Dear Reader,
You are traveling. You are perplexed. You want to know.
Not just which restaurant serves the strongest margarita, the freshest chirimoya, the tenderest tenderloin, the most incendiary vindaloo; not just which hotel room cradled Napoleon, Babe Ruth, JFK, Liz Taylor, and Jim Morrison; not just which beach boasts the softest sand; which island the most perfumed breeze; which city the most lyrical opera, the tallest women, the broadest burlesque, the most compelling philosophers, the lowest average humidity and incidence of pickpocketing.
You’ve come to the right place.
I am the one who comes up with two on the aisle, a box for the seventh game on the first-base line, a mosque in Provo, a fifth of Jack in Jedda, a last-minute ticket (upgraded to first class) on the sold-out plane to your mother’s funeral. I am the one who moves your great-aunt’s porcelain without breakage, your miniature schnauzer without suffocation, your cares without delay. I know the schedules. I write the schedules.
But be warned. There are no itineraries in this Guide. No three-hour signposted walks, no routes touristiques. No train schedules. No seasonal weather maps. No stars, bars, rosettes, toques, forget-me-nots, forks, or chopsticks. There are letters from readers, occasional opinions, bits of history. Subjective, subjective—I’m the first to admit.
The current Guide contains a series of letters from three women facing a common dilemma in the south of Spain. I introduce this latest edition, however, with a note from an old friend, an old traveler, a puzzle that has introduced so many editions past.
Dear Ben,
I grew up in a country at war. I learned in school and at home to love my land, its trees, its flowers, its flag. When I was old enough, I fought alongside my brothers and cousins to protect the borders from our Enemy to the North. Later, as both sides tired of endless fighting, I was asked to negotiate a peace. I traveled to the North, and was treated most luxuriously and with the greatest deference. In the course of my mission, I had occasion to taste rare meats, bathe in the ocean, and fall in love several times.
When I returned home with a treaty, I was hailed by some as a hero. But others, to my surprise, greeted me with a certain scorn, as if my interests were no longer theirs, as if I loved my country less for having been abroad.
Shortly thereafter I was sent by my government to negotiate a peace with our Enemy to the South. Once again I received a splendid welcome. I dined on fruits that rid the body of fatigue, on nuts that rid the mind of care. I drank wines full of fabulous histories and wisdom, and lost my heart more times than I can count.
When I returned home, with a settlement far better than my countrymen had dreamed of, I barely recognized my neighbors, so ill did they treat me. Without unpacking my bags, I set off on private business to the West.
I have been traveling so long now that no land is new, no ocean fresh. I have seen every flower, every bird, every side of every issue, and no longer have a heart to lose. I returned to my country once to find that our old enemies to the North and South had moved south and north. Strangers were living in my town, in my house. They greeted me with open arms.
I no longer have enemies. I no longer have friends. I set down roots, but the sun drives me away. I wander, but the moon laughs at my back. Where shall I go? How shall I go?
To this traveler, to those of you who have been traveling for five days, five hundred, five thousand years, I dedicate A Guide for the Perplexed.
Ben