Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
that says “by David Sedaris” to know that something was written by David Sedaris). For the
longesttime,IcouldnotfigureoutwhyIlovedsomuchthelittleessaycalled“AFarewellto
Yarns,” until it was revealed that, of course, the great Ian Frazier had written it. That would
explain how a piece of writing could be so simple and yet so simply wonderful—because it
was in the hands of a storyteller who, after so many years at his craft, really knows his busi-
ness.
TherearesomestoriesinthisanthologythatIfeltjustneededtobenexttoeachother—the
way total strangers meet on a train and somehow make each other's journeys more interest-
ing. “The Pippiest Place on Earth” is, in its own right, a fantastic exploration of a Charles
Dickens theme park, but it takes on a far deeper meaning after you've read “Dreaming of
El Dorado”—which is
truly
Dickensian. I put “Bombing Sarajevo” right next to “Vietnam's
Bowl of Secrets” because both of them are incredibly heartening stories about places that
were,notverylongago,theveryworstplacesintheworld.Yetthecheerful“Vietnam'sBowl
of Secrets” then bizarrely runs right into the disturbing “Babu on the Bad Road,” but only
becauseofthisonestrangelink:Bothstoriesareaboutthefetishisticsearchforamagicaland
mysterious fluid.
Other stories in here are, by necessity, solitary travelers. “The Wild Dogs of Istanbul” is
likenothingelseinthisassemblage—writteninsuchastrangeanddreamyvoicethatitfeltto
me like an Italo Calvino short story, curiously translated from some lost, obscure language.
I was also charmed by Peter Jon Lindberg's essay about the pleasures of routine family holi-
days;itssenseofquietsatisfaction isasmall islandofserenity inthiscollection offarrough-
er and hungrier tales. “Caliph of the Tricksters” stands alone in my mind, too; it is the only
story I have ever read that features a man whose job is to lick clean the bloody eyeballs of
wounded roosters during illegal Afghani cockfights. I did not know that this was a profes-
sion. I feel that my world is richer now that I do. I also feel like this piece of information
spares me a trip to Afghanistan to find out about blood-licking cockers for myself.
I elected to close this collection with Rich Cohen's grand “Pirate City”—a story that I
stumbled upon last summer in the
Paris Review
, and which so seduced me that I completely
losttrackofmyself,andoftime,whileIwasreadingit.Itisnotmerelyacarefullyresearched
history of the origins of New Orleans; it is also a wild tale about pirates and prostitutes and
duplicity and British men-of-war and alligators and escaped slaves and Spanish conquista-
dors. Why, there is so much true-life action-adventure in this narrative, you'd almost think
the story could have written itself!
But I know better.
Nothing in here wrote itself. Nothing ever can.
I salute, therefore, all the writers who made these wide and disparate acts of transportation
andtransformationcometolifeforourshock,amusement,andbetterment.Isalutetheeditors
whomadethewritersworkharderthantheyprobablywantedto.Isalutetheworldthatkeeps
