Today is the day people have been asked to bombard the president with postcards. As soon as I heard the idea I liked it, not just because of my feelings toward the commander-in-chief but because of my feelings about postcards. As you would expect of a travel writer, I love them. When my nieces were little, and I was traveling a lot, I sent them postcards from every place I went. My refrigerator is covered with postcards, some received from friends, some purchased by myself. There are Arkansas pigs, farm workers in Cuba, masked revelers in Ecuador, traditionally dressed children in Merida, France’s Canal du Midi, Warsaw’s Aleja Jerozolimskie, as well as a number of cards of old travel posters: Bern, San Sebastian, Holland America Line, Pan American Airways. There is a postcard of Carlos Gardel and one of koalas in a tree.
I love postcards so much that, as soon as I got the cover of my new book, The Joys of Travel, I had it made into 750 postcards. Perhaps I’ll send one to the president, with no message on the back, hoping perhaps he’ll take the hint.
