You Cannot Close the Acorn

Do you see yourself in Gilbert? She occupies a dramatically different position than you do - how does that affect your expirience reading her work?  How has your trip affected that expirience?  Use this journal to plot out your final travel writing piece through the lens of reading Gilbert.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IatpvI30LC4 

(The Hardest Part of Love, Children of Eden Original Broadway Cast)

In the concluding chapters of her book, Elizabeth Gilbert introduces the Zen Buddhist idea of two forces that bring an oak tree into creation.  The first force is the acorn, the seed that holds all promise and potential.  Gilbert realizes that everyone can see this, but she explains that few can see that the future tree itself is a force propelling growth.  The oak tree "wants so badly to exist that it pulls the acorn into being [...] guiding evolution from nothingness to maturity." (329)

The song that I have selected from Children of Eden expounds upon this idea of growth, explaining that in doing so, one must also let go.  This letting go is an act of supreme love; indeed the same love that Gilbert has chronicled in her book.  Once the oak is set in motion, there is no turning back.  Part of this motion, this growth, is to let go that which we have fostered and defined ourselves by.  Noah and Father both must let their children go explore the world, make their own mistakes, and find the oak they were born to be.  Gilbert must let go of her pain, and the exes that she lost herself in, to finally realize her oak.

Unlike Gilbert, I am not an oak tree.  There is one I am destined to become, but at this point in my life, I am just a budding acorn.  The journey of growth transcends all points of life though, and with this growth, one must let go.  Existing in Rome, I had let go of home.  This was an act of self love.  Love held me close to home, but also allowed me to let go.  I felt the mud of displacement and longing wash from my eyes and I could see myself, still standing although the earth beneath me was radically different.

A semester abroad is about learning and in the concluding class of this semester, I ventured an answer to what this experience has meant to me:

“To me, Rome has been all about directions.  I haven’t only learned how to get around the city, but I’ve begun to question the direction of my life, my relationships, my schooling.  Sometimes in the city, we set out to with a destination and end up getting lost.  When we get lost, we discover our favorite pasticcerias, the best cup of cappuccino, and always end up where we should be.  I guess I’ve come to appreciate the aesthetic of being lost.”

Rabbi Spitzer, my professor, smiled and responded, “It is your job to be lost.  The young need to wander and discover."

Both Gilbert and I do just this.  I may not have come to the same self-actualization she did, but the number of years she has lived is double my own.  I do not know the final form of my oak, but I can definitely say that I am journeying towards it.  At one point in the song, Father says, “And just when they start to find themselves is when you fear they’re lost.”  I am not lost, I am just roaming.

Give Thanks

How would you describe Gilbert as a travel writer?  What subject position does she claim?  Does she actually inhabit that position?  Use this journal to explore the answers to these questions.

I am alone, I am all alone, I am completely alone.

Grasping this reality, I let go of my bag, drop to my knees and press my forehead against the floor.  There, I offer up to the universe a fervent prayer of thanks.

First in English.

Then in Italian.

And then – just to get the point across – in Sanskrit. (Gilbert 9)

Elizabeth Gilbert’s fervent prayer is “Eat, Pray, Love.”  She is more than a travel writer; she is a pilgrim writing her prayers.  In doing so, she takes the reader on a journey around the world and into her soul.  I am going to have a hard time casting a critical eye because I just want to gush about her brilliance.  Gilbert writes like she is talking to a friend, not only talking, but entertaining them.  She has wit for days and has the perfect combination of self-deprecation and acceptance.  Reading her work was like picking up her journal, it was personal, revealing, and yet universal.  What she writes pertains to her story, but pertains to all of our stories.  If it didn’t, she wouldn’t be a best seller.  I love how the writer crafted the character – how both are the same, yet vastly different, person. 

There is this dichotomy when we look at Gilbert as a character and as a writer.  As a character, Gilbert is a thirty-six-year-old divorced woman, who just happens to be a writer.  She is religiously open, deeply faithful and on a journey for this strange thing we crave: balance.  She is impulsive, noted by her journey itself, and short of stabile.  Her character is American, but does not fit in with the cultural norms of her age group.  There are no PTA nights, minivans, or even a husband to call hers.  Getting away from her culture did not help her find cultural inclusion.  In fact, she could not even mention her divorce in the countries she went to.  But, this character fought her way into belonging through her spiritual quest.  She found sanctuary in the ashram, and within herself. 

Gilbert is an outsider as a character, but as a writer, she is all of these things, but she makes it right.  She goes from seeking the answers, to finding them.  Then what does she do? Exactly what others did for her: she passes them on.  “Eat, Pray, Love” allows the pilgrim to become the guru.

The teaching that she articulates the best is that of attraversiamo, let’s cross over.  Ok, it’s not really a teaching, but her favorite Italian word.  And this word is just what she does.  We grab her hand and cross over the world with her.  She crosses the lines of culture, destroying borders and opening up the world to her reader.  Maybe that is what so is attractive about Gilbert, her writing is open – she has broken down her borders to let us in.  The process was not always clean and pretty, there are still puddles of gelato and tears by the broken down planks of her personal border, but each episode fought for clarity, for openness. 

She makes us want to eat and pray, but mostly to love.  Love not only another, but ourselves.  Once we find that love, all that is left to do is give thanks.

“In the end, though, maybe we must all give up trying to pay back the people in this world who sustain our lives.  In the end, maybe it’s wiser to surrender before the miraculous scope of human generosity and to just keep saying thank you, forever and sincerely, for as long as we have voices.” (Gilbert 334)

The Parachute Artist

Who would have guessed that travel writing (and indeed traveling) could be a business?  Describe the business aspects of what you have done so far in your journey, being careful to define the business before beginning.

Travel writing, and all business models of this enterprise, must begin with the writer.  A travel writer is self –employed.  Although getting a check from an institution, the real work is being done for the self.  And, I believe, some bosses are more demanding than others.  From the writer, the business developed – or is it the other way around?  Either way, this genre of writing is quite comprehensive, covering cuisine to transportation, and history to self-help.  Regardless of what sub-category this business falls under, its goal remains the same: to educate.

One of the leading travel businessmen is Tony Wheeler.  Wheeler is the creator of “Lonely Planet”, a travel writing company that grossed $72 million last year.  Tad Friend, in his New Yorker article, “Parachute Artist”, described Wheeler as “at least two people.” (135)  There is the socially awkward Wheeler who occupies the offices of Lonely Planet, and then the man who is the face of Lonely Planet, explorer of 117 countries, who comes to life travelling.  As Friend puts it, Wheeler is “like one of those dehydrated sponges which inflate to astonishing size when dropped into their proper element.” (136)  Travelling, and indeed travel writing, can help us all find our proper element.

In searching for my proper element, I, like Tony Wheeler, have acted as more than one person.  But, each of these “identities” is part of me.  I do not change, the world around me does, and in doing so, new aspects of myself come to light.  Travelling is constant character development – I do not view myself changed, I just view myself deeper.

This weekend I travelled to London, England with Rebeka and Abby.  I designated myself captain of transportation, in charge of how we were getting from point A to B throughout the weekend.  Me, the same person who gets lost driving around Columbus, Ohio, my home for twenty years, was going to figure out how to get three girls around a foreign city. And I did just that.  Armed with a laptop and a map of the Tube, I got us around London.  Now, it wasn’t flawless or graceful, but it was done.  For the first time, I was the person with the directions.  I was the person who knew travel time and landmarks.  I was acutely aware of my surroundings, to the point where I wondered if I indeed was another person.

I had to adapt, it was that or be lost and miserable the entire trip.  This is what a travel writer must do.  Wheeler describes himself as a parachute artist, someone who can drop into a place and quickly assimilate.  I remember seeing my travel card for Rome in my wallet when we were in London and wondering aloud, “What is this for?” 

Rebeka was shocked, “You really get lost in travelling, don’t you?”   

I smiled at her and told her, “It’s because I do theater, I just throw myself into what I do.”

Maybe that’s it.  Or maybe it is because I am a writer.  Or maybe it’s just me.  

I travel to discover.  Can discovery be educational?  Sure.  But, a business goal isn’t on my mind when I am out exploring.  Travelling and the business of travelling are not the same.  As Wheeler puts it, “In many ways, I don’t think [my wife and I] traveled a lot, because we’ve had the business distracting us.  It got in the way.” (152)  Travelling serves the self, the business serves the other.  Both are important, because without the business, all of us would be attempting to discover our proper element alone.

Seeing Myself

Describe the borders you have crossed in your journey. How will those borders affect your identity? Your subject position?

It seems as if border crossing is too complex to fit into one journal. Moving beyond other author’s borders, I must realize my own. It is true that I have crossed the border into Italy, but everything literal deserves a metaphor.

Once here, I found a border that my Visa alone couldn’t get me through – myself. I have crafted many a border in the past twenty years, and none stronger than that of perception. I feel like I can see home, its quirks and failings, but I was quite blind to Rome. I have found that the hardest border I crossed was that of perception, the line drawn between taking on another’s eyes and using my own.

My first sight in Rome was the Coliseum, and it was not love. Actually, the only love I saw was proclaimed in graffiti etched into the ruin. I felt like I should be awe, like the Coliseum should inspire in me what I thought it inspired in others. I wasn’t overwhelmed, it all didn’t feel surreal - it just didn’t feel like anything. I was just like the commuters on their Vespas, speeding through, not even glancing at the ancient architecture on my left. The American in me told me I needed to whip out my camera, take pictures for Facebook and then head to a booth to pick up a t-shirt. I had to prove I had been here, not that it meant anything to me. So, I took my requisite pictures, followed our tour guide and left with my memories, but without a clear conscious. I was defective, my perceptions didn’t line up with expectations. I felt like the bricks that fit perfectly to construct the border of perception were crumbling, leaving my mind to look like the ruins of the Coliseum I just left.

Another Roman landmark that would have gotten a check in the “no” box if it sent me a note asking, “Do you like me?” would be the Pantheon. Half of the building was covered in scaffolding, a view much different than the guidebooks show. I walked into the Pantheon, still wielding my camera, took a few pictures and then put it away to take in the sensations. This temple to the gods has been conquered by Christianity, crucifixes replaced statues and altars filled the apses. This time I felt something, disgust. I took a quick loop around the interior and then exited. I could not stomach the heavy handed helping of religious icons inside this pagan shrine. Unlike the Coliseum, I did not feel like my perceptions were wrong, they were just mine, not anyone else’s.

I saw the Pantheon almost a month after the Coliseum, and within this time I had crossed the border of perception. Although my passport does not bear its stamp, my mind does. I am naturally inclined to shirk suggestion. If I am told what I should do, I write it off, not because I don’t value other’s thoughts, but … I like my own ideas better. By defying suggestions, I force myself to be creative. I knew this about myself, but forgot it at home, along with my flip flops and sweatpants.

I had little time to prepare for Rome. Ok, I had a whole year, but I allotted myself less than a month. With only a few weeks before departure, I did not have the time to manufacture my own ideas about Rome, so I turned to others. They told me, “Oh, you’re a Theology major, you will love all the churches”, and “Alissa, you will just fall in love with the city.” So on, and so forth. I packed these expectations into my carry on and set off for two months abroad.

Once here, I had to unpack. Expectations could not be easily folded and placed in my dresser. I had no choice but to carry them with me. They were cumbersome and left the control of my trip in some unknown other. I wanted the control, damnit. So I seized control the only way I knew how, with a pen. With each word I broke down the mental bricks, tossing them to the side, creating a bridge to my own sight. Now, I can meander between other’s sight and my own without the weight of expectations.

I have come to realize that my less than satisfaction with Rome may not have stemmed from the city itself, but from my internal rebel. I just have to be different.  Here I sit, with my own two eyes, not just seeing Rome, but seeing myself.

Same Destination

While Kapuscinski and Russell discuss far different subjects in their writings, both are border crossers. What borders do you think each writer has crossed? Do those borders matter to you? Why or why not?


“We are, all of us, pilgrims who struggle along different paths towards the same destination.”    Antoine de Saint-Exupery
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The idea of crossing a border is quite complex. Although they physically exist, every border can be understood as a mental border. When one reaches a land border, it isn’t there – there are no walls, just a welcome sign. By crossing borders into new countries and new cultures, one is actually diffusing the border that exists around self. It is not the country that is being explored, but the soul. As Alice Walker puts is, “The most foreign country is within.” The physical act of crossing a border takes the traveler on an intimate journey of self perception, which eventually, leads to the creation of new borders. The problem with borders is that once one is crossed, a new one comes into view.


Crossing borders is all in a day’s work for travel writers. They extend themselves past the man-made boundaries between lands, realizing that the invisible barriers that separate us are quite tangible. A border is something that stands between a person and the rest of the world.


For Ryszard Kapuscinski, in his travel writing piece, Travels with Herodotus, the border he wanted to cross was a land border. Well, the Iron Curtain. Educated in Cold War Poland, Kapuscinski noted that “the closer one got to a border, the emptier grew the land and the fewer people on encountered.” (9) The lack of life close to the border typifies the mindset of most people: safety in what is known, safety in separation. Living close to a border opens one up to diversity, but this openness leaves one vulnerable.


Vulnerability wasn’t what Kapuscinski was looking for when he made up his mind to cross the border; actually, not much was on his mind. He writes, “It made no difference which [border], because what was important was not the destination, the goal, the end, but the almost mystical and transcendent act. Crossing the border.” (10) And he got the chance to fulfill this transcendent act, flying first to Italy and then to India. Mysticism typically descends upon a traveler as their plane taxis into the terminal, but is jostled away as reality sets in. One most certainly crosses the border between perception and reality when traveling – and this border is not quick and smooth. When one confronts reality it is like being patted down, while security searches your luggage – you lose control and just wait for them to be done.


But, the search is just beginning. Kapuscinski, after embracing the Italian culture and dress, still could feel the prodding eyes of natives search him: “I began to feel unpleasant and uncomfortable. I had changed my suit, but I apparently could not conceal whatever lay beneath it that had shaped and marked me as a foreign particle.” (14) This thing that lies beneath is what makes him stand out, a thing that few travelers want, but most people crave in their everyday lives.


Everyday life is about comfort – comfort that is only realized in its absence. One comfort that most would say is a necessity is safety. But, Mary Russell doesn’t see comfort as a border. She crosses the border of safety into post-war Bosnia, defying government recommendations and self-rationality. Her story, Mirror Images, chronicles her second border crossing into Bosnia, and her first attempts at crossing the border of memory. After a few days she writes, “I adjust to the rhythm and take a walk along the embankment, crossing and re-crossing bridges.” (137) Bridges are man’s denial of borders, or better yet, his solution to them. Bridges connect that which once seemed distant and separate.


Russell brings together perception and reality, crossing the border of impartiality. By the end of her piece, she realizes that she cannot travel to Serbia, as planned, because her heart had taken root in Bosnia. Through her Irish eyes, the Serbs were now the same cold-blooded killers the Bosnians saw. Her connection to place built borders in her head, preventing her from crossing. Yet, borders still existed for her in Bosnia. She explains:


Keeping my eyes down, I shrink into myself, seeking anonymity among the small group of bus passengers. The people with the cameras are German. They are travelling with a four-wheel-drive laded with blankets and provisions, part of an aid donation. The word PEACE is painted on one of the doors. Another safari is arriving. Their cameras, unselective, see only a group of war-time Bozniaks, or which I am one. But I know that is I raise my eyes and look at them, I will see myself.


This brings us back to separation, not of place or thought, but of self. Both authors note the border that cannot be crossed: the life of another. Kapuscinski and Russell both felt like they were part of the countries they visited, but realized that they were just behind the lens of perception, capturing the essence of someone else’s life. In the end, the only reality one knows is their own. And that is why they wrote. The pen is the bridge between the borders of self and the world.


Every time we pick up a piece of writing, we cross borders with the author, traveling to the same destination: within ourselves. This matters, if it didn’t, we wouldn’t write.

Catching Crocodiles

Herodotus is proverbially called the father of history.  Why do we read his document in travel writing class?

     Herodotus, the “Father of History”, recounts, in Book Two of Herodotus the Histories, Egyptian customs and traditions. Within ancient Egyptian culture, animals were thought of as sacred, with the exception of the crocodile. In the Thebes region, the crocodile was revered, but the Elephantine people saw these animals only as food. (1) This cultural ambiguity is nothing new and is still prevalent today. Finding similarities in cultures is one reason to read past authors, but an even more decisive reason to read the “Father of History” is to understand our place, not only as travelers, but as writers.

     When those people of the Elephantine region would catch crocodiles, they would get them to shore by blurring the lines of reality and composite: casting pork bait in the water and beating a pig on land. The sound of the animal would rouse the crocodile, who would then encounter the bait and bite. Once on land, the hunters would plaster the crocodile’s eyes with mud. If the animal cannot properly see, it is easily dispatched, but, without this “precaution [the crocodile] will give a lot of trouble.” (2) To be an authentic traveler, and above all, an authentic writer, one must face the world with mud-less eyes.

     Reading Herodotus in a travel writing class is important because it allows us to see the commonality of humanity, shows the progression of the art form of travel writing, and links the past and present. Herodotus is a writer who saw the world not through the thick coat of wool that other’s opinions produce, but forged, through experience, his own unique opinion.

     Herodotus’ text provides one of the earliest examples of human travel and documentation. His travels to Egypt produced insights on what is central to humanity: religion. He noted that the Egyptians, above all else, were meticulous with everything concerning this topic. This characteristic still encapsulates the world today. Although the breadth and scope of religion has developed overtime, the human inclination towards spiritual order has been a constant. Herodotus remarks that, “the names of nearly all the gods came to Greece from Egypt.” (3) This constant borrowing, recycling, or developing of older ideas is another trait that has stayed constant with humanity.

     In Rome, one is constantly bombarded with symbols and landmarks that meant one thing to an older civilization, and was adapted for the next. Even something as simple as building material, such as marble, was stripped of old structures and melted down to make new symbols, typically on the same sacred land. This remodeling inclination represents the crux of human understanding: current situations only take meaning when rooted in the past.

     The history of travel writing begins with Herodotus, but luckily, did not end there. Although his observations are valuable, he does little to reflect upon the meaning of what he perceives. His record of the Egyptian culture is detailed, reading at times like an Encyclopedia, but lacked eloquence. Transition sentences, instead of linking one idea to the next, sounded like this: “Well, these things have been as they are since the beginning of time, and there is no changing them; so I will pass to another subject.” The art of travel writing has developed into an industry, and the authors themselves have taken not to the acceptance Herodotus speaks of, but to probing and challenging. Some authors, like Elizabeth Gilbert, accept the world for what it is, not hoping to change it, but change herself. Gilbert can take the sacred land of earth, the land Herodotus christened with his pen, and build upon it her testament to human development: Eat, Pray, Love.

     The link between past and present is the goal between traveling and writing. One wants to take what occurred and make sense of it through the point of view of today’s world. Through experience and documentation, humanity is working not only to make sense of the world, but of itself. Each generation was given a new set of eyes, deeper than those before them. Instead of falling captive to the mud-wielding huntsmen of presupposition and sentimentality, fight for sight. Clairvoyance is worth the trouble.



(1)Herodotus. Book Two. 156.
(2)Ibid. 157.
(3)Ibid. 146.
(4)Ibid. 138-9.

Traveler Second

1. Describe your first impressions of your trip.  Focus on both your mode of travel and the location (or locations) to which you will travel.  Talk about any piece- the send-off, arriving in Newark, etc.

My trip to Rome began in Columbus, Ohio at 6:07am. I drove us up to Walsh University for the study-abroad program send off. I was the last person from the group to arrive, and the last one to board the busses on the way to the airport. I wanted nothing more than to extend time; reclaim a few moments to adequately hold my friends and family. But, the thing about travel is that if you cling to home, then the feeling that will permeate thought is dislocation. At the onset of this trip, I was not thinking of Rome – my mind was at a loss to connect with the location of my body.

After hugging my mom twice, watching tears well up in her eyes, and kissing my boyfriend unabashedly, I was swept into the van to the airport and into a new time zone, known as “travel time.” You cannot set your watches to travel time, or prepare your body, all one can do is keep their seatbelt fastened until the pilot, or driver, tells them it is safe to move freely about the cabin.

Settling into my seat, I looked out the window and said a silent goodbye to my comfort zone. My friend, Maria, asked me how I was doing. I looked at her with tears in my eyes, shook my head and said, “too soon.” I felt like luggage sprinted to a connecting flight.

The vans took us to Hopkins Airport. Packed in tight, talking of dreams of free weekends spent in foreign countries, we created an atmosphere of hope turned up to max volume. The smooth ride of the van is a distant memory as that same group loads the regional train into Rome. Here, wheels squeak and cabs jostle through trees and sweeping views of Lake Albano. Italian trains are normally places of hushed conversations and book reading, but American college students do not get that concept. We chat and laugh, volume increasing with excitement. Daily our conversations are extinguished with an exasperated “shhhh” from those locals seated around us. As we head to Hopkins, there is no one demanding silence – the banter is encouraged.

The group flew from Cleveland to Newark, New Jersey. Interestingly enough, the manager of Mr. Panino, a sandwich stand in the Termini train station, is from Jersey. He laughs at my broken Italian as I order an il caprese, a sandwich stuffed with mozzarella, tomatoes and basil. There is running, watch checking, and web browsing in Newark, but a significant absence of laughter.

My travel journal made its first appearance on the plane ride from Newark to Rome. First, I re-read my entries I wrote in Spain during my high school trip. Then, I picked up my pen to begin a new journey. I wrote that “the next few months will be self-exploration on a grand scale.” I do not plan on figuring out everything about myself in two months, but I hope to find a few pieces to the unsolved puzzle that is man. (Gaudium et Spes, 21.)

I also wrote “none of this seems real.” In truth, Rome did not seem real to me until a few days ago. The Coliseum and the Roman Forum did not break my stupor, but perpetuated it. Italy became a reality to me on the streets of Rome at night, when I experienced it not as city of the past, but a living entity. Piazzas are populated with a cast of characters: haggling artists, jazz musicians, couples murmuring the universal language of love, and gypsies using all languages to sell roses. These characters together with the trickling roar of fountains create the heartbeat of this eternal city.

The shuttle from Rome’s airport to our campus was just like the ride to Cleveland, but silent. Our driver spoke no English and I, the craver of all this communicative (except disease), was lost. I still feel those pangs of utter separation when I cannot order a meal, or ask anything beyond “how are you?” I feel both separation and union most completely in my conversations with Carmen, our local lunch buddy and impromptu Italian teacher. She will say something I cannot grasp and our eyes will search each other’s faces for something we recognize. Typically, I scrunch my forehead and just reply “come?”, what? When words fail, we just smile. Then she hits me on the head and we continue on our attempts at understanding. Travel truly brings people together. (Rick Steeves)

I have now been in Italy for a week. I have seen Rome and Assisi, and am still destined for Venice, Florence, Naples, Pompeii, Sorrento, and more. My mind is still catching up to my body’s constant motion. These destinations are but words on a page for me, but I know in time that I will live in those words – occupy their winding streets, taste their sweetness on my tongue – and write words of my own about them.

Not many things are the same between Italy and home, and comparisons are discouraged, but the constant revelation that writing provides me has no borders. Like Cahill, I like to think of myself as a writer first, and a traveler second.