In a foreign country the pattern of days is less predictable, each one has its character and is easier to remember. So, too, the weather; and, so, too, the shape and feel of newspapers, the sound of bells, and taste of beer and bread. It is all rather like waking up and not knowing who or where one is … quite ordinary things take on an edge; one keeps discovering oneself miraculously alive. (Alastair Reid, Whereabouts: Notes on Being a Foreigner)
In June 2007, just before I was about to leave the country to teach a workshop in Prague, the editor of this anthology asked if I’d submit an essay. My first response was to politely decline. The book is, after all, a collection of essays by writers on / about the role of journaling in their creative process, and that description doesn’t fit the way I work.
As a rule, I’m not the kind of writer who records his thoughts or expresses his feelings in a journal. Only infrequently do I use a notebook to explore ideas for future writings. Usually, when a thought comes to me, I scribble notes on random scraps of paper or Post-its. When I really have my act together, I jot ideas in a spiral-bound note pad that fits in my shirt pocket. Not the most efficient way, I admit, to organize my thinking.
It’s not that I’m journal-allergic. When I took inventory of my past writings, I recalled two instances when I felt compelled to keep a journal. The first was in September 1985, when my wife Carole and I made our initial trip abroad to Paris and London. The second time was in 1992 when I taught a class in London.
This gap in my journal-keeping practices made me wonder why seven years had lapsed between my first and second travel journals, even though I had traveled abroad during the time between. When I decided to accept the editor’s invitation, I started thinking about those two travel journals. I rummaged around and found them in my old files. Since both were prompted by travel and teaching abroad—and since I’d be teaching in Prague during the summer of 2007—I decided to keep a third journal while there, thinking it might help me examine just what role, if any, my previous journals played, either in my creative process, or in some other capacity, yet unknown to me.
As a memoirist, I’ve found that once memory and imagination start tracking a thought, an idea, or a feeling, unexpected discoveries begin to emerge. As soon as I’d set myself the challenge of taking on this project, I realized that there was another added benefit to be gotten from it.
For example, in the early spring, I’d begun making notes for a chapter that would become part of a proposed memoir about later, midlife changes. At that time, I had a vague notion that my midlife travels were a catalyst for my uneven transition from being an uncertain and unfocused English professor to someone who today has (hopefully) a more grounded sense of himself as a teacher and writer.
Although I am unsure how those journal entries will be incorporated into my forthcoming memoir, I know that at some point in the future I will refer back to them. In the meantime, after returning home from Prague, I decided to reread all three of my journals in the exact order in which they were composed.
Here are some excerpts from my first travel journal in 1985:
September 3, En Route to Paris
To my utter surprise, I’m enthusiastically reading the guide books, planning our itinerary—the museums and historical sites we’d visit. What restaurants we’d go to. What day trips we’d take. The choices are overwhelming. It’s bringing back memories of the anticipation and excitement I used to feel when in college, voraciously reading history and literature, and daydreaming of visiting all the places I was reading about. What ever happened to that adventurous kid, anyway? Where is he now?
Being a first-time tourist is exhilarating and humbling. It’s all so seductive. How can you avoid trying to do too much—an impulse which has always been a big part of my make-up. Everything is so new and unfamiliar. I tend to idealize it all.
September 6, Paris
This is an adventure and a sensual delight. But also grueling and disconcerting. A new culture, unfamiliar languages and customs. A million mistakes and faux pas. Today, I double-tipped a waiter in a café. I didn’t bother to ask if the service was included. And he didn’t bother to let me know that it was. When I figured it out, naturally I felt like an ignorant tourist. Maybe I’m not the worldly, perceptive New Yorker I pretend to be.
September 7, Paris
Over indulgence is my middle name—gotta’ have this and that—post cards, souvenirs, mementos. I’m the stereotypical American—the modern Pilgrim and his relics. To my dismay, I’m finding out that I fit the description of the typical American consumer—the kind of person I always used to ridicule and criticize. Ouch!
Later on That Day
Walking all over Paris, taking trains, buses, guided tours—L’Orangerie to see the Monet Water Lilies; the Impressionists at Jeu de Paume, and the masterworks at the Picasso Museum—all in one day. On a previous day, the Eiffel Tower, Les Halles, and the Pompidou Center. And in between, day trips to Chartres and Versailles—a whirlwind of activity. Exhilarating, but also draining.
September 8, Paris
No time to relax. This is becoming a kind of crash course—cramming everything into a week. Has its own urgency, its own rhythms independent of ours—of mine, anyway. Carole wants us to slow down. Pick one or two things and really absorb them. Me, I’m in my “What Makes Sammy Run” mode. I want to pack in everything I can. There’s a rush of excitement and anticipation that builds up before every new adventure. I feel a pounding in my chest, even as I map out the day’s plans.
But, just like overeating or too much sex—you lose the capacity to savor the experience, to reflect on it. Typical New Yorker that I am, I’m not yet attuned to that point of view. My nature is to try and do way too much—always has been. Over here, I’ve become even more addicted to the adrenaline rush than I was in New York. Carole is right. I need to learn how to take in and focus on one thing at a time.
September 10, Paris
Almost the end of the Paris leg. I notice that I’m beginning to separate the tourists like myself from the natives. I’m comparing my own frantic, scattered rhythm to the more civilized and measured pace they maintain. I watch people of all ages spending part of the day in the beautiful parks and gardens. I observe them talking and having coffee at outdoor cafés. I’m intrigued by the notion that the shops and stores in Paris close for two hours at lunchtime. And that everyone in France gets two six-week vacations—in August and at the beginning of the New Year.
September 11, Last Day in Paris
Am I finally getting the hang of this? Today, we strolled and window shopped on the Rue di Rivoli, went to Bertillon on the Isle de St. Louis for an early afternoon glace [ice cream]. Later on we had an espresso and a pastry at a neighborhood bakery, then a late afternoon picnic—ham, cheese, bread and wine—in Luxembourg Gardens. We sat and read and people-watched. I wish we could have done more of these kinds of things earlier on. At first, slowing down was a respite from all the sightseeing. But now, when it’s almost too late, I’m beginning to look forward to these quiet diversions simply for the pleasures they yield on their own. Is this the beginning of a new phase, I wonder?
September 12, First Day in London
When you’re on holiday in a foreign country, eating well, day trips to churches, museums, and small villages make it so easy to lose your equilibrium and judgment. Everything seems so new, so romantic. It’s a journey into the unknown. You turn a corner and discover something charming or dazzling or overwhelming—like stopping for high tea at the Ritz, or the majesty of the Abbey, or even an elegant meal in a restaurant you happened to stumble upon. It feels so fresh, so exhilarating that you can’t help but give yourself over to the fantasy. It’s like you’re experiencing these pleasures for the first time. You lose your sense of balance. You feel intoxicated, as if you’re living in an unreal dream. What a contrast from the routine, worries, and responsibilities of everyday life. Hold on pal, you’re starting to sound like a tourist again, just like you were in Paris.
September 13, London
In London only one day and I’m repeating the same patterns I established in Paris buying postcards, picture books, guide books of all kinds. Taking hundreds of photos. The freedom and adventure is becoming a daily fix. The old me, the me that wants to sample everything is taking over again. I get up early and scribble out the itinerary. Gotta’ see the Tower, St. Paul’s, the museums, West End plays. And what about the art, and architecture—and the day trips—Hampton Court, Windsor Castle, Oxford. But in my more sober moments—usually at night when I’m dead tired, it’s becoming clear that all I can manage is a quick hit and then it’s on to the next thing. Sure, I want to learn everything, see everything, and absorb all of it. But sometimes it feels like a frantic desperation. And it’s beginning to trouble me.
September 14, London
On the way to Hampton Court and Windsor Palace, we drove through the countryside and saw some of the little villages where the quality of life seems so simple, so peaceful. A respite from the city’s pace—the restless energy, compulsion to move from new adventure to new adventure. But today, I’m feeling the way I did on our last afternoon in Paris. I notice that each house, no matter how small or run down, has a tiny garden. Reminds me of the tranquil feelings I get whenever we’re in northern Michigan. It’s funny, when you’re in unfamiliar surroundings, you can appreciate places you’ve never really thought much about.
It’s obvious that I’m over-romanticizing, over-idealizing things again. But I know I need to spend more time with myself. By myself. I need to make my peace with the demons that drive and distract me. Just keeping these journal notes makes me want to write and read more, and work in the garden like Carole. Why has it taken me so long to figure this out? Slow learner, Carole says, just like your father always said.
On the plane ride home, I wrote the following:
I’m ready, I think, to take a closer look at myself. Instead of compulsively buying three newspapers a day to keep up with what’s going on, instead, on this trip I read books about Paris and about the history of London. And this journal is proof that I’m beginning to write more frequently, and for longer periods of time. But halfway through the trip, I started to slow myself down—started to take stock. And now, in my mid-forties, I feel ready for a change.
My habit as a writer is to go back through my drafts trying to locate the thoughts, ideas, and feelings that seem to repeat themselves several times over. And that’s precisely what I did after rereading my first travel journal. While reading that journal, I could see that my early entries in both Paris and London were predictably about the initial exhilaration of travel—the newness, the unplanned surprises and discoveries; the sensation of feeling both like an uninformed novice and a displaced American. I could feel the palpable presence of centuries of history—the past—the overwhelming influence of religion, art, and architecture; and of course, a renewed realization of my own mortality—pretty much standard fare for the neophyte traveler, I’d say.
I used a yellow magic marker to underline frequent repetitions. The pattern I observed was pretty schizo. It went something like this: an initial exhilaration accompanied by a compulsion to see and do everything juxtaposed with a gradual realization that I needed to slow down and focus—savor the experience.
In retrospect, I believe this was the beginning of a passage (no pun intended)—from a prolonged self-absorption and a compulsive need to be on the move to a more reflective way of looking at things. In fact, after I came back from that first trip, I noticed that I’d written almost a hundred pages of notes in my travel journal.
Toward the end of both segments—Paris and London—I noticed a persistent, recurring idea that had begun to surface: my gradual awareness of the difference between being a tourist, a rookie traveler, and what it might feel like to be a resident—albeit a temporary one—in a foreign city. Over time, as the next two journals will attest, this would become a reality.
In January of 1992 at age fifty-one, I had the first of two cornea transplants. The operations provided me with almost a year’s release time from teaching. In retrospect, that enforced sabbatical offered me permission to step away from teaching obligations and normal everyday responsibilities. And for the first time, I was able to focus on my writing.
In the summer of 1992, I was offered the chance to teach in London for six weeks. Curiously enough, that’s when I decided to keep my second travel journal. Here are some excerpts from that one:
July 4, 1992, London
Taking my class on the city tour today, I could feel the familiar impulsiveness resurfacing; the need to do and see everything I can before I go back home. The old urgencies still return when I’m in an international city. Living in London reminds me of what it felt like to live in New York. I like it and I don’t. Sometimes, I feel like I’m two people. I’m still enamored by all the possibilities here—the plays, the museums, the day trips—the whole nine yards. But this time, something feels different. I’m finding that I miss the reflection and calm that comes when I spend down time at home writing and reading.
July 11, London
After a week here, I’m still pretty disconnected. I like it when I’m out in the city, finding good restaurants, seeing plays on the West End, going to the Tate—and all the other discoveries and surprises a city like this has to offer. But in the last few days, I didn’t feel those persistent cravings; the “I want, I want” voice in my head is less insistent.
This is a privileged existence, to be sure. But it doesn’t transport me in the same way it used to; it doesn’t fully engage me in the same way as it once did. Maybe it’s because I’ve traveled abroad so many times. The city has become less of an addiction and more of a reward for having taught all week.
To my surprise, I even find myself marking time until I can get back to my northern Michigan retreat and my writing. This is the first time since I’ve been abroad that I’ve felt that impulse. What I seem to enjoy most these past few years is spending time up north writing and relaxing—walking on the beach and in the woods with Carole; reading and listening to jazz at night; and simply allowing myself time to think and reflect. The eye surgery, it seems, has granted me a kind a second sight—a chance, an excuse, maybe, to slow down and focus on the things I still want to accomplish in the limited time I have left.
For the first time since I’ve been abroad, I’ve got a daily routine to anchor me. Living and working here demands a more measured pace in comparison to what it feels like to be here on holiday. Getting up for work each day, taking the underground to the university, stopping for breakfast, shopping for dinner on the way home from class, staying in at night prepping and reading my student’s work. I feel more in sync with the fabric of daily life. This is, I know, a different kind of romantic illusion, and so, it marks an interesting shift in priorities from the things that drove me in those early years of travel. I hadn’t written any travel journals since 1990.
Here then is an excerpt from two entries from my 2007 visit to Prague:
July 18, Prague
For the five weeks we’ve lived here, my teaching, daily preparation, the evening readings and talks have dominated my time. We live at the foot of the St. Charles bridge, and except for excursions up the hill to the magnificent Castle that oversees the entire city, and visits to the Kafka museum up the street and to some local churches and historical landmarks, we didn’t feel compelled to travel on the weekends—save for a single day trip to the Nazi prison camp/fortress at Terazin—the only place we simply had to see. But now that my teaching gig is over, this morning we talked about the things we still wanted to explore in the few days we had left. And in that moment, the old “let’s-see-everything-on-the-list knee-jerk” resurfaced. I found myself compulsively rattling off a litany of things I wanted to see and do before we left—go to the Mozart Museum; see the season ending Mozart concert in the park; attend the final Proms’ concert at the Municipal House; and maybe even catch the Rolling Stones concert a hundred miles outside of Prague.
Right in the middle of a sentence, I started to laugh. When I turned to look at Carole, we both knew we weren’t going to do any of those things, except perhaps the Proms’ concert. And, if we were up to it, maybe an after-concert coffee and pastry in the art deco Kaverenske Café.
In the same breath, we agreed that there’s a lot more to learn about this city and its culture. But whatever we didn’t see, whatever we didn’t get around to doing, we would save for another time. And if there is no other time, then so be it.
July 19, Prague
On our last day, we got up early, and as usual walked to the corner patisserie for an espresso and a croissant (an homage to Paris, maybe?). Then we sat in the park and read the International Herald Tribune, watched the tour boats on the river, took catnaps, and went for a late dinner in a French café we’d been meaning to try since we arrived here three weeks ago.
So what have I learned about the role journals play in my writing routine and in my creative process? As a memoirist, my charge is to examine the past in hopes of coming to a fuller understanding of which experiences, people, encounters, and relationships might have helped shape my choices and decisions.
Here then, are a few final thoughts and observations:
Because my three journals were written over a period that spans some twenty-two years, I can see an ongoing struggle between two opposing sides of my nature—seems to repeat itself over and over again throughout each journal. And if there’s a dominant pattern in my behavior and in my autobiographical writings, it would be the struggle to become a more responsible and accountable self.
In this regard, I can see the differences between the me who at fortyfive was a rookie tourist, and the more experienced me who just returned after living and teaching in Prague. And despite the fact that all three journals were written at separate intervals and for very different purposes, it’s clear that the experience of traveling and living abroad was a catalyst for important midlife changes. The first two journals, in particular, might even qualify as a turning point in my quest to become a more fully formed adult.
I won’t claim that I’m a citizen of the world or that I’ve transformed myself from an impressionable, overly quixotic tourist, to a wise and practical elder statesman. Depending upon the situation and my state of mind, I’m a little bit of both and still evolving.
Having gained a deeper sense of the role these travel journals have played in my writing, I can, however, say with some conviction that the Prague journal won’t be the last one I write.