There is definitely something about international travel that makes one blur subjective time and space. You trundle off, possibly sleep deprived, crawl into the back of one plane, then another in a part of the country your mind may or may not even register. Then it’s a cramped (never have gotten that first class upgrade, darn it sad ) journey at nearly the speed of sound through the darkness to another world completely, whose clocks run almost a half day ahead of ours. The wonder is not that this is disorienting, the wonder is that our minds can deal with such wonders so complacently.
I am happy enough to be in this other world. Another side of international traveling for me is the unpleasant experience of seeing my countrymen at their less-than-best. Oxbridge’s limey parents tell me of similar discomforts among Englishmen on holiday, so perhaps it is a universal family shame. Nonetheless, the plane in Atlanta got stuffed with stereotypical, nasal voiced, chubby, self-congratulatory Americans. I mean really, what on earth could possess someone to push the OSHA acceptable decibel limits with a long soliloquy about how wonderful the States are compared to other countries on an aircraft that was at least one third non-American? It’s not as if they’re monolinguals like most of us are rolleyes
Add to that a crowd of originally endearing missionaries on a trip to Romania to allegedly assist orphans over there. Of course, once the topic got rolling, it turned out that said mission was less orphan assistance and more a week and a half photo-op to pave the way for some Wallmart style church. I was getting so peeved with this self-righteous nonsense that when my (to be honest, otherwise friendly and polite) seatmate to my left spontaneously asked me if I was a Christian, I told him that I regarded religion as a subject akin to politics and sex—e.g. an unfit conversational topic. This shut him up for a while, until I felt guilty enough to chat him up about his plans in Paris (Apparently, none other than hewing close to his mission leader. Poor fellow).
On the positive side, I got to snuggle next to Oxbridge for the entire trip. That was a welcome change from the usual oversized businessman I get paired with. He did a few territorial expanding moves, I nailed his number a long time ago. A poke in an appropriate place or two was all that was required to regain necessary breathing room. While I got little sleep, I did manage to finish off “Out of Africa”, a wonderful book about an amazing woman. In this day of Google searching, there’s no need for me to recount Baroness’s Blixen’s life story, but I will say the idea of a woman in the barely post-Victorian times running a coffee plantation all by herself boggles my mind. At times, her very colonial views shock (as when she speaks of how “colored races” think differently than Europeans), but I think she redeems the odd statement like that with her clear, genuine love for the people of Kenya and their land. Then it was a quick literary spring from that to Oxy’s anniversary presents: a Sedaris book, and “The Waves” by Woolf. Sedaris was as funny as he always is, and if you haven’t read or heard the Santa Land Diary, you owe it to yourself to look it up on the NPR website and have a listen. As for Woolf, my affection for her is clear. The only surprising thing is that I hadn’t gotten around to reading “The Waves” yet. It’s brilliant, of course, but I will warn the potential reader that it deserves more attention than I could give it, as sleep deprived and surrounded by loudmouths as I was. I still found myself reading it at a fevered pace, but like much of her work, I know I will have to go back and reread it to see all the little allusions and whatnot that I missed the first time. But then again, who reads a well loved poem but once? Why, on the other hand, should we regard prose as so expendable?
Well, that’s enough for now. We’re about to walk down to the Moulin Rouge district now (our hotel is near Le Sacre Coeur). More later, and of a MUCH less irritable bent. In fact, reading about my irritation on the flight makes me blink a bit with the recollection? Was there a point in my life where I wasn’t content and at ease? Thus is the magic of travel, to take us out of ourselves, shrive ourselves clean and place us elsewhere, refreshed, and possibly even eventually energetic.
Le Sacre Coeur
Mais pour maintenant, Allons-Y!
V
