A reader's manifesto

B.R. Meyer opens a can of whoop ass on modern literary critics.

50 Travel Ideas

The LA Times Travel Writer picks her 50 favorite trips.

Christmas Break

Standing atop the sun-drenched Colorado Rockies at 12,500 feet, I looked down forlornly at my dad who, minutes before, had navigated his way through the death-inducing moguls that now separated us. Dad and I had just emerged from Araphoe Basin’s whale of a chairlift that belches skiers out at the highest commercial peak in North America. To my right glared even higher runs that could only be skied after hiking to the top of a perilous summit. To my left, across a tree-filled valley, rose the Continental Divide that Dad and I had mischievously driven under earlier that morning. And below stood my dad, waiting in the shade cast by the hill upon which I stood. Having arrived in Colorado more than 30 hours before and having visited two of the Rockies’ legendary resorts already (Breckenridge and Keystone), we sagely dispensed with committing A-Basin’s map to memory and instead navigated our own route down the mountain using our innate skiers’ sense. That is to say, we had no idea what the hell we were doing.

Shortly after finishing off the last of the Pecan Pie and just before beginning the annual Thanksgiving Day football game, I had prodded Dad about his commitment to skiing the Rockies over Christmas Vacation. Since Dad is a teacher, and my office offers charitable leave, we both have lengthy holiday breaks. In previous years, Dad toiled away in the classroom coaching over achieving debaters while I drank away the short winter days at the bar or in the basement. This year, I had decided, we should spend our money providing new material for John Donne prodigies by beneficently placing our lives in danger. Living in Iowa, that is no easy feat.

And in addition to my desire to ski the superlative-laced peaks of North America, I also wanted to visit my long-lost college buddies in America’s most patriotic city: Boston. And so, what began as a need to ski, turned into a 10-day, 8 different bed, 15 state odyssey that rejuvenated me for months to come.

Amtrak, America’s worst passenger railway company, was supposed to provide the only symmetry to my trip by delivering me to the airport and sweeping me back from Boston. It failed on both accounts. I have taken Amtrak exactly five times in my life and have been satisfied exactly once – on a 30-minute trip. And so, it was this French military like reputation that opaquely penetrated my limited concentration as I made my way to Washington’s Union Station at 3:40 am on Christmas Eve.

In a little over three hours, the United States Senate would pass a wide-sweeping health care bill just a few blocks from where I was walking, and in a little over eight hours the warmth of my Grandmother’s embrace would lift me out of the cold Iowa winter. As I entered Union Station, these blissful thoughts swashed around my head, and so it was with a clamoring thunder that the Union Station clock chimed 3:45 and Amtrak announced its 4:00 train to BWI Airport would not be leaving. Like the French after their defeat in the Franco-Prussian War, I was despondent but in no way surprised.

Actually, my acceptance of the cancelled train wasn’t quite this lucid. Instead, I must have looked like a newly indebted homeless man as I swiped my credit card in the ticket dispenser 23 times. When my itinerary failed to appear after the second swipe, I figured I had the wrong card. After trying all my credit cards, my dad’s credit card, my Barnes and Noble Card, my Social Security Card – remember it was 3:45 am – I finally realized my train wasn’t going to the airport. Fearing the looming ice-storm in Chicago and blizzard in Des Moines, I knew I had to make my 6:00 am flight before the weather reduced me to spending Christmas with a United ticket agent at Chicago’s O’Hare Airport. Not a prospect I found too appetizing. After gathering from a cabbie, that the $12 train-ride to the airport would cost $85 by car, I returned to the waiting room to cajole my fellow stranded passengers into sharing a cab. Just as my bank account began to prepare itself for a momentous loss, an oasis appeared.

“Hey, are you going to BWI?” I asked a woman walking towards me with a suitcase designed only for stuffing into an overhead compartment.

“Yes, and I’m going to drive, and you can ride with me.” Now, as you can imagine, I was elated and immediately gave this woman a squashing bear-hug. Actually, that’s what I envisioned myself doing, but instead I answered with some erudite response, like, “Oh ok, sounds good.”

After my new friend, Alison, got us lost and asked for directions to the airport, I soon realized how fortuitous it was for her that I had generously agreed to accept her invitation to the airport. I was the Good Samaritan. Alison was older than me, mid 30s I would guess, and had dark hair and glasses. She was skinny and seemed hardened by something in her past.

After walking the two blocks to her car, Alison and I had driven back to Union Station, run through the departure lounge offering rides to the airport, but failed to acquire any additional passengers. With just the two us, Alison’s little Saab negotiated the early morning traffic and made its way to the highway.

With about 10 miles left, the conversation turned to our assorted travels abroad. Since Alison’s job was out-of-bounds, “Navy Intelligence,” we instead focused on what we both would rather do for a living.

“I spent a year after college teaching English in Hungary,” Alison offered. Flabbergasted, I gushed,

“I lived in Hungary for a year during college.” Alison, for the first time that morning, took her eyes off the road to look me up and down and evaluate the veracity of this claim. And since she was “Navy Intelligence,” the prospect of lying to her seemed as if it might place my life in jeopardy. I had no intention of doing so.

“So, did you speak any Hungarian before you moved there?” I inquired.

“Yea, actually I won a scholarship to take Hungarian during the summer at a college in Illinois.”

“Was it Beloit College?”

“Yea it was,” Alison answered, again looking at me with her military-sharpened deductive skills churning in her head. I continued my line of questioning like a focused prosecutor,

“And was your teacher’s name, Maria?” I delivered my final question with a satisfying flourish - wishing a jury sat in the back-seat instead of dirty socks and K-Mart receipts.

“Oh my God, Yes it was Maria,” Alison exclaimed as the car crossed first a dashed white line, then a solid white line, and finally rumble strips that announced Alison’s impending crash and jolted her into straightening out the car.

“How do you know Maria?” she asked.

“She was my Hungarian teacher when I studied in Hungary!”

In due time, Alison relayed that she had visited Maria the previous summer and maintained a frequent correspondence. This bizarre coincidence that placed me in Alison’s car reminded me of a Bill Bryson story – one of Iowa’s most proudest productions I must say – about bizarre coincidences:

After saying good bye to Alison, I sat back in awe as the overcrowded bus approached the terminal. But before I could dwell on my Brysonian story, I found myself learning about the nuanced intricacies of various Caribbean Islands.

“We’re heading to Jamaica this time. We love Jamaica – went for the first time in October. We were in the Bahamas for Easter, but the water is just too cold this time of year. St. Mother Teresa [or some such island] is also great, but the crowds there are just terrible over the holidays.” I didn’t know whether to be impressed or horrified about the brazen temerity with which this couple displayed their wealth. But their dissection of the Caribbean distracted me enough to miss my stop.

“Have a great time in, er, the Caribbean,” I wished the couple, running back to the lowly domestic terminal unable to remember what intricacy of which island had attracted their fancy this year.

When my plane touched-down in Des Moines, the grey-cast sky dropped light rain on the plane’s windows – withholding the ice and snow for later that day. Dad was there waiting for me with the only foreign car in all of Iowa, and we were soon on our way to Grandma’s house for Christmas Eve – eyes peeled for reindeer. My eight-hour expired thoughts returned as soon as I walked in the door. Smoked ham and mashed potatoes appeared on a plate in front of me before I could take off my coat. I was finally back in Iowa.

My family has been going to Grandma’s house for Christmas Eve since before I was born. It’s all I know, and I’m rather confused as to what I’ll do for Christmas when I’m no longer going to Grandma’s house – more importantly, what I’ll do without Grandma’s gifts. As always, Grandma reliably delivered, like a drug dealer, with a wonderful array of presents. The prescience with which she provides me bestsellers off of my Amazon wish list is stutter-inducing. Grandpa’s touch was also noticeable in one gift: he had artistically returned all the bent nails I had left in his woodshop over the years. He crafted a newspaper-sized nametag out of bent nails, and while he only spelled out D-A-N, I’m pretty sure he had enough of my used-and-replaced nails to spell my name as it appears on my birth certificate – twice.

Mother Blizzard prevented us from getting home to Mom and Dad’s house following Grandma’s rehearsed celebration, but with the morning light and warnings of more snow to come, we quickly evacuated Carroll on Christmas morning and did our best to make the 2-hour drive last as long as possible – coming in at just under 4 hours.

While the Altima and Jetta successfully navigated the iced-over country roads to Okoboji, there was no way they were getting into the drift-filled driveway without firing up the yet-to-be-christened snowblower. A little over a month before, just after I successfully manipulated my dad into agreeing to take me skiing in Colorado, Mom and I had purchased a snowblower intending to deliver it to Dad on Christmas Day. But, with God hating Al Gore as he does, Iowa received a record snowfall in early December requiring the early use of the no-longer-a-surprise gift. However, since the charade was co-opted, I got to use the new machine before opening presents – something I longingly desired after my snowless winters in D.C.

I bolted out of my brother’s Jetta before it came to a stop and had the snowblower churning before Mom had undone her seatbelt. This delay turned out to be fortuitous when my relative inexperience with operating the contraption caused me to neglect the snow’s chute, and I inexplicably placed the first row of snow directly on the Altima’s passenger window. Sorry Mom. As I suffered through displacing the snow from our driveway, Mom, Dad, and my brother Matt dodged my work and unloaded the cars.

After the driveway had been charitably cleared, Mom demonstrated her inherited Christmas aptitude by surrounding me with dozens of perfect gifts. An Appalachian Trail calendar, without apparent Mark Sanford associated irony, and a new coat were just a couple of the highlights. And since Dad already had his snowblower, he didn’t have any presents to open – sort of like a modern day Tiny Tim. Matt got some presents too.

What followed, though, were some much needed peaceful days of rest. The three guys of the family spent the vacation torturing Mom into playing card games, and I made an appearance at the local bar – mostly to belittle the locals. Dick Cheney would have been proud.

After just two nights, and 10 inches of snow, Dad and I departed sleepy Okoboji for the mountainous city of Denver. To continue with my theme of extended fits of transportation, we turned what was supposed to be a 10-hour drive into a 14 hour slog. The flat, open, sprawling plains of Nebraska, with an estimated population of 232 people, somehow put enough cars on the highway to crowd the road through most of the state. Thankfully, we arrived at my Aunt’s house in Colorado wholly intact.

After a delicious dinner, a few hours of sleep, Dad (with glasses in place) and I were back on the road at 6:30 am. Now, it’s important to establish that I love skiing more than Henry VIII loved wives. In 5^th grade Dad took me skiing at the misnamed Holiday Mountain in Estherville, Iowa. Dad took me outside, slammed me into my skis, pushed me towards the bunny hill, and made his way back into the ski chalet before I could say stop. While some sons might have been angered by this ominous inauguration, I was not to be deterred. As I coasted down the bunny hill, the increasing speech with which I hurtled toward the river below grew alarmingly apprehensive, and so I threw myself to the ground. But, after about 30 seconds of boredom, I got up, and started tumbling down the mountain. Again, the ground started passing between my legs alarmingly fast, and so my face again met the ground, again. They were becoming fast friends.

By the time Matt and Dad made it out of the chalet, I had precociously tackled all of Holiday Mountain and was too confident to be bothered with such a speed bump of a resort. Sadly, I would have to wait another 12 years before I could summit a real “Holiday Mountain” in the form of Breckenridge, CO. It is with this promising beginning that I found myself, 12 years later climbing into a Gondola at the base of Peak 7, Breckenridge, Colorado at 8:00 am. I was in heaven. Dad and I emerged from the Gondola at the base of the mountain when 20 scarily cheerful employees dawning bright blue coats demanded we allow them to point us in the right direction. We relented.

Quite easily, the highlight of Breckenridge is the mountain’s t-bar that ejects skiers above the Colorado tree-line. Little did I know, the only runs that came down from this t-bar are categorized as Double Black Diamonds. And while I do love skiing, no one would really characterize me as a good skier. But soldier on I did, and Dad and I found ourselves returning to the t-bar three more times before the day was out.

The “Little Boy Feeling” is something I have coined and believe is something for which I deserve praise and fortune. Everyone has had the LBF at some point in his or her lifetime. And as we get older, it diminishes in correlation with age. Essentially, the LBF is the sensation that swarms over your body and reminds you why you are human. It’s like a first date, the first time you have sex, and your first home run all rolled in to one. For me, the LBF usually occurs when I walk into a baseball stadium for the first time. I remember it most clearly the first time I saw Fenway Park:

The first thing that hits you is the smell. As you catch a glimpse of the green corners of the stadium, you see the Citgo Sign light up, and the smell known to baseball fans everywhere, composed of hot dogs, sunflower seeds, sweat, and beer, dominates your nostrils. After presenting your tickets and entering the grandstand, you are transported back to 1920 envisioning Babe Ruth smoking a cigar and making his way to the field. And then the best part of all – you emerge form the concrete mass to catch your first site of the bright green field stitched with bright chalk lines, stretched beneath the Green Monster, and the LBF overwhelms your senses. That simple feeling of pure pleasure, childhood innocence, and blissful ignorance, is what I call the LBF. As I’ve grown older, it occurs more infrequently, but every so often it crops up, and I remember what it’s like to be 10 and content. And that is exactly how I felt when I stepped off the t-bar at Breckenridge’s highest peak. Laying in the snow, water creeping into my pants, and skis careening down the mountain, just 2 minutes after my arrival, the LBF was no longer on my mind.

About 3:00 in the afternoon, the altitude, the 14-hour car ride, and the 7 hours of skiing finally got to us. We made our way to the run, creatively titled “4:00 run” that delivers skiers to their cars at the end of their day, and eased our way off the mountain. To a kid from Iowa, who had no recollection of America’s highest peaks, I was smitten.

Day 1 of skiing ended peacefully enough, Dad and I returned to Denver in search of new glasses. Dad had misplaced his in the struggle to put on his skiing equipment, and the glasses apparently won. A mad dash around suburban Denver ensued, and after a bowl of chili and time with the cousins, we had a full stomach and brand-new glasses. Time for bed.

Day 2 of skiing brought its own surprises. Dad and I summited Keystone, Colorado, which is a bit smaller but far less crowded than Breckenridge. Dad decided skiing moguls and black diamonds was too easy with two gloves, so he placed one of his in the valley of a chairlift, as we ascended on the seat rising above. He chose the resort’s most remote lift in which to deposit his glove, as if the challenge of skiing with a frozen hand seemed unstimulating. The ski patrol, though, was nice enough to give him a bright pink covering, a badge of honor I guessed, and we were back to the slopes – the talk of the town. Back to the car for a quick brunch, Dad and I shifted course and made our way to Arapahoe Basin to finish out our trip. A-Basin, as the locals call it, draws the Denverites and the extreme skiers while the tourists and posers spend their time and money at Breck and Keystone. Clearly we didn’t fit in at any of the three.

Soon after our arrival though, we immediately made for A-Basin’s highest point, which was attained easily enough as half the mountain was closed due to insufficient snow. After a day and half of skiing, and nearing complete exhaustion, I found myself staring down at my dad across the hardest moguls I had ever seen.

As I began my descent, composing my last words and remembering my Catholicism, I was quite literally, and metaphorically, departing from the zenith of my ten-day holiday vacation. While the break wasn’t about to cascade quite as precipitously or as violently as I was, leaving this peak meant beginning the trudge back to the office on Monday morning. Despite my “Danger Will Robinson” feelings, I navigated the moguls much to my dad’s amusement. The mountain had finally conquered me. While earlier on the trip, I had been daring enough to attempt any run, my tired legs and fragile constitution, prohibited any additional attempts. After making our way through those moguls, we breezed through a few blues, enjoying the scenery of A-Basin and taking our time to wind down our long-awaited skication.

Begrudgingly, Dad convinced me to return to the car, and we began our drive back to Denver. Again, Sara provided a delicious dinner of meatball sandwiches, and soon after, Dad was on his way back to Iowa. I dropped by my cousin Gordon’s house, to catch his wife throwing paint at the walls. The paint fumes added quite nicely to my near state-of-exhaustion, and I passed out before 10 pm.

Gordon was kind enough to deliver me to the airport next morning, and due to the crotch bomber’s sudden rise to fame, security was a nightmare. The flight got to Boston easily enough though, and Courtney Griffin was there to shepherd me and my 50 pounds of luggage back to New Hampshire. Having gone to college in Vermont, it felt great to be back in New England. Small towns, plaques recognizing houses, and monuments to obscure 19^th century presidents dominated the landscape. And in my quest to visit all 50 state Capitols, I dropped by the New Hampshire version, four blocks from Courtney’s house, and shouted with disdain: "Why is it that New England can’t figure out how to do representative democracy correctly?"

New Hampshire has over three hundred state representatives, and its website proudly declares this is the third largest legislative body in the English-speaking world. Is that really something to brag about? I presume that this large number of toiling bureaucrats was the reason they couldn’t even afford to provide them with desks, just chairs on the floor of the House. After our 30 second tour of the statehouse and 30 minute tour of Concord, Courtney and I had conquered the town. Nothing left to do but celebrate by going to Olive Garden! Life was good.

Courtney and I also had the chance to see Sherlock Holmes, and I’m fast becoming a fan of Robert Downey, Jr., much to the worry of the unblighted veins in my forearms. The movie, however, is expertly directed, though emphasizes Sherlock Holmes’ bizarre jujitsu acumen. Still, once one separates the Holmes created by Sir Arthur from the one created by Guy Ritchie, the film comes alive. I found myself remembering the delightfully fun Encyclopedia Brown books of my childhood.

Courtney, two of her high school friends, and I drove to Boston for New Year’s where we, mostly I, prepared a delicious feast of homemade pizza. Perhaps a little too heavy on the sausage for most, I did my best to single-handedly prop up Iowa’s struggling pork industry - unsuccessfully. The four of us made our way to a Bates party, and shortly thereafter, I appeared at a Middlebury reunion that felt exactly like the Bates party except that I knew everyone. How NESCAC schools differ like Caribbean islands.

New Year’s morning brought the necessary day-after brunch, and my breakfast was coyly named the Eggstravaganza. The “Gourmet Deli” where we ate, had no more than four customers, two of which had registered complaints by the time we left. Although we prepared ourselves for a “gastrointestinal Chernobyl,” the food left us unaffected. Soon after, I abandoned the charming ladies from Concord, and met up with the Middlebury crew for a Boston Classic viewing. Once a year, the NHL uses electric shock therapy to prod two teams into playing an actual game outside. This year the game was scheduled for Fenway Park on New Year’s Day. Lacking imagination, our crew ended up at the House of Blues across the street from Fenway with 500 screaming Bruins fans glued to a screen the size of the Citgo sign.

“The Bruins Score!” screamed out the announcer as Boston won the game in overtime. The roars form the stadium next door drifted into the bar, and the place generally exploded. What a welcome to Boston.

Later that night, I met up with my friend Kevin, who almost single-handedly elicited the LBF in me – by presenting me with Hungary’s finest pastry: pogacsa. Kevin had spent his Christmas in Hungary and New Year’s in Bulgaria. He was just returning from a two-week trip abroad and found enough room to bring back my two favorite things combined: Hungary & food. While I was jealous, I was also fascinated. Naturally, we had dinner at an Irish pub to celebrate our Hungarian nostalgia.

Saturday brought with it my departure from Boston, and finally I was due back in Washington, again via Amtrak. But first, I acquired one last, and lasting, memory of Boston. With about two-hours to spare before my train, I wandered into a bar in South Boston, where a Chinese bartender named Hawkeye gave me a coke, and the Italian owner sat lurking in the kitchen. After about two minutes of sitting at the bar, taking in the Ole Miss game, I soon learned about Hawkeye’s adoration of porn. Oddly enough, the native Bostonian sitting at the other end of the bar was teaching the Chinese bartender how to run his computer. And all the bartender seemed to view with his computer, was porn.

“You sick fuck,” is how the Bostonian gently put it. As I was trying to watch the game on TV, to my left, at the bar, these two men bickered about porn-watching habits while also conducting a computer tutorial. To add to this fun, I took in a biography of Hawkeye’s lengthy life.

“I’ve got a 40 year old daughter, and a 40 year old wife. How ’bout that,” he said to me with a knowing smile. Time to go.

Amtrak didn’t fail quite so annoyingly on the return trip to Washington, and only delivered me to Union Station an hour after our scheduled arrival. On time really for Amtrak. Another half hour metro ride, and $15 cab put me at my front door at 2:45 am. Unable to sleep, I turned to that childhood classic, Mighty Ducks to put me out. Finally, at 5:45 am, after fully recounting my trip to some of America’s finest locations, I ended my holiday break.

An Open Letter to Robert MacFarlane

November 11, 2009

Robert MacFarlane

Emmanuel College

Oxford, England

Dear Dr. MacFarlane,

I have a complicated appreciation of Paul Theroux, which is why I read with eager anticipation your review of the Ghost Train to the Eastern Star. I must admit, I have not read any of your works. But you seem like someone with whom I’d get along. You have a rich appreciation, and far superior knowledge, of literature, yet an equal appreciation for the remnants of underexplored nature in developed societies. However, because of the disdain and repulsion with which you rejected Theroux’s latest bestseller, I felt compelled to write this letter.

What bothers you most about Paul Theroux is his abhorrent pomposity. Without question, Theroux is a writer imbued with supreme confidence. Yet, Theroux readily admits, he has not had a happy life – or at least he hadn’t until The Great Railway Bazaar brought him fame and fortune. And so, the egotism with which he writes can best be described as astonished pride in his own work. Yet, I feel as if you fail to appreciate the subtlety of this confidence. It’s not a boastful confidence, but more of an amazed, reflective appreciation of what he has accomplished. Establishing this subtle character trait is critical because it allows the reader to connect with and get past Theroux’s arrogance – which is continuous – and appreciate the true value of his work.

You highlight the many shortcomings of the Ghost Train to the Eastern Star. Theroux is lazy, generalizing, simplistic, stereotypical, and above all refuses to get off the train. And you are exactly correct in all of these assaults. But these shortcomings are also what make Theroux’s work so enticing and captivating – much to my own chagrin.

When Theroux arrives in a country, he records his immediate prognoses and condescending judgments of the landscape before him. And yes, these are always simplified, lacking nuance, and overly generalized. But they are exactly what every traveler does the instant he encounters a new horizon. Theroux quotes Mark Twain upon his arrival in Istanbul who similarly generalized, stereotyped and conjured up thoughts and images that fit his preconceived notions about the inhabitants of Constantinople.

Theroux’s “banalities masquerading as profundities” are what the armchair traveler covets the most in a travel memoir – the ruminations that run through a newly landed traveler. Whole books could be, and have been, written about the arriver’s first thoughts and feelings. Theroux’s ability to capture these invective penetrations consumes the reader and satisfies Theroux disciples again and again.

Ghost Train also snags the reader because Theroux finally becomes an introspective traveler – which the reader desires after its absence in Theroux’s earlier works. You write sarcastically that Theroux’s discovery that he, more than the cities through which he has passed, has changed the most in the thirty years that has elapsed since he last traveled this route. And while you rebuke Theroux’s explanation, this insight into the author's psyche is yet another example of why the armchair traveler loves to follow along with Theroux – because he sees himself sitting across from the narrator as he scribbles away on the night train to Bombay.

Besides his banalities, Theroux’s “less interesting details” also help transport the armchair traveler into central Asia or backwater Burma. The precise dialogue he captures and the rich descriptions of the individuals and cities that cross his radar are unparalleled in their ability to satiate the appetite of the wannabe traveler reading along at home. Which is why I love Paul Theroux. No – that’s a lie.

I must confess, it actually took me five tries to get through my first Paul Theroux book. Mosquito Cost was my first purchase, and I still haven’t read it. And when I do sit down to tackle a Theroux masterpiece (Ghost Train, Railway Bazaar, Dark Star Safari), I find myself turning the pages quickly, eagerly, but not devouring every word that passes through my fingers. Your review is exactly correct; while Railway Bazaar opened the world to millions including hundreds of “upstart punks,” Theroux’s later works are frustrating in their oscillations between mendacity and poetry. And these undulations are why I have enjoyed Ghost Train so much, because I listen to it as I traverse the streets of Washington D.C. on my bicycle. I’m continually drawn in to Theroux’s rich descriptions – his reunion with Mr. Bernard’s son in Thailand – but I can also daydream whole pages away without any pangs of guilt. Paul Theroux’s work fulfils the ADD imbued, aspiring travel writer that I am.

Until I read your review earlier this week, I had no problem drifting, for hours, in and out of Ghost Train. But your review elicited in me an anger I have not felt since my sophomore English teacher leveled praise upon Catcher in the Rye. Now, every time I turn on Ghost Train, your voice clangs in my head – “How can you suffer through such ‘intellectually intolerable’ platitudes?” You penetrated my happy appreciation of Paul Theroux with such precision and directness, that I couldn’t let it go. But I’m not going to let you win either.

I’m going to continue to read Ghost Train, but only on my bike where I can ruminate about my own travel ambitions, without relying on a washed-up, bitter old man to transport me across the world. And who knows, as I continue to ride my bike, I might just keep riding, and riding until I find myself across the world – a young, “opportunistic punk,” with my own nonsensical generalizations filling books and making millions. If so, I’ll have Paul Theroux to thank. Thank you for disturbing my peaceful, yet discomforting, appreciation of this complicated writer.

Sincerely,

Dan Stevens

P.S. You know what “Poor Pico Iyer” thought of this book: “Brilliant.”

How to Appreciate Literature

Pierre Bayard knows how.

The line-by-line, cover-to-cover experience of a text, [Bayard] argues , is passé; true reading consists mainly of nonreading. By this he means not just an absence of reading but a positive set of shadow skills that we should honor and cultivate and teach to our children: browsing covers and spines, reading first sentences, skimming key passages, monitoring gossip, and b.s.-ing at cocktail parties. Deep knowledge of a particular book, Bayard contends, is almost always less important than an understanding of that book’s position in a “collective library”—the imagined cluster of books to which it’s related.

Life in Korea

Isn't too Bad. In the accopmanying photo album, I have a few pictures up of my apartment - which does suck. That will be changing on Wednesday or Thursday though. One of the other Americans at my school is cutting her contract early and heading back to the states after seven months of teaching in Korea. She's been great in helping me figure out the area and the buses, and I get her apartment after she moves out - I hope.

The weirdest/hardest thing about being in Korea is the language. Unlike most of the areas in Eastern Europe where I couldn't speak the language, I can't read it here either. At least in Slovakia or Croatia you can make sense of the letters enough to figure out locations or things like computer, hostel, water, etc. When everything is in Korean letters, this is much harder.

Because I was so fed up with the teaching the first two days, I didn't do much exploring. This changed during the past few days where I went exploring. Day 1 I sauntered through the foreigner downtown just off of the American military base. It's full of Pakistanis, Indians, and refugees from all over the Middle East, in addition to the Western contingent. On one street I heard more Arabic than Korean.

Day 2 I ventured down "Olympic Way" replete with statues honoring the ever important 1988 Seoul Olympics. At the end of Olympic Way was the most modern, disgusting mall I have ever seen. The real sad part was that just to the North of the mall was a 1300 year old temple being surrounded by modernity.

The pictures throughout this post are from the temple . Apparently that's the big thing to do in Korea - to check out all the old temples. When I hear temple, I think thousand year-old relic. Sadly this is not the case for many temples since the Korean War pretty much leveled most of the country.

Last night, I ventured back up to Foreigner town and bought a phone from a departing American. Sadly I forgot my camera, but that didn't stop me from hopping around Seoul's hippest downtown area. Since it's a city of 10 million, there are many "downtowns" but this was probably the biggest.
It reminded me of the Swiss in how clean and efficient it was, especially the train station, but it definitely wasn't Switzerland. There were people everywhere. Switzerland is much more relaxed and spacious. Not the case in Korea.

Today is Friday - Thank God. Tomorrow I'll be heading off to a town, named Sokcho, on the Eastern Coast which apparently has a huge national park and a harbor with lots of seafood restaurants (though I'm pretty sure the seafood is much different than what I'm picturing in my head right now). Until then, it's another day's work and a run through the smog suffocated streets of Seoul...

Teaching in Korea

Pretty much sucks. That's pretty harsh, and it's only my fourth day - but it's not too far off. Most days I teach five different classes. It's set up like this.

9:30 - 10:50 - seven-year olds
10:55-12:15 - four/five-year olds
2:40 - 3:20 - 3rd/4th graders
4:10 - 4:50 - 3rd/4th graders
4:55 - 5:35 - 3rd/4th graders



This is a picture of my school - it's the building in the middle with the radio tower behind it. The picture below nicely captures the Pizza Hut on the first floor.

The absolute worst part of my day comes during the 80 minutes I have to spend with the four and five-year olds. On Tuesday, I walked into the room, and they cried, for 80 minutes straight.

Let me back up a second. I got into Korea on a Sunday night, caught my own bus from the airport to the city center, where my boss picked me up (late of course). I got into my disgusting apartment - later post to come - at 9 pm. My boss said, oh by the way you have to teach tomorrow morning at 9 am. Nevermind the promised orientation, acclimation, or training.

I'm a pretty relaxed guy, but I was thrown into a classroom full of Korean students, having absolutely no grasp of teaching or Korean. The so-called "curriculum" was a list of three books that took about 20 minutes to teach. Here I was with 60 minutes, seven students, no ability to communicate, and nothing to do. Yea, I was screwed.

Over the past four days, I've gotten pretty used to most of the classes. The afternoon students at least understand when I'm yelling at them, so they listen now. Those classes are only 40 minutes which makes them pretty tolerable. I've figured out the seven-year olds enough to plod on through. But today, I had the four year olds for 80 minutes, we built legos, for 80 minutes. How do you teach when they can't even understand you are supposed to be teaching them?

Most days - I just take it one step at a time. I can handle just about anything, and now with the four-year olds, I see myself as a day-care supervisor. Let's see if they provide some training if the ever get mad at me....

Ok well that's enough complaining about the teaching. I think the recruiting agency I went through was fine, but I think there just isn't much emphasis on training teachers to be successful at my specific school. For those thinking of teaching abroad, beware of empty promises. It's now become pretty much and in-and-out job. I'm currently taking my lunch break at home...

Also, below is the customary "first day of school" picture.

Leaving Middlebury (Again)

This is a picture of the ever-famous "Demilitarized Zone" demarcating the de-facto border between North and South Korea. In one week, I will be living less than 100 km from one of the most contested borders in the world. I know - I'm surprised too.

This current adventure began last Wednesday. At the beginning of the semester this last fall, I decided to "feb" myself and signed up for graduation in early February. Doing so saved me (well Mom & Dad really) the $24,000 needed for this second semester. I graduated on February 2, 2008, and had no prospects for a job whatsoever. After lounging around Middlebury for a month and enjoying all the benefits of college life without the academic requirements, I got a little bored. In between hockey games, lectures, and skiing, I managed to apply for a teaching position in Korea. Since March is a very important month for starting school, Long Bridge Pacific decided I needed to ship out immediately.

Last Wednesday I had a phone interview with Sam, director of the Songpa Language Institute, and about ten minutes later, I had a job. The details of the job are still a little up in the air, BUT I do know I will be teaching English to elementary and middle school students at a language school outside of regular public schools.

I depart for Korea this coming Friday from Minneapolis, so this next week will be quite the whirlwind tour. I'm headed home to Iowa from Middlebury on Tuesday after saying all my good byes this weekend. During my brief stay in Iowa, I have to take the foreign service exam, and then I'm headed to the airport and off to Korea - for a year. They are flying me back to the states for a week or two in April to obtain the proper work visa, but who knows how that's all going to work out.

I'll try to be better about updating from Korea than I was from Budapest. Given this is a real job and I won't have every Friday off, I anticipate I'll be doing a little less traveling and a bit more exploring of Seoul. As always I love emails, use this address: okobojidan@gmail.com. And I'll be sure to post my mailing address once I'm actually on the ground.

One question a lot of people have asked me is: Why Korea?

I don't really know. I tell people there is a big demand for English teachers so they pay well, but really I just saw an ad on google, and now I'm leaving in a week.

This is where I'll be for those a little fuzzy on their geography:

Pictures & Other Links

Thanks to Eric for giving me this idea - Here's a list of all my photos from abroad...

England
Switzerland
Belarus
Montenegro
Bosnia & Herzegovina
Albania
Macedonia
Serbia
Szekesfehervar
Mt. Kekes
Keszthely
Day of Castling
Sarospatak
Vac
Tat & Gyor
Paris
First Week in Korea
Cheongu
Incheon

Columbus Day Hiking Trip
Spain

And for more see my facebook albums

What Everyone Misses About the Iowa Caucuses

As a proud Iowan, I often ask myself – what do we really have to brag about? Sure we have world famous attractions like America’s largest Czech and Slovak Museum, the Midwest’s largest frying pan, and the home of the first soldier to die in World War I. Assuredly, these hallowed halls whet the appetite of the would-be tourist. But not to worry – we have the caucuses!

The Iowa caucuses bring millions of dollars to our state every four years and begin the process of determining the leader of the free world. But wait, who really cares? Not Iowans, that’s for sure. For the last several months and for the next two as the Iowa Caucuses approach, polling data and school visits in Iowa will dominate the national press – and be skipped over by most Iowans.

This is the sad incongruity between national perceptions of the “noblest form of democracy,” and the reality in Iowa. On January 3, 2008, the first votes (sort-of) will be cast for the eventual president of the United States. And they will be done so by no more than about 150,000 largely white, middle-class, citizens from, just one, heartland state. This is not meant to be a drag on Iowans – we take our job seriously.

Well I should say the roughly 5 % of the state that caucus take their job seriously. So when the national media swarms on Iowa, it makes the viewer in Tallahassee or the reader in Seattle think Iowans are something they are not – a bunch of political geeks descended from some abnormal heritage well versed in the treatises of Locke and Montesquieu. Most of us barely got past Federalist #10 – something about factions?

So Iowans don’t care, oh shit! Not really. The media likes to assign a mythical advantage to whoever wins the Iowa caucuses. This notion also is largely incorrect. Oh sure, Kerry won Iowa and won the Democratic nominee in 2004 as did Bush for the GOP in 2000, but Iowa played a very minor role in the victories of those two candidates. Polling data shows, those two candidates were already on their way to winning nationally without the supposed “boost” they gained from Iowa’s anointed aristocracy.

Finally, no one really knows what is going to happen come January 3. When only 5% of the state is likely to participate, reliable polling data is hard to accumulate. And even when polls do reach upwards of 1000 “likely” caucus goers, who really knows if a) they will go, or more importantly if b) they will switch their support during the two hour marathon butting heads with the Orange Bowl. The media speculates daily about the polls coming out of Iowa and shapes how the rest of the nation feels about the candidates when in actuality, anything could happen.

Iowans are a proud bunch; we’re not easily persuaded by fast talking politicians dressed in nice suits. In that regard the politically active citizens of the state are some of the most gifted observers in selecting the next POTUS. That being said, the caucuses are hardly the best democratic measure aimed at jump-starting the race for president. The large majority of Iowans are not as active as they should be, and Iowa does not matter as much as everyone wants it to. And while I like saying I’ve met all the leading contenders, the Iowa fray wastes millions of dollars and hours of energy. It also undercuts democracy – presidential candidates are ignoring most of the country.

Like Bruce Wayne in the newest Batman movie, I am telling you to get out of my house for your own good. The candidates and the media need to get out of Iowa – it’s bad for America and it undermines the nomination process. I’ll be sad when Iowa no longer dominates the press every four years but I guess I’ll have to find solace in cooking really big pancakes while sipping Bohemian beer.

A week at Midd

The past two weeks of Middlebury life have been in a way ultra typical, but in a way also extemely interesting. It started last week when Rajiv Chandrasekaran came to speak on campus. He is an editor at the Washington Post and wrote the book Imperial Life in the Emerald City: Inside Iraq's Green Zone about the first few months of the US invasion in Iraq. He was very journalistic in that he didn't really offer any political views or blame.

He did, as he does in the book, highlight a lot of the atrocious planning mistakes commited by the Bush Administration. It wasn't really anything new or different from the book. The one thing I took away was how journalists could conduct their investigations so much easier immediately after the fall of Saddam. Now Western jounralists can't even leave the green zone and Iraqi journalists do all the investigating, and even they are at risk. I do recommend the book though as a basic run through of how we messed up. Chandrasekaran has a lot of unique takes on the whole situation and is very good about not blaming the soldiers or State department.

This past Wednesday, I was lucky enough to have dinner with Peter Galbraith, an expert on Iraq and former Ambassador to Croatia under the Clinton Administration. The public library where I work was sponsoring Ambassador Galbraith, and I was invited to dinner. I was a bit disappointed because I thought the other adults failed to really address the expert mind we had at the table - instead we were discussing how young kids are so tech savy (never heard that before). But after awhile we got around to a more serious discussion.

Turns out that Galbraith went to Oxford and Harvard with current Pakistani #1 dissident Benazir Bhutto. From what I have been reading in the press, I wasn't the world's biggest fan. When Bhutto was Prime Minister, she wasn't exactly a pillar of democracy. She also inherited the post from her father, also again not exactly a morally stable person. I had my reservations, so when Galbraith talked about his close friendship with Bhutto, I was a bit mystified. Over the course of dinner, though, I think Galbraith backed it up with some so-so examples.

Although Galbraith was ambassador to Croatia, its not really his thing. Which was sad for me because of my current interest in that country. He spoke about the Dayton Accords and the war in Bosnia, but not with any real passion. He saved that for Iraq - which he worked on during his time at the Senate Foreign Relations Committee. The other big idea Galbraith had was partition in Iraq. Again, from everything I read, it doesn't seem that partition works. Most experts agree that the Sunnis and Shia do not want the country split up, and neither group wants to lose the Kurds. In my view, it makes sense on just about every front to let the Kurds go their own way. They've earned it, they've instilled stability, and they have a homogenous geography. Sadly, the question of oil revenues prevents any movement in this direction.

The final highlight of my week was dinner with Eileen O'Connor. She was a journalist for ABC and CNN in Moscow during the 80s and 90s. While I thought her political conclusions about the situation in Russia were a bit underdeveloped, she told fascinating stories about her interactions with Russian officials. O'Connor was the only journalist to discover Boris Yeltsin's heart attack in 1996. In the wake of this coverage, O'Connor was threatened by groups and followed by hitmen. She found out that she had a price on her head, and officials were encouraging her to leave the country. Not only that, she was pregnant at the time. (Photo Credit: AP)

This was just one of the many interesting stories she shared with us over the course of the evening. For me dinner with important people is alwasy difficult. I have no manners, and I'm generally awkward. I'd just like to editorialize and brag that I didn't have any large gaffes during the meal. I managed to not spill any food, or apply any stains to my clothing. This was really promising for me and I hope my luck continues.