We’ve put away passports, canceled reservations, returned the suitcase to the closet. For inveterate travelers, it’s hard to bear. As author Martha Gellhorn said, we’re “in the same position towards travel as a leopard is towards his spots.”
In this strange, stationary time, travel books are the answer. Books that transport, expertly inform and speak to the soul. So self-quarantine, sit in a chair by a window or fireplace, and read one of these travel classics about our still wondrous world.
“Questions of Travel” by Elizabeth Bishop contemplates in delicate verse the need we feel to go away:
“Think of the long trip home.
Should we have stayed at home and thought of here?
Where should we be today?”
Bishop, orphaned as a little girl, was cast into a world she nervously roamed, seeking home, writing poetry that critic Ernie Hilbert compared to a tremulously balanced Alexander Calder mobile, “turning so subtly as to seem almost still at first, every element, every weight of meaning and song, poised flawlessly against the next.” For travelers who’ve pondered their predisposition deeply, Bishop’s poetry comes as a pure joy.
“In Patagonia” by Bruce Chatwin is a cunning blend of fact and fiction that traces the author’s 1974 pilgrimage to Chilean Patagonia, “the far end of the world.” His ostensible purpose is to investigate a snippet of desiccated skin found by sea captain Charlie Milward, a distant relative, and said by his grandmother to be from a brontosaurus. But on the way from the Natural History Museum in La Plata to the Cave of the Mylodon near the tip of the continent, Chatwin finds quizzical distractions and stories within stories that replicate and mutate.
“Travels With Myself and Another” by Martha Gellhorn begins with the author bemoaning her tough luck while “sitting on a rotten little beach at the western tip of Crete, flanked by a waterlogged shoe and a rusted potty.” Gellhorn, a foreign correspondent who covered most of the wars of the 20th century and was the third wife of Ernest Hemingway, had a penchant for horrible trips that she ultimately decided were the most unforgettable kind.
Whether flying over the Himalayas in a shuddering DC-3 or visiting a leper hospital in Cameroon, Gellhorn always has something outré, opinionated and hilarious to say. No matter how much she complains, she loves every minute of it. “Stop traveling?” she says, “Come, come. That was carrying despair to preposterous lengths.”
“A Moveable Feast” by Ernest Hemingway is the Nobel Prize-winning writer’s myth-making memoir of Paris between the wars, when it was cheap and somehow more authentic than it seems now. In Hemingway’s signature plain, powerful prose, the lights come on in the Latin Quarter and Montparnasse as the original expatriate wanders from bar to cafe to bistro with Gertrude Stein, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound and others, gabbing with fishermen and booksellers on the banks of the Seine and occasionally writing. Hemingway used these years and experiences as a basis for his first celebrated novel, “The Sun Also Rises,” but if you’re a traveler and lover of Paris, you’ll like this more.
“River Town: Two Years on the Yangtze” by Peter Hessler recollects the author’s stint as an English teacher for the U.S. Peace Corps in Fuling, China. He isn’t the first Peace Corps volunteer to turn his experiences into a book; author Paul Theroux started that way. But Hessler stayed and became something of an expert on China during its economic opening. A careful, honest, thoughtful observer, he beautifully renders the cultural shocks American travelers in China may experience, as well as those the Chinese feel when presented with visitors from the West.
“The White Nile” by Alan Moorehead chronicles Victorian-age exploration in Africa, especially the quest for the source of the Nile by Richard Burton and John H. Speke, David Stanley and Henry Morton Livingston, Samuel Baker and his wife, Florence. None of them got it right. But it hardly matters because their misadventures, blunders and outright lies about what they questing through in what they called “the dark continent” make captivating reading. The book is richly illustrated and chockful-full of maps.
“The Virago Book of Women Travellers,” edited by Mary Morris with Larry O’Connor, gathers smartly selected and edited writing about travel by women, as varied as reports about early 18th century Constantinople by Lady Mary Wortley Montagucq, a British diplomat’s wife, and Annie Dillard’s unsettling account of the killing of a deer in Ecuador’s Amazon.
The collection showcases the achievements, adventures and hardships women travelers faced while giving readers a deep drink of the places they visited. It will keep you reading for weeks and claim an important place on your travel bookshelf.
“On Persephone’s Island” by Mary Taylor Simeti is a long, enchanting tour of Sicily from its sublime Greek ruins, Baroque churches, vineyards and olive presses to its poverty, corruption and violent cities. By moving across the island and through the seasons with the goddess of spring Persephone — said to have been born on Sicily — Simeti finds a way to reconcile the contradictions. The author, who arrived on the island after graduating from Radcliffe in 1962, married and never left, is also an expert on Sicilian cuisine.
“Travels With a Donkey in the Cévennes” by Robert Louis Stevenson is a movingly written story about a 120-mile walking trip with a donkey — the snarky Modestine — and a homemade bedroll from the hamlet of Le Monastier to the town of St.-Jean-du-Gard in the Cévennes mountains of central France.
These sparsely populated peaks are considered the Appalachians of France, with a tragic history of religious persecution. Stevenson was 28 when he wrote this memoir in 1878 and in love with an unsuitable woman (whom he later married). On this walk, communing with mountain vistas, chestnut forests and rocky, fast-running streams, he worked out his problems and found his way forward, part of the purpose for traveling.
Homer’s “Odyssey,” newly translated by Emily Wilson, makes the story of Odysseus’ long, treacherous trip home from the Trojan War a travel adventure of the first order. We encounter tales we probably read in college as Odysseus sails the Mediterranean, evading Sirens, sea monsters and spellbinding sorceresses. But this new translation makes them psychologically real. Poor Odysseus is visited by these troubles because he’s offended the sea god Poseidon. And aren’t we all in the hands of the travel gods when we set off to see the world?
— Susan Spano