Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
fortable as sliding down a miles-long washboard on my ass—was essentially a surprise,
and perseverance is, after all, easier for the poorly informed. This time I know exactly
how hard I'm going to be working. Does that make me nervous? Sure.
Excited, too. Among other things, assuming I do persevere, I'll be spending a summer
and part of a fall largely outdoors, something New Yorkers in general (and obituary
writers in particular) rarely get to do. But mostly it'll be a chance to relive—well, maybe
that's the wrong word—to revisit an adventure I'd thought, at the time, was a once-only,
last-chance, now-or-never thing.
I suppose I can conclude that I'm younger than I thought I'd be at this age. Still, a
lot has happened since I last did this, and I expect the trip will give me the opportunity
to mull things over. Experiential bookends like this encourage you to take stock, don't
they? Add up the life details?
Of the top of my head, here's a quick summary: Both of my parents died. My brother
had a son. I survived some bad episodes of depression and anxiety, but eventually ended
twenty years of therapy and felt better for it. I moved to Chicago and back to New York.
I spent four years as a theater critic. I wrote a book—two, actually, if you count the short
one for kids. Much to my surprise, I developed an affinity for country music. I traveled
on a bicycle in Costa Rica, New Zealand, Italy, Ireland, France, and Vietnam—where I
was arrested and spent a night in jail. A handful of sincere and serious love affairs began
and ended. I renovated my apartment. Twice.
So what do you think? How am I doing?
Partly because of my job, partly by inclination, I'm far better traveled within the United
States than outside it. I've actually crossed the country a number of times by means
other than a bicycle, the first time in 1973 as a hitchhiker, just for the hell of it, after I'd
dropped out of college. In 2006, while I was working on a book about umpires in pro-
fessional baseball, I drove from Florida to Arizona during spring training and, when the
major league teams (and the umpires) dispersed to start the season, back to New York.
Not long ago, I went to a conference in California and, instead of flying back, I rented
a car and retraced much of the bicycle route I took in 1993. One satisfying highlight:
the Bates Motel, in Vale, Oregon, near the Idaho border, where I couldn't resist staying
overnight back then—I even took a shower!—was still there. (Need I explain to younger
readers that a fictional Bates Motel—Anthony Perkins, proprietor—was the scene of the
crime in Alfred Hitchcock's
Psycho
?) The cross-country trek has always appealed to me
because as a New Yorker with a New Yorker's bias—and even worse, a Manhattanite's—I
find much of America exotic.
