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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.

More Than a Travel Mascot

by Joyce McGreevy on June 26, 2017

A toy canine travel mascot named Bedford, dressed for Maui, inspires his human travel buddy to see the world differently. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

“Have pawsport, will travel,” that’s Bedford’s motto.
© Joyce McGreevy

To See the World Differently,
Take Your Travel Buddy

I have a confession. Although my posts for OIC Moments suggest I’m a solo traveler, that’s not the whole story. Truth is, I never travel without a guide. To some, he’s just a “travel mascot.” To me he’s much more, a travel buddy who helps me see the world differently.

Bedford, take a bow. And a bow-wow.

A toy canine travel mascot named Bedford, dressed in Scottish tartan, inspires his human travel buddy to see the world differently. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Testing the tartan in Scotland . . .
© Joyce McGreevy

A toy canine travel mascot named Bedford, sipping tea in Istanbul, inspires his human travel buddy to see the world differently. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

. . . and the tea in Turkey.
© Joyce McGreevy

Gnome on the Range

Seeing the world with a travel mascot is nothing new, of course. In the 1980s, an Australian man decided that his neighbors’ garden gnome needed to get out more. Photos he sent back anonymously featured the gnome at famous landmarks.

Cue the surge in gnome-nabbings, elfin escapades, and photographic tomfoolery. Petite plaster pilgrims began popping up around the planet.  Gnomes roamed to every continent, even Antarctica.

The World Is Flat Stanley’s

Then there’s the “Flat Stanley” phenomenon. What began in the 1960s as a dad’s whimsical bedtime story for his sons grew into a worldwide literacy project.

Kids send forth a paper cutout of Flat Stanley to discover fascinating places and people around the world. Today’s tech-savvy students can even launch a digital Stanley via smartphone. Students then collect photos and write about Stanley’s adventures.

Travel buddy Flat Stanley, shown at Doonagore Castle, Doolin, Ireland, inspires students to see the world differently. (Image © Jules Larkin)

He’s flat, but his world is wide: Flat Stanley at Doonagore Castle, Doolin, Ireland.
© Jules Larkin

Best in Travel Show

But the most famous travel mascot of all is Charley.

You know him from John Steinbeck’s Travels with Charley: In Search of America, the 1961 memoir that inspired millions of readers to see the world differently. Here’s how Steinbeck introduced his travel buddy:

“He was born in Bercy on the outskirts of Paris and trained in France, and while he knows a little Poodle-English, he responds quickly only to commands in French. Otherwise he has to translate, and that slows him down.”

A toy canine travel mascot named Bedford, shown with books about traveling dogs, inspires his human travel buddy to see the world differently. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Bedford drops subtle hints that he’s itching to travel.
© Joyce McGreevy

From Portland to Every Land

Which brings us to my own travel buddy.

I first met Bedford while I was, uh, conducting a thorough study of American cultural artifacts at a Goodwill in Portland, Oregon.  There among relics that, in technical terms, included bric-a-brac, knickknacks, and whatchamacallits, I found a diminutive cloth canine lying face down.

Concerned that this downward facing dog might remain lost amid the archaeological middens, I resolved to secure him a residency.

So I set him upright at eye level, directed his gaze toward the main door, and tilted his head fetchingly. Thus, I reasoned, the very next person to see him would be captivated.

My good deed done, I walked away. But then I glanced back to check the effect.

A toy canine travel mascot named Bedford, shown at the Bosporus, inspires his human travel buddy to see the world differently. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Bedford on the Bosporus: A little whimsy can broaden one’s perspective of the world.
© Joyce McGreevy

That was 15 years ago. Since then, my Oregonian pal has adopted the name Bedford. Inspired by Bedford Falls in It’s a Wonderful Life, it also honors Bedford’s penchant for tumbling out of bed every morning in his eagerness to begin the day. Funny, I know just how he feels.

Business Travels with Bedford

Initially, Bedford’s travels were limited to business trips. Many a late night editorial slog benefited from his dogged assistance.

A toy canine travel mascot named Bedford, shown with laptop, inspires his human travel buddy to see the world differently. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

On business trips, Bedford would check my “ruff” drafts.
© Joyce McGreevy

He traveled undercover in those days, hidden in the checked luggage. Neither of us breathed a word about his existence to my colleagues lest they raise questions of seriousness.

As in “Seriously? You travel with a little toy dog?”

Which simply wasn’t the case. One, I’m rarely serious. And two, who are you calling a toy?

Bedford, Come Home!

It was on a business trip to Denver that my luggage went missing. But it wasn’t the replaceable business wardrobe that concerned me.

Looking back on it now—as one who’s since embraced her inner Pippi Longstocking—I’m not ashamed to tell you that I was thunderstruck with sadness. Yes, over a little cloth dog.

Several anxious hours later, my luggage resurfaced. Another passenger had mistaken it for his own. It was then that I made a Big Decision: It was time for Bedford to come out of the suitcase.

A toy canine travel mascot named Bedford, shown with tiny travel gear, inspires his human travel buddy to see the world differently. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Bedford’s travel style is muttropolitan.
© Joyce McGreevy

“A Dog Is a Bond Between Strangers”

So wrote Steinbeck, and it’s proved true of Bedford. This global Citizen Canine has:

  • facilitated delightful conversations with families from Amsterdam to Zagreb
  • coaxed smiles out of blasé sophisticates, weary waiters, and grouchy bureaucrats
  • and inspired many a business traveler to change the subject from marketing platforms to childhood memories.
A toy canine travel mascot named Bedford, shown with Irish children, inspires his human travel buddy to see the world differently. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Making friends in Ireland.
© Joyce McGreevy

I guess there’s just something about spotting a cheery canine character beside you in trains, planes, cafés, and long lines that helps break down social barriers.

Not to be dogmatic, but I believe Bedford has contributed to a pup-surge in pawsitive international relations. He loves all cultures, and understands every language except cynicism.

As Steinbeck noted of Charley, “This is a dog of peace and tranquility.”

A toy canine travel mascot named Bedford, shown at the Huntington Botanical Gardens, inspires his human travel buddy to see the world differently. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Coyly checking the koi pond at the Huntington Botanical Gardens,
San Marino, California.
© Joyce McGreevy

Oh, I see: If this mini alumnus of Goodwill “University” can graduate into a global goodwill ambassador, maybe there’s hope for the rest of us rovers.

With or without a canine traveling companion, we can see the world differently. It starts when we unleash our natural instincts for warmth and good humor.

Have you ever had a travel mascot or travel buddy? How did this help you see the world differently?

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

Do Digital Nomads Have Homes?

by Joyce McGreevy on June 12, 2017

An apron with passport in a kitchen symbolizes the art of travel as a vagabond homebody, not just a digital nomad. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

A recipe for domestic happiness?
© Joyce McGreevy

When the Art of Travel Is Domestic

“Do you ever get tired of being a digital nomad? You know, living out of a suitcase, never having a sense of home?” The art of travel would fray around the edges if that were so.

“Are you constantly managing logistics? Always on the move?” I get questions like these since decluttering and pulling up stakes to travel full time—while continuing to work full time.

Happily, none of those circumstances apply. Neither does another stereotype of full time travel.  As an online photo search shows, the stock image of the digital nomad is a Millennial with a Laptop at the Beach.

A beach at sunset in Maui evokes the art of travel as a digital nomad. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Who needs a laptop when you can monitor nature’s display?
© Joyce McGreevy

Surfing the Net?

Variations include stock images of the Millennial with a Laptop in a Hammock; silhouetted by a glowing monitor inside a tent; perched cross-legged, but still posting, from a promontory; or typing away at a tiki bar.

In this stock art of travel, the backdrop is always a beach. Because what could be better for a laptop—the equipment on which the digital nomad’s livelihood depends—than prolonged exposure to tanning oil, saltwater spray, and windblown grains of sand?

My day-to-day travel experience couldn’t be farther from that stock image. Let’s coin a new term, an alternative to “digital nomad.” Just call me a vagabond homebody.

Cutlery and napkins symbolize the domestic pleasures that make an art of travel as a vagabond homebody or digital nomad. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Chop wood, carry water, appreciate everyday household objects.
© Joyce McGreevy

Have Apron, Will Travel

On arrival in a new place, the first thing I unpack is my apron.

What little else I’ve brought takes moments to put away. Each empty drawer or closet, though it might seem alien to others, is to me as inviting as a hand extended in friendship. Once again, a little corner of the world has made room for me and that feels like a kind of miracle.

It will be a month, maybe two, before I need my suitcase again.

On the first morning, I check out farmers’ markets and meet local greengrocers. Then, as I begin using the kitchen—be it spacious and connected to a large garden, or merely a two-burner countertop in an urban studio—a sense of home comes over me.

A lamp-lit desk in a cozy Irish study evokes the art of travel as a digital nomad. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

I work in many countries, yet carry a sense of home from place to place.
© Joyce McGreevy

Home Travel Pleasures

Maybe it’s the fragrance of the herbs, the reflections in water drops that cling to leaves of lettuce. Maybe it’s the tactile and auditory pleasures: the satisfying push and thunk of the paring knife prepping rosy, golden, and green vegetables for an evening meal.

Maybe it’s the memories that play like background music for those of us who ponder as we cook.  Above all, it’s gratitude in the present moment.

Breads and charcuterie in Budapest symbolize the domestic pleasures that make an art of travel as a vagabond homebody or digital nomad. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Bringing home the bacon in Budapest.
© Joyce McGreevy

Out and About

Grounded by domestic ritual, I go out to explore, to learn, and above all, to connect with others:

  • To meet new people who inform and challenge me.
  • To stay in touch with colleagues, alumni, and friends who inspire me.
  • To reconnect with family, near and far. To be there for school plays, graduations, and weddings. For early-morning walks and late-night talks.

Because sometimes I travel to acclimate to a whole new culture, and sometimes I travel to rediscover the cultures that have shaped me.

Oh, I see: Travel can be a series of homecomings.

What About Work?

Keeping an ever-changing roof over my head requires that I work full time.

This, too, connects me to the everydayness of places.  It lets me learn how to use the library in Copenhagen, request printing services in Bulgaria, conduct research at a museum in Athens, or go for an after-work swim in Oslo.

My work centers on writing textbook content, everything from language arts and history to original plays and short stories.  This motivates to do something else I love: meet with students and teachers from all over the world.

 

A mother and child walking home in Valletta, Malta evoke the domestic pleasures that make an art of travel as a digital nomad. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

One little moment in Malta creates a sense of home.
© Joyce McGreevy

Our Global Neighborhood

Some neighbors I meet in my travels are new to me, some I’ve known all my life. Each one carries a piece of the world’s puzzle. People of all backgrounds, perspectives, and ages, including millennials. So far I’ve never met a Millennial with a Laptop at the Beach.

In many countries, cafés are for socializing, not filing reports or reading spreadsheets. I usually work from home, whether at a desk in Budapest, a kitchen table in Bend, or a cozy dorm room in Bloomsbury.  On those days, the travel pleasures are simple yet rich: the view of a park, the music of a local radio station, a quick jaunt to the nearest library, the wit of a favorite colleague as we confer online.

Family and friends gathering for a home-cooked dinner in Copenhagen evoke the domestic pleasures that make an art of travel as a digital nomad. (Image © Joyce McGreevy)

Sunday supper with my niece, Sydney Bevando, and her classmates in Copenhagen.
© Joyce McGreevy

A Traveling Compass

The countries, neighbors, and customs change. But when I wake up each morning, I always know exactly where I am: I’m home.

Even on airplanes, I’m at home. In-flight, I reflect on memories of my late father, a TWA pilot, and my late mother, whose home cooking reflected her love of travel.

At home in many cultures, Mom and Dad connected the art of travel with everyday domestic pleasures. They showed my siblings and me that a happy childhood is a home you can carry within you wherever you go. They taught us that everyone has a right to feel at home in this world.

No, there’s no need to call me a digital nomad. I’m really just a vagabond homebody.

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

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