Like a runaway Spring Breafc
advertisement, I write thi;
I column to promote travel
to promote seeing the planet.
But the difference between me
and an advertisement is this: I don’i
want your money.
If you’re bored, I think you should
. leave. If you’re content, I think you
should stay. But there are two things
I discourage.#
The first is the “Job Market.” I
don’t care what it looks like on
television, the world of the yuppies
is a facade -- simple coat-and-tie
slavery.
The second thing is travel through
a travel agency. It makes no sense
to give money to a business in the
city of your departure. Save it for
the road. These places advertise
bargains of grandeur but the bot
tom line is they work 40 hours a
week NOT because they are con
cerned with the meta-ethical vari
ations of traveling, but because
they promote tourism.
Tourism is different than travel
ing.
Ever see “The Accidental Tour
ist”? The theme of the film was
homeostasis — the idea of traveling
and returning without ever having
to alter your lifestyle.
Leave the house to the cab, leave
the cab to the plane, leave the
plane to the airport, to the cab, to
the hotel, then a cab or tour bus,
and so on.
Again, a financially created yup
pie facade. Nothing in this life stag
nates as much asstill ponds of rain
water and business majors.
So don’t be a tourist. If your
wont is motion, break inertia by
yourself. Don’t be a business stu
dent and pay someone else to do it
for you.
I’m rambling. My direction here
is road-bound. I’ve been dealing
with travelers at work, and now we
move on to what travelers work for
in the first place: travel.
And I want to be positive. I want
to show the kinds of experiences
one can have when notions of a
common order are left behind in
childhood’sbedroom. The world is
a strange, wonderful, dangerous
experience, and there’s no reason
why everyone shouldn’t know this.
There’s no good reason at all that
people should go through life think
ing the government or their reli
gion takes care of everything. I’m
pretty sure that we make this stuff
up as we go along.
With any luck, in the long and
bizarre course of traveling, you will
not become lost. This is one mental
playground best left to those who
end up there because of the chemi
cal imbalance in their brain. Bad
chemicals are not a choice. T hat is
F ate — another much longer story
1 This story is just about losing
yourself on the planet, about what
it might be like were you actually to
succeed in separating mind from
body.
It’s not the expressway, not the
road not taken. It’s more like trav
eling all roads at once, or no road
at all.
♦ ♦ *
The old man stood on the wrong
side of the highway, facing the
traffic going his way, but doing so
on the opposite side of the road.
His left thumb outstretched, his
right thumb in his pocket rubbing
a piece of conch shell from the
Pacific Ocean and the ragged ridges
of a rusty key that fit a box contain
ing all the good things he had left
in the world. He searched for the
box with his two best buddies, his
right and left thumb. He looked for
the box, always. He didn’t know
where he’d left it — so many places
and faces whirled in and out of his
memories, so many placeshecould
have left it.
And he really wanted to find the
box, put the key in and turn it, re
leasing all the good things he’d
forgot he had. For now, however,
he stood on the side of the road,
the cars racing by like a video
game, and he held no quarter.
He put his left thumb away in
his pants pocket and started walk
ing.
“This is definitely the middle
west,” he thought to himself.
“MOOOOOOO!” he cried to the
corn cobs and cattle as though the
Field and its contents were a nearly
complete steak dinner in a happy
Midwest home, waiting only for an
Idaho potato smothered in picante
sauce made in New Jersey.
The sun warmed the asphalt,
which warmed the calluses stick
ing through the holes in his boots.
He was happy. It was a good day to
walk, walk, walk. The old man
walked all the time. Truth was,
he’d been walking along like this
for 21 years, try ing to find the la rger
piece fining the small piece of conch
in his pocket, trying to find that
blasted box.
His left thumb wiped sweat from
his brow. There appeared a town
in the distance as he reached the
peak ofa small, flat hill. He walked:
left, right, left, right, left, skip, shuffle,
right, left, shufne-ball-change: left.
Right!
A semi-truck actually had pulled
over to give him a lift. He got in.
“Where ya headed there, old
wanderin’ dude?” asked the young
truck driver.
“Coffee, maybe a roll from a
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