My travel writing class is back, meeting informally once a week. Last night Hilary read a lovely piece about vicarious travel, looking at the books she read in order to dream and the souvenirs she saved in order to remember. Among her memories was a childhood flight to Dakar. Roland described passengers on a flight from Miami to San Francisco in great detail and with equal honesty, and then teased us by saying that for the next class he will write about his stay at Esalen. Blanca arrived late, saying she had just heard on the radio about an earthquake in Haiti. She read a beautiful poem about visiting her old hometown of New Orleans. (She found, among other things, the old taffy truck.) Sparked by Roland's story, she told of visiting Berkeley with her parents in 1968 - receiving flyers from Black Panthers as they walked down the street - and then a European trip with them using as a guidebook Europe on $5 a Day. (I told her that what Dr. Spock was to child rearing in the '50s, and Alfred Kinsey was to sex, Arthur Frommer was to travel.) To end the evening Roland's cousin, visiting from Germany, told of volunteering as a physical therapist in Yemen.
I challenge any memoir writing teacher to top that.
