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A Wanderlust for Words

by Joyce McGreevy on July 11, 2017

Daunt Books for Travelers on Marylebone High St, London celebrates wanderlust and reading while traveling. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Daunt Books for Travelers, on the Marylebone High Street London,
is an original Edwardian bookshop.
© Joyce McGreevy

The Enchantment of
Reading While Traveling

If there were an award for writing and reading while traveling, Emily Hahn would have been World Champion. Early in her 92-year life of wanderlust, Hahn solo-traveled from the Congo to China. That was in the 1920s, and by 1997, Hahn had reported for The New Yorker from around the world, written 52 books, and read voraciously across genres.

She’d also enrolled at an all-male college, overcome opium addiction, carried out underground relief work during WWII, been the concubine of a Chinese poet, married a British spy, and become a pioneering environmentalist.

A vintage edition of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn symbolizes wanderlust and the pleasures of reading while traveling. (public domain)

Books, like rafts, take us “drifting along ever so far away.”

This summer, as reading and wanderlust become one—when books hit the beaches, travelers recharge e-readers, and reading recharges travelers—consider how Hahn exemplifies the double enchantment of reading while traveling.

As a child, Hahn took to books like an explorer to new lands. “I was a deep reader, plunging into a story and remaining immersed even after I’d finished it,” she wrote in No Hurry to Get Home.

A natural wanderer, she preferred literary characters who were “admirably mobile”—Mowgli, David Copperfield, Huck Finn.

Like Hahn, many a traveler has drifted downriver or flown across continents in the company of a good book. When writers evoke a strong sense of place, even staycationers’ book pages become boarding passes.

Two Bookended Moments  

When my mother was a teenager in the 1930s, she felt electrified by déjà vu while reading a novel set in London. The bolt that leapt off the page described someone crossing the Hammersmith Bridge by taxi. My mother, who lived in the American Southwest, knew she had glimpsed her future.

Eventually forgotten, the moment lay buried for many years. Then one day, the gleaming black cab my mother was riding in crossed a bridge with spectacular green towers. . .

Did Mom know she was nearing The Dove, a favorite Hammersmith pub of novelist Graham Greene? It was he who had evoked a sense of place so powerful that it spanned her future, present, and past.

A woman reading in a window seat of a bookshop in Bloomsbury, London symbolizes the pleasures of reading while traveling, a wanderlust for words. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

The geography of a reader’s world is layered and complex.
© Joyce McGreevy

A Story of Here and Now

Over a lifetime, Mom’s reading-while-traveling encompassed worlds on and off the page.

Her literary wanderlust continued after she’d been diagnosed with terminal cancer.  Once, a doctor found her reading War and Peace and tactlessly asked why she had “started reading such a long book.” My mother cheerfully replied, “Well, if not now, Doctor, when?”

Then she canceled her next two appointments to make one more visit to London.

Lost in Place

Have you ever read a novel about a place while you were in that place, or preparing to go there?

Some travelers say it’s a bad idea and can even make you sick. They’re referring to “Paris Syndrome.” It’s the shock that occurs when romanticized expectations of a place clash with its realities.

Remember that as you lose yourself in Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast.  Places are alive and revise themselves. Cafés where a “lost generation” of artists once gathered become hubs for Instagrammers with GPS. And who’s to say they aren’t artists, too?

Vintage books on display in Aarhus, Denmark symbolize reading while traveling to distant places and times, through a wanderlust for words. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Vintage books on display in Aarhus, Denmark invite readers to travel
to distant places and times.
© Joyce McGreevy

Bookmarking Places

Still, there are moments when the place in the book and the place outside the book merge into one. Drowsy from southern French sunlight, you look up from A Year of Provence and inhale the fragrance of lavender fields.

A prairie in Illinois recalls Willa Cather’s sense of place and inspires a traveling reader’s wanderlust for words. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

“I was something that lay under the sun and felt it, like the pumpkins,
and I did not want to be anything more.”–My Ántonia, by Willa Cather
© Joyce McGreevy

Or you discover a landmark in a town you’ve just moved to, precisely as the protagonist in your audiobook does, too.

That happened to me with The Time Traveler’s Wife. A newcomer to Evanston, Illinois, I was walking to work and listening to the novel on headphones, when I came to a place called Bookman’s Alley. At that very moment, the time-traveling narrator said, “ . . . and lo and behold, it’s Bookman’s Alley.”

Today Bookman’s Alley, one of the last of the great bookshops, is gone—except for readers who time-travel there with author Audrey Niffenegger. Books that evoke real places may become the last outposts of what such places signified.

Sometimes a book, like Huck’s raft, becomes the mode of travel. It takes us to places we’ve never been, in ways we’ll never forget.  That’s how I traveled to Antarctica.

A 19th century French book about the South Pole symbolizes reading while traveling and inspires a traveling reader’s wanderlust for words. (Image public domain)

“One hundred thousand years is just a moment in Antarctica.”
—from Antarctic Navigation, by Elizabeth Arthur

It looked like a giant block of ice—the hardcover book, that is.

It felt like one, too. As I hefted the 800-page Antarctic Navigation, I wondered what had attracted me to a tome encased in images of “the highest, driest, coldest place on Earth.”

Yet in reading Elizabeth Arthur’s narrative, I became an Antarctic citizen, an eager member of a perilous expedition—I who scowled at mild snowfalls and looked horrified if someone uttered the word camping.

Books with a sense of place can do that to us, make us homesick for places we’ve never been and take us more deeply into where we are.

The Readable Suitcase

In 1997, while taking my son to Italy, I decided against purchasing Michael Levey’s acclaimed Florence: A Portrait. Digital editions didn’t exist and the print book weighed several pounds.

But on Day 3 of our month in Florence, I paid double the U.S. price to lug it to a flat on the Via Guelfa. It quickly became our household god, a Virgil to Dante’s city that we consulted at the beginning and end of every day.

Vintage books and suitcases on display in San Francisco symbolize reading while traveling to distant places and times, through a wanderlust for words. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

At SFO, retro suitcases, books, and cameras reflect connections between
traveling, reading, and remembering.
© Joyce McGreevy

So a few stylish outfits missed the return journey. The author’s style was worthier of room in the suitcase.

Oh, I see: Some books are meant to travel; some books are the compass by which we travel; and some books are destinations of their own.

How about you? Placed any good books and booked any good places lately? For more ideas on reading while traveling, download these Wanderlust-Worthy Book Recommendations.

 

Comment on the post below, or inspire insight with your own OIC Moment here.

Nobody in Bulgaria Is Calling You a Hobo

by Joyce McGreevy on February 27, 2017

A Bulgarian street prompts the thought that learning a second language will mean learning a second alphabet, Cyrillic. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Not all who wander Bulgarian streets are lost, just the non-Bulgarians.
© Joyce McGreevy

When Learning a Second Language
Means Learning a Second Alphabet

Your mission? Walk to the store. The one with signs that say “HOBO!” Funny, many stores in Bulgaria display that word. Why? You’re learning a second language, but hobo is nowhere in your phrasebook.

Even more mystifying to an English speaker? Bulgarian maps.

A Bulgarian map helps the author understand that learning a second language will mean learning a second alphabet, Cyrillic. (Image in the public domain.)

Should I turn наляво or надясно? And which is which?

Someone tells you, “Bilingual signs are everywhere.” So off you go, innocent as the day you were born. Sure enough, you find a sign with two versions of a street name.

Breakthrough? Nope. Because the sign isn’t actually bilingual. You’re looking at two distinct alphabets showcasing one common language.

Oh sure, the Roman script looks familiar because, it’s used for English. You can even sound it out: Ulitsa Sveti Kiril I Metodiy. But the language is Bulgarian.

And that other script?  Кирил И Методий ул. That’s Cyrillic. If it were in English it would say Saints Cyril and Methodius Street.

You don’t just have a language barrier—you have an alphabet barrier.

Bulgarian lettering on a beer glass helps the author understand that learning a second language will mean learning a second alphabet, Cyrillic. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Do I “ask for it by name” or keep pointing
at the cute horsey on the menu?
© Joyce McGreevy

Surprising Cyrillic

Oh, I see: Sometimes learning a second language means learning a second alphabet.

What to do? Stick to GPS? Staring at your phone while crossing city streets seems unwise.

Brazen it out? Seek directions by speaking only English?  Also problematic.

It promotes a double standard:  “When people come to our English-speaking country they should learn the language, and when we go to their non-English speaking countries we should . . . uh, be able to count on others speaking English.”

Decorative graffiti on a Bulgarian street shows that learning a second language and a second alphabet, Cyrillic, can be fun. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

The plays of Шекспир are popular worldwide, including in Bulgaria.
© Joyce McGreevy

When in Bulgaria . . .

You could copy street names in Roman script and show them to locals while looking pathetic and finger-miming the act of walking. Thing is, Roman script in Bulgaria, like many other Balkan countries, is a relatively recent phenomenon. It’s a linguistic standardization linked to membership of the European Union.

So, unless you’re showing your note to Sofia’s millennials—many of whom speak three or more languages—you’ll find that Roman script is as unfamiliar to many locals as Cyrillic is to you.

In a pinch, there are translation apps. But good luck forging authentic human connections as you stand jabbing the keypad of a device while holding up the line at a café.

My friend, it’s time to learn a little Cyrillic.

Language Geeks and Greeks

Zahari Zograf's 1848 mural of Bulgarian saints Cyril and Methodius show how the Cyrillic alphabet relates to learning a second language. (Image in the public domain)

Men of letters: Cyril and Methodius with alphabet.
Mural by Zahari Zograf (1848)

First, meet Cyril. St. Cyril, to be precise.

Cyril must be the Russian fellow who invented the Cyrillic alphabet, right?

Sorry, no. According to Bulgarian scholars, Bulgaria introduced Cyrillic, not Russia.

So, Cyril the Bulgarian invented Cyrillic?

If only it were that simple.

He was from Thessaloniki, which today is part of Greece, but was then part of the Bulgarian Empire. Cyril  and his kid brother Methodius were monks who liked monkeying around with language.

And so these two Greek Bulgarians (or Bulgarian Greeks) invented the Glagolitic alphabet.

So Many Alphabets, So Little Time

Now I know what you’re thinking:  Aha! Glagolitic must have been the first Slavic alphabet! And you’d be right.

The whole thing was modeled on Ancient Greek. In 850 A.D., there was plenty of Ancient Greek left over just waiting for hotshots like Cyril and Methodius to put it to good use.

The Acropolis reminds the author that learning a second language, Bulgarian, owes much to Ancient Greece, birthplace of Cyrillic. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Ancient Greek, a pillar of the (language) community.
© Joyce McGreevy

Having set up future generations of Greek and Bulgarian scholars with topics for debate, Cyril and Methodius passed mischievously away. Oh, those wacky monks.

In the 10th century, the C&M Brothers’ linguistic start-up was replaced by another evolution of the Bulgarian alphabet. This is the alphabet that scholars named after both brothers—oops sorry, fella—just Cyril.

Alas, there was no Methodius to their fad-ness.

Today, Cyrillic features in more than 50 languages spoken by over 250 million people in Eurasia. Also in Chicago, home to the largest Balkan community outside of the Balkans.

A traditionally dressed Bulgarian woman using a smartphone remind the author that learning a second language means learning a second alphabet, Cyrillic. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Communication has changed with the times
in Bulgaria, but Cyrillic is still going strong.
© Joyce McGreevy

Getting from A to Ж

Let’s begin. There are 30 pairs of letters in the Cyrillic alphabet. Some look and sound a lot like letters in the Roman alphabet: A as in palm, E as in best, O as in order.

Then you have trickster letters, like:

CYRILLIC SOUNDS LIKE AS IN
H N No way!
B V Very confusing!
P R Reeeally?
C S Seriously?

And I haven’t even mentioned Д (not to be confused with Л). Or Щ (not to be confused with Ш).

Decorative graffiti in Bulgaria suggests the feeling of learning a second language by learning a second alphabet, Cyrillic. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

One way to decipher two alphabets?
© Joyce McGreevy

Magical Cyrillic

Okay, just dip your toe in. You’d be surprised what a difference even a handful of letters can make. Consider it your magic decoder ring.

Remember: Many letters, including K, A, and E, made it from Cyrillic into Roman unchanged.

Now, look at this letter:  Ф. It sounds like PH in Phone. Knowing that, you can decipher this:

A Bulgarian Cyrillic sign for coffee suggests the benefits of learning a second language by learning a second alphabet. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Okay, so the visual cues help, too.
© Joyce McGreevy

Next, check out these two signs.

Bulgarian street signs in Cyrillic show that learning a second language can mean learning a second alphabet, Cyrillic. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

“These little town обувки are longing to отклоняват…”
© Joyce McGreevy

You’ve learned Ф, so you can read the sign on the green post.

Now check out the sign on the right. Remember:  P (Cyrillic) = R (Roman).

Hooked on Cyrillic

But those are cognates, you say.  What about words that are All-Bulgarian-All-the-Time?

A Bulgarian sign for antiques shows that learning a second language sometimes means learning a second alphabet, Cyrillic. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Shop till ya припадне!
© Joyce McGreevy

Does Aптека mean “antique”? Look again, knowing that п (Cyrillic) = P (Roman).

Roman lettering makes it APTEKA, which means “Pharmacy.” Handy to know when you have a headache and a 17th century vase just won’t help.

As for HOBO, many a tourist out shopping for souvenirs has misinterpreted it—because they mistook the letters for Roman. But—say it with me —they’re Cyrillic.

Seriously, Nobody in Bulgaria Is Calling You a Hobo

Remember:

  • H (Cyrillic) = N (Roman)
  • O is O in both alphabets
  • B (Cyrillic) = V (Roman)

In short, the Bulgarian word HOBO (Cyrillic) is NOVO (Roman), which literally means NEW. As in, “Sale! Buy now!”

Sold on learning a second language? Then consider learning a second alphabet. From Bulgaria to Greece, Eurasia to Chicago, Cyrillic is as easy as АБЦ.

Comment on this post below, or inspire insight with your own OIC Moment here.

Have You a Party Piece?

by Joyce McGreevy on November 14, 2016

Kiaran O'Donnell and Rick Chelew play guitar at a small gathering, carrying on the Irish tradition of the party piece, sharing songs, stories, and poems. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Sharing our gifts turns strangers into friends; Kiaran O’Donnell and Rick Chelew had just met.
© Joyce McGreevy

What an Irish Tradition
Can Teach Us Today

It was known as the party piece, a “bit of an auld song” or spoken word. Would we have called it an Irish tradition? Probably not. As students in Galway, sharing songs, stories, and poems was just something we did on Saturday nights.

But the tradition goes back centuries, notes Irish historian P.W. Joyce. Ancient Irish sagas depict hospitality to travelers as a social virtue, and guests reciprocated with music or spoken word. “Like the Homeric Greeks, the Irish were excessively fond of hearing tales and poetry recited  . . . Every intelligent person was expected to know a reasonable number.”

Thus it continued, into my “ancient” college days. Go on now, give us your party piece, friends would say as we lingered after one-burner suppers served on coffee tables. “Mountains of Mourne” was a favorite.

Musicians at a jam session in pub in Galway, Ireland reflect the Irish tradition of the party piece, sharing songs, stories, and poems. (Image by Damián Bakarcic)

If you visit Ireland, bring along a song or a story to share.
“Jam Session in Galway Pub, Ireland” by Damián Bakarcic, CC-BY-NC-4.0

A Poem

Reciting a poem went over well, too.  Back then, practically everyone I knew, student or not, had a few verses filed away in the old memory bank. Had I the heavens embroidered cloths . . .

It wasn’t like you hunkered down at a desk to memorize them, mind. You’d simply hear something and if it touched a chord, you’d hold onto it, the way a magpie works shiny foil into its bower.

Hikers on a scenic road in Ireland become a metaphor for the Irish tradition of sharing stories, songs, and poems. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Life’s rockiest road is navigable when we share it in stories, songs, and poems.
© Joyce McGreevy

A Story

Some party pieces were stories. The best were scraps of real experience that had been well embellished. Lace-edged in mystery. Beribboned with bright hyperbole. The beadwork of everyday dialogue polished into priceless gems with every retelling.

Oh, you could cut yourself on that wit, someone would say. It’s the way he tells ’em, someone would chime in.

Three women taking tea and trading stories at Glebe Gardens Café, Co. Cork, reflect the Irish tradition of the party piece, sharing stories, songs, and poems. (Image © Rick Chelew)

Sharing anecdotes and laughter at Glebe Gardens Café, Co. Cork.
© Rick Chelew

A Moment

Here’s what a party piece was not about: Narcissism.

Your moment would not go viral. The technology that transformed selves into selfies was still decades away. We didn’t take photos or make recordings.

As student renters, we didn’t even have landline telephones.

Yet we always knew where the gatherings were. The “sociable” network functioned by way of knocks at the door, the tea kettle kept at the ready for impromptu visits and invitations.

A decorative teapot in Galway, Ireland symbolizes the Irish tradition of the party piece, sharing songs, stories, and poems. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

A few cups of tea can flower into a gathering.
© Joyce McGreevy

A Welcome

Meanwhile, back at the party, a newcomer from the States might hesitate on being asked to sing.

Sure, it doesn’t matter if you’ve a voice like an old crow, someone would tell her. We’ll all join in, another might add encouragingly.

Oh, I see: Sharing a party piece wasn’t about competing to see who was the most talented. It was about willingness to participate, to add some ingredient of your own to the stone soup of the evening.

A "face in the crowd" in Dublin, Ireland and a gift-wrapped building evoke the need for the Irish tradition of the party piece, sharing songs, stories, and poems. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Sharing the gift of our experience creates connection.
© Joyce McGreevy

A Joy

So when someone began to sing “My Lagan Love” or “Bye, Bye, Blackbird,” it didn’t matter a whit if there was more rasp than lilt. The melody came through clearly via memories the singer stirred in us.

The greater joy was in being there together, none of us ready yet to call it a night.

A glowing fireplace in Dublin, Ireland sets the scene for the Irish tradition of the party piece, sharing songs, stories, and poems. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

A cozy fireplace in Dublin sets the scene for music and storytelling.
© Joyce McGreevy

Your Presence Is Requested

Today, even amid the multi-modal distractions that are as ubiquitous in Ireland as everywhere else on the planet, the Irish tradition of the party piece lives on.

A lot of the sharing now finds its way online. But at heart it’s still about presence—passing the tokens of our shared humanity from person to person.

Not fame. Not showing off. Not monetizing an experience. But about giving whatever you’ve got and showing up to honor what others give, too, be it heartfelt or hilarious, wise or whimsical.

A dog eyeing treats in a Dublin parlor evokes the Irish tradition of the party piece, sharing songs, stories, and poems, including shaggy dog stories. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

A shaggy dog story makes a great party piece.
© Joyce McGreevy

A Wish

So here is my wish for you: One evening may you find yourself in a home where musical instruments are as much a part of the furnishings as crockery and sofa cushions. May there be apple tart and good company.

A homemade apple tart in Galway goes well with the Irish tradition of the party piece, sharing songs, stories, and poems. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Our gifts are sweetest when they are shared.
© Joyce McGreevy

At some point, the piano or fiddle will sound, and the concertina and tin whistle will come out of their cases. But nobody’s forming a band, only forging a bond.

The tales begin telling themselves. The poems, memories, and songs emerge, like shy ponies crossing a field.

Two friendly Irish horses symbolize subtle aspects of the Irish tradition of the party piece, sharing songs, stories, and poems. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

They have come gladly out of the willows/To welcome my friend and me…
From James Wright’s poem “A Blessing”
© Joyce McGreevy

Somebody volunteers a song about love, by turns joyful and poignant.  When they falter—whether from forgetting the words, or remembering the past—a neighboring singer takes up the thread.

Kieran O'Donnell and Rick Chelew play guitar together, carrying on the Irish tradition of sharing songs, stories, and poems. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Our individual songs, stories, and poems share a common chord.
© Joyce McGreevy

A Gathering

The song goes around and around, until every voice has been gathered in. There’s room for everyone.

Call it an Irish tradition, though we were never so formal as all that. We were just doing our party pieces. Finding our human commonalities by sharing songs, stories, and poems. What party piece might you share when next you gather with family, friends, and friends-to-be?

Read the cited poems in their entirety here and here

Comment on this post below. 

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