Wanderlust

I call this one "plenty of fish."

Sun, 28 Apr 2013 16:19:49 -0400

In Mexico, Eco Concerns Where Sea Lions Romp

Something big zoomed by in my peripheral vision. I whipped around for a better look, but whatever it was had disappeared into the permanent twilight of the underwater world. Was it a gigantic grouper? A small whale?

Either was possible, 30 feet below the surface of the Sea of Cortez, which separates the Baja California peninsula from the Mexican mainland. But the shape and high velocity of the apparition were strange. I couldn’t place it until another one appeared, then another, and soon more than a dozen, twisting and turning around us seven divers, coming eye-to-eye close before speeding away: sea lions.

I should have figured it out sooner; I knew we were diving near a colony of the pinnipeds. But while I’d seen any number of sea lions above the water line, lolling in the sun or awkwardly dragging their blubbery bodies from rock to rock, I hadn’t imagined them transformed into these svelte underwater missiles, each one larger, stronger and faster than a human.

I was scuba diving in Mexico in the Cabo Pulmo National Marine Park, a 27.5-square-mile ecosystem with an unusual history and an uncertain future. At least 226 fish species live in the park, and it is home to the only living hard coral reef in the Sea of Cortez. But environmentalists fear that a major resort development could significantly alter this delicate fringe of Baja, both above ground and underwater.

From my piece in today’s New York Times travel section, continued here: http://nyti.ms/17rpbOF

Searching for Lost Soldiers in Laos #longreads

Fri, 01 Mar 2013 11:17:00 -0500

From my story in the new issue of The Magazine:

When Penny Minturn was 16, she wore a bracelet that said “Maj. Don Lyon.” He was an Air Force pilot missing in action in the Vietnam War, and like many kids in her Missouri town who wore MIA-POW bracelets, she wanted to show her support. “As teenagers we were very anti-war, but we were also taught about sacrifice,” she says. “I wore it until it broke. I wrote to his wife.” Lyon, who had disappeared in Laos, never returned, and his fate remains unknown.

Minturn, now 56, remembered President Richard Nixon telling Americans that there was no fighting in Laos, Vietnam’s neighbor to the West. “So it’s funny to be here now,” she said, sweat beading her brow in 95-degree heat as we surveyed the archeological dig she supervised.

It was April 2012, the end of the dry season, and we stood at a river bend in Southern Laos with orange-yellow dust on our boots. A rectangular pit the size of a suburban American home was to one side. It stair-stepped downward to the deepest point, about four meters below ground level, with sandbags stacked to hold up each vertical surface. White tape marked the perimeter like a crime scene.

Continued here: http://the-magazine.org/11/what-remains-behind

theonion: 4 Copy Editors Killed In Ongoing AP Style, Chicago...

Mon, 07 Jan 2013 12:54:34 -0500

theonion:

4 Copy Editors Killed In Ongoing AP Style, Chicago Manual Gang Violence: Full Story

From the mailbag: "I feel like I missed the window for irresponsible, unadulterated travel."

Fri, 04 Jan 2013 09:00:30 -0500

From L, somewhere out there:

…The book is amazing. And kind of scary. Scary in that it’s so similar to how I feel. Scary in that I’m now opening previously closed windows and doors in my mind and feeling vindicated regarding all my deep secret longing to flee my life and go running out into the world. I used to think that maybe I was crazy to feel that way. It’s also scary because at 32, I feel like I missed the window for irresponsible, unadulterated travel.

Anyway. I did as much of it as I could right up until I went to grad school (I literally came home the day before classes started)…

Since then, travel has been limited to my allowed work vacation time. It kills me. I somehow managed to find myself in a career I love, except that I am on a path that requires me to be reliable, consistent and present for my clients week after week. What have I done? Then of course, the stability required for grad school and a career, and being a licensed professional has led to other stable, scary things. Like a house. Dogs. A fiancee and a very postponed wedding…

I feel like I’m addicted to the travel for similar reasons you described in Wanderlust: escapism, simplicity, and the love part too.

Anthropomorphizing the city

Wed, 02 Jan 2013 09:00:18 -0500

From Mike Albo’s novella “The Junket:”

I have forgone something lasting to continue my long-term relationship with the most exciting but unreliable boyfriend of all—New York City. Maybe it’s time to break up with it, to emancipate myself from the teasing, taunting, sexy metropolis that has kept me within its grip my entire adult life. But how do I break up with a city? How long am I supposed to believe I can “make it” here?

Are you an epicurean or an Epicurean? My review of Daniel Klein's "Travels With Epicurus," on how to age well. @penguinpress @weeklystandard

Mon, 31 Dec 2012 09:00:20 -0500

The word “epicurean” has come to describe those who are fond of luxury, sensual pleasure, and gourmet food. At some point, its definition evolved away from that of capital-E “Epicurean,” which refers to a follower of the ancient Greek philosopher Epicurus. Members of both groups advocate the pursuit of pleasure, but today’s hedonists define that very differently than the old philosopher did. To him, pleasure was attained by living simply and keeping one’s desires in check. One of his aphorisms was that “nothing is enough for the man to whom enough is too little.”

He preferred plain boiled lentils to slow-roasted resin-infused pheasant, an ancient Greek delicacy prepared for noblemen by slaves. Today, countless foodies evoke Epicurus in the names of their blogs, magazines, and imported-cheese stores, but their tastes tend toward slaved-over pheasant.

The difference in these two understandings of how to maximize pleasure is at the heart of Travels with Epicurus, a charming meditation on aging. To live well in old age—or at any age—should we chase newer and better sensations, or learn to savor what we have? Daniel Klein takes us on a thought-provoking journey to find out.

My review continues here. Get Daniel Klein’s “Travels with Epicurus: A Journey to a Greek Island in Search of a Fulfilled Life” here.

The things she carried: guns, candlesticks, petticoats.

Thu, 20 Dec 2012 09:03:50 -0500

What Gertrude Bell packed on her 1909 journey to the Middle East:

She packed couture evening dresses, lawn blouses and linen riding skirts, cotton shirts and fur coats, sweaters and scarves, canvas and leather boots. Beneath layers of lacy petticoats she hid guns, cameras, and film, and wrapped up many pairs of binoculars and pistols as gifts for the more important sheikhs. She carried hats, veils, parasols, lavender soap, Egyptian cigarettes in a silver case, insect powder, maps, books, a Wedgwood dinner service, silver candlesticks and hairbrushes, crystal glasses, linen and blankets, folding tables, and a comfortable chair—as well as her travelling canvas bed and bath. She took two tents, one for Fattuh to put up the moment they pitched camp, so that she had a table to write on, the other with her bath, to be filled with hot water once there was a fire, and her bed, to be made up with the muslin sleeping bag laid out under the blankets.

From “Gertrude Bell: Queen of the Desert, Shaper of Nations” by Georgina Howell.

"A hotel represented the promise of a better world."

Fri, 14 Dec 2012 09:00:25 -0500

From Paul Auster’s “The Brooklyn Follies:”

I had never been inside a hotel, but I had walked past enough of them on my trips downtown with my mother to know that they were special places, fortresses that protected you from the squalor and meanness of everyday life. I loved the men in the blue uniforms who stood in front of the Remington Arms. I loved the sheen of the brass fittings on the revolving doors at the Excelsior. I loved the immense chandelier that hung in the lobby of the Ritz. The sole purpose of a hotel was to make you happy and comfortable, and once you signed the register and went upstairs to your room, all you had to do was ask for something and it was yours. A hotel represented the promise of a better world, a place that was more than just a place, but an opportunity, a chance to live inside your dreams.

Does anyone else fear for the future of New Zealand's tourism industry? #hobbit #creepy #nz

Wed, 12 Dec 2012 09:00:19 -0500

Does a giant Gollum effigy looming over an airport food court make you want to eat there?

Do inflight-safety videos narrated by Hobbit characters make you feel safe?

Do commemorative Hobbit coins make you want to spend?

Or do all these things make you think ‘dear God, how creepy, how unpromising, let’s go to Australia or Patagonia or Detroit instead?’ Have Tourism New Zealand officials really run the numbers on this campaign? Did they compare would-be tourists attracted to would-be tourists repelled?

"Being transplanted has this unique feel that I think I’m kind of addicted to." #expats

Fri, 07 Dec 2012 09:00:34 -0500

Tiffany in Seoul introduced me to Semipermanent, a video series she and friends have launched about being expats in Korea. (I heard from her in response to my New York Times story about hiking in Korea and visiting my expat brother.) My favorite lines from the first episode come from Haider, an American who has lived in Seoul for seven years and says things like:

There are great cities in America that I could live in, but it’s an egotistical thing. I like being a foreigner. I like being an expat. Being transplanted has this unique feel that I think I’m kind of addicted to.

And, about the slew of expats arriving now:

They realize that Asia is the Europe of our generation.

He who binds to himself a joy Does the winged life destroy; But he who kisses the joy as it...

Wed, 05 Dec 2012 09:00:42 -0500

He who binds to himself a joy

Does the winged life destroy;

But he who kisses the joy as it flies

Lives in Eternity’s sunrise

-“Eternity” by William Blake

From the mailbag:

Mon, 03 Dec 2012 09:00:35 -0500

From A in Colorado:

Hello! Do you offer any internships in travel writing? Let me know!

For the record, I do not. But A for effort.

THE titanium spork was a Christmas gift from my brother Gregory, a choice that seemed random at the...

Fri, 30 Nov 2012 20:00:24 -0500

THE titanium spork was a Christmas gift from my brother Gregory, a choice that seemed random at the time. I had no use for ultra-lightweight dual-use cutlery. But nine months later, almost 7,000 miles from my home in New York City and nearly catatonic with exhaustion, I was thankful for its lack of heft.

From the mailbag: On traveling, or not, when you don't have a rich-country passport

Mon, 26 Nov 2012 09:30:19 -0500

From L in Costa Rica:

I feel the need for adventure, new things, new people that could possibly understand me a little better. Nobody at home does. I grow bitter sometimes, because I can’t travel as freely with a third world passport as I wish I could. You need visas, and don’t even dream about a working holiday one. It appears, that to the eyes of immigration in developed countries, a young, third world person with wishes of traveling is unheard of. You know how money works. With exchange rates and a worthless currency, things get very difficult, but I can’t seem to let go of my wishes. Sometimes I resent being born here, or my friends with dual citizenship from developed countries, and I can’t for the life of me understand how on earth they haven’t left this place already.

The death of a cosmopolitan city: Tangier, 1956, by Paul Bowles

Mon, 26 Nov 2012 09:00:23 -0500

Discussions of integration are ubiquitous, inexhaustible. Your Spanish barber says: “We are living in bad times. Es una pena.” The French waitress tells you: “It’s going to be very difficult, vous savez. How shall we live?” The English lady sitting near you in the Café de Paris is heard to remark: “Isn’t it too sad? But I do think we shall be able to stick to it, don’t you?” The American bar owner stares nervously around his establishment and confides: “I don’t want to be in on it. I’m getting a line on a little place in Tobago. I think that’s for me.” “It” means official integration; non-Moslem Tangerines are more inclined to wonder when it will come than they are to consider exactly of what it will consist. They are convinced that it won’t be good for them; beyond that there is no way of being sure about anything.

-from the essay “View from Tangier” by Paul Bowles, published in The Nation on June 30, 1956, and collected in his “Travels: collected writings 1950-1993.”

Actual conversation I had in Orlando

Mon, 19 Nov 2012 09:00:30 -0500

Last week I stayed at the (named by committee?) DoubleTree by Hilton Orlando at SeaWorld. Unable to detect a city using my eyes, I had this conversation with a clerk at the front desk.

Me: “How do we get into town?”

Clerk: “Where do you want to go?”

Me: “Um. Downtown?”

Clerk: “This is a big city. Do you want to go to Downtown Orlando or Downtown Disney?”

Me: “We’d like to go have some lunch.”

Clerk: (Seemingly baffled) “What do you want to eat? Do you want pizza, fine dining?”

Me: “Something local?”

Clerk: “They have all the big chains on International Drive. Like you can get Chicago-style pizza.”

Me: “What about something local? Something authentic?”
Clerk: “People in Orlando don’t really do authentic.”

Wondering what an "honorary consul general" like Jill Kelley does? #answersfromliterature

Fri, 16 Nov 2012 12:13:44 -0500

The New York Times reported that Jill Kelley, instigator of the Petraeus-Broadwell-Allen-etc. probe, called 911 several times to complain about snooping reporters:

In at least one call, she asked for “diplomatic protection,” saying she is an “honorary consul general,” a designation she reportedly received from South Korean diplomats.

Wondering what an honorary consul does? Take it from Charley Fortnum, aging alcoholic father-to-be and the title character in Graham Greene’s “The Honorary Consul,” complaining here about his boss, the British ambassador in Buenos Aires:

He wants a report on the maté industry in this province. Why? Nobody drinks maté in the old country. Never heard of it probably, but I’ll have to work for a week, driving around on bad roads, and then those fellows at the Embassy wonder why I have to import a new car every two years. It’s my right to have one. My diplomatic right. I pay for it myself and if I choose to sell it again it’s my concern not the Ambassador’s. Fortnum’s Pride is more reliable on these roads. I charge nothing for her, and yet I’m wearing her out in their service. What a lot of mean bastards they are, Plarr, at the Embassy. They even question the rent I pay for this office.

A few photos from around 8pm on Monday, as Tropical Storm Sandy...

Fri, 02 Nov 2012 09:00:17 -0400

A few photos from around 8pm on Monday, as Tropical Storm Sandy was making landfall. I took the first two from the foot of Old Fulton Street, and the third from Dock Street in Dumbo.

From the mailbag: "Seventy-something women identify with the idea of seeking thirst, not water."

Wed, 24 Oct 2012 09:30:32 -0400

I get many letters about “Wanderlust” from twenty-somethings, and they always mean a lot to me. But this is the first from someone in her seventies, so I find it very interesting. And I like the fact that she stumbled upon the book near one of my old haunts. From K in Paris:

Last week I found “Wanderlust” on a bookshelf in a former embassy apartment on the Rue de l’Universite in Paris. It gave an unexpected edge to my trip and now my travel companion is captivated with your adventures. Her text this morning: “I was up with Wanderlust late into the night. Her experience in Yemen! RUN!”

Seventy-something women identify with the idea of seeking thirst, not water. And we struggle to find what you have: a true voice and the capacity to make decisions beyond the influence of lovers/husbands and parents, alive or dead.

Do you have a more perfect, foreign self? @jessie_sholl does

Wed, 24 Oct 2012 09:00:38 -0400

I was recently reminded of this lovely passage from Jessie Sholl’s memoir Dirty Secret: A Daughter Comes Clean About her Mother’s Compulsive Hoarding. She’s sitting in an airplane on the tarmac waiting to take off for Italy:

My Italian teacher last semester used to say that it’s helpful, when learning a new language, to come up with a new “self” for that language, to think in terms of your “Italian self,” when speaking Italian. When he said it I was intrigued: I liked the idea of having an Italian self. I liked it a lot. But I’d forgotten about it until now.

Perhaps in Italy I could be a new person—I could be less anxious, less shy. More outgoing. I could finally stop caring so much about other people’s opinions of me. I could even be bug free.

The more I think about it, the more I like the idea of an Italian self.

My Italian self does not let her secrets eat at her. My Italian self doesn’t even know what hoarding is. And why would she, when her life has never been touched by it? My Italian self had a lovely, idyllic childhood and as a result is bursting with self-esteem. Did my Italian self ride horses? She considers it …but no. My Italian self played tennis instead. Or maybe squash.

My Italian self is never angry, nor is she self-pitying; she is totally unfamiliar with the concept of self-doubt and has never felt even vaguely ratty or ragged next to well-groomed, well-dressed strangers. Wherever she finds herself is exactly where she belongs and the people around her are lucky to have this Italian Jessie.