I love things that are simple and unironic. Unfortunately, many of these things are often considered cheesy (Eurodance music) or easily exploitable (religion). Separated from the noxious habits and abuses that surround them, both of those things are thoroughly enjoyable. But when my hatred of irony intersects with my love of travel (read: running from commitment), it’s time for some Earnest Travel Stories.
The simpler the better, really. I want to know what you did, what you ate, and who was with you when you went to bed. Were you cold on this day? Did eating a can of beans make you feel better, or remind you of your home? Are your calves itching as you walk? Really, give me empathy and I’ll give you a book you’re not supposed to like.
I just finished reading A Walk Across America, in which the author and his half-Malamute wander down the eastern part of the country in the mid-’70s and encounter all sorts of magical and genuine folk. As the end of the book approaches the narrator quickly finds God at stadium revival and falls in love and gets married. See, urbane fucks like myself would scoff at such moral investment, if I hadn’t experienced firsthand the embarrassingly pure emotions that seep in when you’re traveling on your own.
Why is it that when people in our country do this sort of thing they’re always “looking for America” as well as “looking for themselves?” What’s so outdated about just looking?
Now, Steinbeck is a master of unirony, and he wrote Travels with Charley in Search of America, which I haven’t read. But it contains all the good stuff: a man, his dog, a vehicle, and a trite metaphor about America. Whee!
A while ago as college was grinding to a halt I read a book whose title I can’t remember, by a guy who rode around the world on his bike. It had a forgettable title, and forgettable contents. Which is absolutely fine by me. I had a great time reading it. As I recall, he broke up with his girlfriend in the shadow of the Himalayas and had forgotten about it by the next chapter.
Then there’s the mother lode of all inane touring journal repositories, crazyguyonabike.com. You can find my journal as well as an amazing story of a trip from LA to Malaysia that had me reading every night, finally “bumping into” the end of the journal, when the dude was still on the road somewhere in western China, and I had to slow down and wait for him to wake up and write the next day. I mean, holy crap! How is some dead literature person going to move you more than that?
All this got started when I first visited Ken Kifer’s bike touring pages. Talk about unironic. Tells how feels and where itches.
Now I’m reading Blue Highways, by the improbably named William Least Heat-Moon. It’s interesting enough, although you sort of miss an overarching narrative because he leaves people behind after a single conversation and obstinately (and, I think, presumptuously) refuses to write himself into the book much. Come on, man! It’s a narcissistic project to begin with! Also, reading about how he just rides around in his van and gets out to stretch and then gets back in makes me antsy as all hell.