behind describing the scenes in such close detail?
A: Well, I figured with a limit of a 1000 words I should try to focus on really describing the scenes I choose because I’ve only got so much to work with. I was also thinking about the main character in Xiao Lu Guo’s A Concise Chinese-English Dictionary for Lovers. I really liked how Z would note every little event that happened, I thought this would be a good quality for a first time New York trip. I am constantly overwhelmed by the tiniest events that happen on the streets, so I tried to translate this into Grace’s character.
Q: There is an obvious theme of authenticity in this story. Are there any comments you have about the desire of authenticity?
A: It’s an essential part of any trip. Writers like Hemingway and Kerouac loved to write about the interaction between locals and travelers. It’s a really enigmatic and beautiful relationship, because there is always the ephemeral overtone. I tried to emulate the “shrouded traveler” in Kerouac’s On the Road as the angry man. Grace is inspired by this man’s raw and authentic New York spirit. Also she is aware that her trip will soon come to an end and so she tries to experience as much as possible in the time she has. What could be a better conclusion to a trip than getting being mistaken for a local?
Q: So that was a triumphant moment for Grace?
A: Definitely. It’s my own sort of take on “the abyss” of travel. Paul Bowles’ The Sheltering Sky had some influence on my understanding of this feeling of losing yourself in travel, but I like to think mine is a bit more up beat. Instead of having the abyss represent an existential loss of hope I had my character embrace and celebrate this loss of identity. Grace is happy to be considered just another face in the crowd.
Q: Could I have your autograph?

Overwrought by a morning of hard work, I set out for a nap after a small portion of biscotti and a cup of herbal tea, as usual. Afterwards, instead of following my routine of going to the study for continuation of productive work in the afternoon, I ventured out for a short walk around the neighborhood for some fresh air.
 
I knew my neighborhood very well as I have resided here for decades, since early childhood.  I never had any desire for the outside for I had everything I had wanted at home. I dedicated my life to writing and have become the world-renowned writer. I'd gained honor, dignity, and prosperity, all of which I'd been determined to achieve.
 
During the walk, however, I saw the strangest red-haired man with a contorted face I have never seen before. Although I tried to forget about such an unpleasant sight, I couldn’t. I had hard time going to sleep even. The red creature came upon me with such suddenness and passion like a seizure and a hallucination. My heart throbbed with terror, yet with an inexplicable longing to travel.
 
For the first time in my sixty years of life, I craved for a change in scenery and a sense of freedom, and before long, I found myself sipping coffee on the train without any sort of plan of where to go or how long I’d be gone for.
 
I was not used to this new way of life for I had been used to a strict daily routine, always getting up early in the morning for a cup of tea and biscuits and morning work, light lunch and a short nap, and then the long afternoon work that ended right before bedtime. I toiled with a great amount of concentration and as a result I have become one of the most prolific writers, not to mention many honors and recognition my works have received.
 
Fortunately, however, my worry of not knowing what to do quickly got resolved when I saw the most beautiful girl in a café in Barcelona. She was playing the violin with such vitality and passion I never knew before. This is IT, I thought. I was astonished anew, yes, startled, at the godlike beauty of this girl, whose name I later found out was Daisy, as well as the dazzling intensity of life she carried herself with as she made the most glorious music.
 
From that day, no, from that moment on, I followed the footsteps of this absolute beauty and brilliance. Daisy was “on holiday,” crisscrossing all of Europe, constantly moving from one city to another; she was usually with various gentlemen or lady friends. In every new destination, she dutifully fulfilled her tasks as a tourist with an exceptionally high spirit, visiting churches, palaces, and shopping for souvenirs, and always looked for the ideal restaurants, often dining earlier than suppertime or returning back to the one she dined before.  She usually carried a map and a camera with her, and I did so too. As a tourist, I had the privilege of carrying a camera everywhere and taking as many photographs. Through the lenses, I could zoom in on her when I found myself at a difficult distance.
 
It wasn’t long till when I realized that Daisy was the talk of the town and everywhere else she went. The problem was that she had not been following the code of conduct for a young lady like herself. It was hard to tell whether she was aware of that her behavior was disapproved. She seemed careless, fully absorbed in her own life, travelling from one place to another, engaging with one gentleman than another. Whether she was purely innocent like her name suggests or somehow intentional, I had no idea. All I knew was that she enjoyed wearing red and looked her best in it. That she was a beautiful American girl, liberal, high-spirited, full of natural liveliness.
 
One day, in Rome, she met an Italian gentleman of good character and stature, and the two would stay out late, raising eyebrows on the established American expatriates. It was quite a scandal and an embarrassment on the American community in Italy when the gentleman invited her to stay at his cottage in the countryside, in the southern part of Italy, by the most beautiful scenic beach.
 
It was literally the heaven on earth. In this paradise, Daisy would swim in the cool, walk along the sandy beach, have fresh seafood, and talk with her friend. Fully exposed to the grandeur of nature, I could see the real Daisy, even more brilliant and beautiful and pure, away from all the critical, judging eyes.
 
I also found consolation in nature, a sense of being home I have never known before, in the bright sunshine, in the white sand, and in the clear cool water.  My time there was the most beautiful and rejuvenating. All time had stopped and I couldn’t care less about anything other than myself being fully absorbed by light. Out in nature and in the presence of the most perfect beauty, I was so inspired every moment to write. My pen just moved and wrote the most genius stories ever as I took the beauty in Daisy and Mother Nature as my model.
 
Daisy aspired to be a writer. She would write non-stop but without much success. Her close friend and mentor encouraged her to take time and get experience, just like her hero Kerouac did. Seeking adventure and any sort of experience, she had set out to travel.
 
On the fourth day in the earthly paradise, however, the most bizarre and unfathomable happened. Daisy had vanished. Her disappearance was on the newspaper and the police got involved after her Italian friend called the cops. Daisy, my beautiful Sputnik Sweetheart, had managed to cross over to the other world, I figured. Although she wouldn’t know my existence like I knew hers (our eyes only met once throughout the entire journey), she had been my travelling companion all along.

As I packed my belongings, with a renewed sense of life I never knew for all my life, it came to me. It wasn’t Daisy who had vanished into the other side. I had stepped into the real world, where real life is. I stopped tailing Daisy of immense beauty and passion, a young girl who taught me the greatest lesson.
 
 
Exclusive Interview with the International Bestseller:
 
Q: How does the story relate to your primary interest and expertise in travel studies? Could you name some literary allusions?
 
A: This story is the first of my works in which I painstakingly intended on using various allusions and themes from various travel fictions, some of which are my favorite novels. The narrator is very much like Aschenbach in Thomas Mann’s Death in Venice, a writer who lived in his hometown for years, working hard for honor and dignity, never known fun or pleasure or passion before he sets out abroad, and sort of stalks a beautiful youth. In Mann’s story, Aschenbach is raptured by the beauty of  a younger boy to signify the loss of innocence and desire for youth; in my work, it’s not just about innocence and youth but also the vitality and passion of life that has been missing in the protagonist’s life. The girl is like Daisy in Daisy Miller, being a liberal American girl in Europe whose behavior is judged by those abroad, also like the jazz pianist in Kerouac’s On the Road who epitomizes IT when she plays the violin with much fervor and intensity, as well as Sumire in Sputnik Sweeterheart, who wants to be a writer and vanishes into the other world while trying to gain experience for writing material. Daisy being “on holiday,” fulfilling tourist duties is an allusion to The Comfort of Strangers, and the camera is a hint at its theme of voyeurism. The outdoors scene in nature is reference to Hemingway as the protagonist is rejuvenated and finds comfort in nature, as well as reference to Murakami, Kerouac, and Bowles; that the countryside is in the southern part of Italy is not just a passing detail as well. The fact that the narrator is writing about Daisy with so much attention and love is parallel to how K writes about Sumire.
 
Q: What were your intentions in writing this story?
A: My intention was to create a story of ideas that is full of, even convoluted with, literary allusions. This novel was purely written for myself; it was sort of a personal challenge and a fun project to bring as many of my favorite travel fictions together. There were so many other things I wanted to include but could not, such as the whole language barrier, encountering with locals and being deceived by them, or dealing with trauma, to name just a couple.
 
Q: As a reader, I could find quite a similarities between you and the narrator, both being established, international best-seller. Did you choose first-person narrative because it has an autobiographical element?
A: I can see how some readers might want to see it as it being my personal anecdote. However, it is purely fictional. I did write this story as I was travelling on my own in Europe, however. I suppose there is a similarity between me and the main character, in that both of us are writers, but other than that it’s all work of art.
 
Q: What were you thinking about when writing the story? What motivated or inspired you for such an original story?
A: While I was in Europe for about half-a-year or so, I read a number of my favorite travel fictions and the idea came to me—that it’d be quite a project to produce a story in which all these different ideas are mashed into one novel and create a conversation of different travel themes ahd philosophical ideas…
 
Q: What do you hope the reader gets away with?
A: I hope the reader enjoys the book, first of all. I don’t particularly have a “syllabus,” if you will, that I wanted all the readers to get. It was just an interesting project of ideas and it would be a great honor on my part if many people enjoyed it. Ho-ho-ho.
 

The sun crept into the compartment of the Golden Pass Line of the Swiss Rail peaking through the drawn curtain. Grant sat with his hands folded over the cover of The Comfort of Strangers on his lap. He wore a navy Henley with the top three buttons undone and a modest chestnut belt. His brown hair was tousled slightly and his ice blue eyes rested on the drape.

Audrey walked slowly through the corridor of the train. On her arm was a golden satchel; a porter followed her with two oversized Louis Vuitton pieces of luggage. Her long dark hair was kept in a fashionable bun and a soft bang swept across her angular face.

“Excusez-moi!” she yelped in a high-pitched voice as two little Swiss girls in matching patterned outfits rushed past her, holding pieces of broken chocolate that were melting in their hands. She stopped immediately to examine her tight fitting off the shoulder burgundy dress “Ouf, dieu merci,” she exclaimed and turned to the gentleman holding her bags. “Who is watching those children?” she asked judgmentally with a thick French accent.

“Mademoiselle,” the porter began softly. She held her thin hand up gracefully and pointed towards her ring finger where a large diamond surrounded by rubies shone. “My apologies, Madame. You see, the children are just returning to their compartment. I assure you they will be of no inconvenience to you.”

“You assure me?” she narrowed her pointed hazel eyes at him as the gold bands that hung on her thin wrist jingled.

“Oui Madame, if you experience any—“ At that moment a group of men she took for natives erupted from a cabin in front of them in shabby clothes clinking bottles of Feldschlossen and laughing heartily.

“Difficulté,” she finished for him and then pointed fiercely to the compartment to their left, “This one.” She moved towards it to remove herself from the path of the drunken men.

“Mais, Madame, this one is occupés.”
She ignored his remark and snatched the large bags from his gloved hands as she slid herself into the small room, shutting the door behind her. She sighed deeply as she pressed her thin body against the door.

“ ’Ello lovely,” Grant’s voice startled her, causing her polished hand to fly to her chest.

“Dieu,” she sighed as she let the bags drop to the ground, “I apologize, sir I-”

“Sit,” he motioned to the seat across from him, “No apology necessary, company is welcome.”

“Not all, I suppose,” she muttered softly as she seated herself carefully and situated her belongings, “There are such dreadful people out there.”

“There are dreadful people everywhere.” He commented solemnly. 

She nodded, “But out there are children with fingers dripping in chocolate, they nearly decorated my robe.”

“We are in Switzerland,” he noted politely, “Chocolate is everywhere, and they are just children.”

“Oui,” she replied, “But there are men in the hallway shouting. Every travel book I’ve read on Switzerland says that Swiss train etiquette is founded on respectful silence.”

“Also on privacy and discretion,” he added.

“Exactement!” she exclaimed.

“Yet you entered an occupied compartment regardless of this knowledge.” He was cleverer than she thought. “Perhaps, these men are tourists such as yourself.”

“Moi, a tourist?” she repeated turning her nose upwards. “I beg your pardon sir.”

“Forgive me if I’m mistaken, you seemed unfamiliar with the customs.”

“With customs that are contrary to what has been described to me by—“

“Guide books,” he finished.

“Mais oui.” She pouted.

 “Take a gander out the window,” he motioned.

They both turned to see the landscape of Central Switzerland spread out across the pane. The frosted tips of the mountains touched the clear blue sky. “A guide book tells you very little.” She let out a gasp at the enormity of the picturesque scene in front of her and brought her thin hand to her rouged lip. “Of what a place is really like.”

“Beau never mentioned this,” she sighed desolately.

“Beau?” he repeated.

“Count Beau Fitzroy,” she corrected. “I am to be Lady Fitzroy soon,” she held out the diamond.

“A regular Lady Ashley,” he chuckled.

“Pardon?”

“Oh nothing, you reminded me of someone.”

“Someone lovely, I hope,”

“You could say that,” he smiled. “Where does Lady Fitzroy travel?”

“Le Montreux Palace,” she smiled back. “Et toi?”

“Just going,” he replied. He didn’t ask about the Count. He presumed that little besides his status enchanted her; she was traveling unaccompanied, it was a fair assumption.

“Going?” she repeated as she crossed her legs.

“Following the rail,” he stated simply. “Seeing where life takes me.”

“Mais pourquoi?” she asked leaning forward. “Don’t you miss everything?”

“You experience it,” he replied and slid impulsively next to her. “Have you ever tasted Swiss Chocolate?”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” she resisted as she put a hand coyly to her narrow waist.

Ignoring her response, he removed a truffle from his pocket and unwrapped it, pressing it to her lips. Her eyes widened at its richness. ”Incroyable!” she sucked in the cream.

He was mesmerized by the pleasure the chocolate had induced. He saw his reflection in the window grabbing her face and drawing her to him, kissing her deeply. Feeling impetuous after tasting the unwrapped treat, she would kiss back, hard. He could see his figure fastening the lock of the compartment as she tugged at his belt, she intoxicated by sweetness and he by her naïveté. In the window the image of their bodies would entwine as they traveled from Lucerne over the Brunig Pass.

There was something about sharing intimacy as the train carried the world past them that stirred him. It didn’t matter where they were going, for an instant their lives moved harmoniously like the friction of wheels against steel. For a moment they could watch the scene change just slowly enough to make out the ridges of the mountaintop.

“Pardon.” They both turned as an unfamiliar face entered the compartment. 

The moment passed.  


Sadomasochist Robert Sits Down With The Author 

Robert: English is a beautiful language, full of misunderstandings. Can you help clear some of those in the intentions of your story?
 
Violette: Delighted to. The intention was to describe a moment before two travelers arrive at their destination. In On The Road, Kerouac signals the importance of this moment and how the means of getting somewhere, i.e., the experience, is just as important, if not more important, than the “there” itself. Grant references this in his line, “Just going,” and his emphasis on his traveling for experience.
 
Robert: I see. Could you explain your narrative selection?
 
Violette: I decided to write as an observer, similar to the narrative style in The Sheltering Sky, Daisy Miller andThe Comfort of Strangers, to tell the story from a third party view. I wanted to be able to capture the scene from both Audrey and Grant’s perspectives without favoring either party.
 
Robert: It’s interesting that you mentioned The Comfort of Strangers, any reason why it’s on Grant’s lap?
 
Violette: I’m glad you noticed that. I placed that there to make the parallel between the interaction of the two strangers in the train and the encounter between you and Mary and Colin in McEwan’s novel.
 
Robert: Quite an encounter. Now for the specifics, I’ve never done anything unintentionally; I’m assuming you are the same.
 
Violette: Indeed. Every detail about the scenery that the pair observes out the window, the luxury resort Le Montreux Palace where Audrey plans to stay, and the cheap beer in the hands of the drunken men, Feldschlossen, are accurate to Switzerland. I borrowed this technique of factual inclusions from both Kerouac and Hemingway to make the story more real.
 
Robert: Speaking of Hemingway, care to reveal any literary allusions?
 
Violette: Surely. Audrey was modeled both on Bowles’ Kit and Hemingway’s Brett. Grant references this by Audrey’s soon to be “Lady” status, which corresponds to Brett becoming Lady Ashley. She is like Kit in her excessive carrying of luggage, and borrows from both women in her glamorous nature. Having the scene occur on the train reflects what transpires in Bowles’ novel between Kit and Tunner. There is a romantic element about train travel that he employed that I wanted to experiment with.
 
Robert: Ah, experiments. Now what’s with the guidebooks? I prefer being led to very good places by strangers.
 
Violette: That’s most like Grant’s view, but Audrey represents a different traveler. She is a tourist because she follows the guidebooks dutifully and treats the porter with little respect, assuming authority. She studies the etiquette of the Swiss and does not understand that real Swiss life exists off the page, as do tourists like herself.
 
Robert: Hmm, now about the chocolate? I once ate two packets of cooking chocolate…
 
Violette: The chocolate is significant because it is a staple of Switzerland. On the children’s fingertips it represents both the native and the primitive and by eating it, Audrey comes closer to both. Her reaction unlocks something in Grant, which causes him to fantasize in a way similar to Paradise in On The Road.
 
Robert: I’m sorry to say we’ve run past our word count. I’m going to attend to some personal matters with my wife Caroline. 


Bowles, Paul  The Sheltering Sky
Hemingway, Ernest  The Sun Also Rises 
James, Henry  Daisy Miller 
Kerouac, Jack  On The Road
McEwan, Ian  The Comfort of Strangers