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.