As a child, I did not consciously recognize that I was facing the Other here. I wandered the streets of the suk, taking in the myriad languages of local merchants, tourists, beggars; the alternately pleasing and offensive odors of spices, incense, cooking, urine, sweat; the visual array of a thousand items for sale, from carved camels to hookahs to enticingly mysterious confections—and I experienced openly. I literally took it all in. It did not seem bizarre, as it might to an adult, to stroll into the church where Christ is said to be buried, or to touch the rock upon which Abraham intended to sacrifice Isaac.
Without our knowing it, this temporary emigration introduced the “travel bug” into my brothers’ and my nature. We now cannot keep from traveling, which is both a blessing and a curse. A primary reason for traveling is simply to see new places, maybe meet new people, and taste different foods—in other words, to have experiences. This can result in banal quests, as those of the “overlanders,” made fun of by certain travel writers such as Pico Iyer. The overlanders are hip bohemian types who just cannot stay still, but are always in pursuit of “the next thing,” always comparing notes in the lounges of their guest houses over pipes of hashish mixed with tobacco, lamenting how this exotic place has been spoiled by tourists, that ten years ago there was hardly a foreigner to be seen here, and for a dollar a day one could live like a king. Of course, there is more to traveling than this. It is hard to be satisfied with one's own culture when one intrinsically knows about other realities. I seem to be on an endless quest for the Other, for people and places radically different from what I know. By embracing foreign cultures, I learn about the whole world. By being with people—whom I can easily relate to, merely because they are people—I grow to understand their systems of belief. I plan carefully for each trip, researching some of the topics mentioned above, and practicing some of the languages I will be encountering. Not only, then, is travel an endless education; but in search of the Other, one finds that the boundaries dissolve and Other becomes Same. This transmutes into a quest for the self.
Judaism is inextricably tied into this growth as a traveler. The members of this religion and culture are stereotypically intellectual, and not surprisingly, both of my parents were college educated. My mother is what I think of as a "social Jew," one who finds her place and identity in society through common practices and gatherings. My father, however, while also similarly finding his place through religion, actually found God in Judaism, which I think is rare. That is, in America, and probably around the world, most people simply go along with their family's religion as a way of fitting in. How many people find their truth, their answer, through such established religions as Judaism and Christianity?
There is a strong oral and written tradition in Judaism, with an emphasis on memorization. Between this and learning to translate Hebrew to English and vice versa, I was establishing a foundation for what would become my poetry. I went on to study Latin, always wanting to be able to take apart my native language. That Jews are recognized travelers, sometimes historically forced into diasporas, must have provided me (and my brothers) with a model of restlessness, of seeking.
When I was fourteen, my father was involved in a car accident that put him into a four-month coma. His immune system being weak during this period, he caught a cold and died. Needless to say, this was hard to face, but I did face it, and a lifelong pattern was established. I quickly came to realize that we all die no matter what, at any time. I began to regard our human drama as rather ridiculous, and in some ways unimportant, or insignificant. I still believe this. At the same time, however, I have learned to value the moment in which we live. Sometimes I am hyperaware of, but not completely participatory, in the moment. That is, I watch for its potentiality and therefore end up observing more than being. While this distances me from direct experience, such observation is perhaps one of the most necessary facets for being able to write poetry, especially poetry that might transcend one's own era.
In an unlikely way, then, my father's life and death precipitated my entrance into the dual cultures of travelers and poets. (I do not attempt to define the culture of poets because, beyond their writing poetry, poets are of every class and race.) Within a few months of his passing, my mother took my younger brother and me to Israel for six weeks, a journey that included stops in Egypt, England, and France. Two years later, I went with my Jewish youth group to Israel for another six weeks. Strange to say, I often consider the time shortly following my father's death as the best time in my life. Not that I was happy about this loss; but it was a period of blossoming, a transition into early adulthood in which I felt I was seeing the world for the first time. In fact, in some respects I was more in touch with God, or with the creative power of life, than I have been since. Sometimes I desire to throw my observations to the winds, and to simply be again. This is one good reason to travel. So, every three years I try to take a trip to new lands.
A year ago, my friend Matt (also raised Jewish) and I ventured throughout Southeast Asia for nine weeks. This was his first trip abroad, and I facilitated his going in large part. In his e-mail letters sent to friends back home, he referred to me as the "mad Jew-poet." Certainly he must have been seeing a side of me that is not apparent in our hometown, where most situations are predictable. From a lifetime of travel I am comfortable interacting with locals in their environments, whereas Matt seemed to be more of a cautious spectator. Throughout our trip, he watched from the sidelines as I connected with strangers, eagerly trying out my fledging Thai and other languages in the marketplace and at restaurants. Even near the end of our journey, in northern Laos, this difference remained apparent.
One evening after dinner as we walked beside the Mekong River, we came upon a group of ten or so youths sitting on a low wall, their backs to the river just down the bank, singing to the accompaniment of one sadly tuned guitar. Most guitars here, it seemed, quickly lost their purity of sound, as the omnipresent moisture rusted the strings and warped the bodies. Still, the song was strong, the young men and women happy to be making this music. Matt and I stood off to one side listening; I withdrew a pennywhistle from my backpack. I did not get all the notes right, but came close enough to share in the song, and the group seemed to appreciate my contribution. I wanted to stay, get to know these amiable people, but I sensed that Matt wanted to get going. At the end of the song, we continued on our way.
In this same town I got to know some of the locals quite intimately, even ending up at their homes and being shown the area by them. It was such a small town that, one day as a newfound Lao friend and I were strolling down the main street, we passed Matt going the opposite direction on the other side. We waved to one another but continued on our separate errands, partly because we had agreed to give each other some freedom from the obligation of always teaming up. At that moment I could tell that Matt regarded me as strange, and was perhaps jealous, wondering how I had acquired the key to this other world.
My "madness" is a sort of ecstasy, a pure exhilaration to be drinking in the lore and the spirits of heretofore alien cultures. On the surface, perhaps, my intensely Jewish upbringing has fallen by the wayside; yet it made me what I am, and Matt must have been able to see me in a clear light, exposed, all the way down to my roots. Sometimes the traveler and the poet within me meet on a common ground, and I can experience life while recognizing that the moment is precious. More often, however, the two walk different paths, perhaps inevitably. It may be that they are meant to inhabit different worlds, disparate realms of the mind. Maybe there is no conflict, then, but room enough for both the traveler and the poet within, neither one dominating, neither one needing to be king.
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