Getting into Travel Mode

Sometimes I wonder what the heck I was thinking when I came up with the name of this online reading diary in a Blogging 101 class. It's way too long, it doesn't "pop up" in google, and I've been woefully neglectful in my reading of armchair travel books lately. Perhaps I was simply trying to describe my penchant for fiction that teaches me about other cultures and places, novels that I hope are reflected in my choices for book discussion next year. We'll get to that soon.


Meanwhile I'd like to share my thoughts on an interesting travel book that just jumped off the shelf and into my hand a few weeks ago - something to put me in packing mode - even though it involved Italy rather than Greece. The Last Supper; A Summer in Italy is not your usual fluffy Peter Mayle, Frances Mayes type comedy of errors, a treatise on how to deal with and befriend the locals. This book by Rachel Cusk is a much darker, more sophisticated look at wanderlust. I've read some reviews that criticize her for what's perceived as a cold, aloof style and for relegating her family to a background position in the book, but hey, it's not about them!

She doesn't say it but I wouldn't doubt that she suffers from seasonal affective disorder. Her desire to leave Great Britain is so overwhelming in its intensity. Having grown up in the Berkshires, I can empathize. Ms. Cusk's powers of observation are uncanny and her ability to translate what she sees into words is enviable.

I often wonder about travel writers - do they wander around with a notebook perpetually in hand? If so, how do they manage to appreciate what's right in front of them if they always have to be ten steps ahead, pondering how they'll write about it?

And the detail? I felt that I was traveling right along with Rachel's family as they drove through the French countryside, resting in the evenings at several country homes hosted by extremely quircky characters, some downright sinister.

The idea of the trip is to study art, in particular, Italian madonnas of which there's no dearth! Between those and the baby, hair-shirted John the Baptists, my friend Betsy and I saw when we were there, it's difficult not to lapse into irreverence after a while. Especially if one is a lapsed Catholic already! Ms. Cusk's impression and description of the chill enormity of St. Peter's Square is alone worth opening the book.

I've got my notebook handy, as I've had on every other big trip I've ever taken. I shall challenge myself to write a few words that might do justice to the Acropolis, the Parthenon, Delphi, or Knossos, but self-knowledge is a double edged sword. Words have failed me before as I've absorbed the vastness of history and the insignificance of my own self in the grand scheme of things. It is, after all, why we must travel.