Travel Writing

I like to read travel writiers. Not just the Paul Theroux tell-it-like-it-is kind, but the kind that write for in-house magazines and Sunday newspaper travel sections. You know, the sort of person who always writes nice puff pieces and never ever has a bad experience. "The only thing wrong with an inside cabin on a cruise ship is that you don't know what time it is." To which my response is "The only thing wrong with washing your hair in the toilet is that there's no hot water." I wonder why everything is so rosy to these people. Is it because their whole travel experience is paid for by someone else? There can't be that much Prozac in the world.

I once went on a bus tour in Europe. The first thing we heard from our tour guide was that although all tips had been prepaid, he just knew we'd want to do something nice for Tony the driver, because today is his birthday. When I compared notes with other people, it turned out that Tony and the tour guide took turns having birthdays every trip. Why don't these things happen to the happy-wappy people who write for the auto club magazine? Why don't they lose luggage on Air Canada on a flight that only goes to one place from that city?

The best travel writer who ever wrote died recently. His name was Norman Lewis, and that man not only told the truth, but did it elegantly. Here's a sample in parting: "The moon came up; the breeze died away, and we lay motionless on a sea that glistened with phosphorescence, white as a frost-flecked desert. The sail stretched above us like a dark wing, cancelling out the stars." (from "A Voyage by Dhow").