Wanderlust in the Time of Coronavirus (A GeoEx eBook)

Wanderlust in the Time of Coronavirus

Adventuring Close to Home & Around the World

I’m rereading Paul Theroux’s The Pillars of Hercules and just starting his new book, On the Plain of Snakes . If we can’t travel as we are used to doing, we can certainly travel with our minds.” Amen! Some of you shared what you’re doing to keep thriving at home. Gwen wrote, “I’m cherishing my walks outside as travel. For now.” Amy Poster said, “Best for me is keeping in touch with friends worldwide.” Irene Rawlings wrote, “I, too, am putting together a list of places to go when the world stops tilting.” Kathy Wales said, “It’s also time to reflect on our travel memories and to finally edit all the photos.” Arnold Kanter added, “Aside from looking at photos, I’m reading those old journals that I wrote, some more than thirty years ago, that I thought neither I nor anybody else would ever look at again. Those journals evoke so many details of trips I’d taken that enhance the richness of my memories even more than the photos.” And Barbara Krause said, “I think I’ll brew a cup of tea, grab one of the cookies I just made, peruse my travel bookshelf for something to read (or reread), and settle in.” Some of you sent even more ambitious responses, including poetry, essays, and paintings. We have created a blog page to share some of these responses here. Thank you all! As for me, since I wrote you last week, I have become a bit more accustomed to the rhythms, rites, and riches of this new life. I have slowed down and embraced a much more Zen- infused approach to everyday acts. I’ve been remembering how, when I was studying Japanese tea ceremony, I learned to attend to and revel in each moment: the soothing shoosh of thick white socks crossing tatami mats, the slow lifting of the bamboo hishaku ladle to transfer hot water from the iron pot

to the tea bowl, the plonk of the thin bamboo chashaku scoop on the lip of the tea caddy, the swish of the bamboo chasen whisking the green powder into a frothy tea, and the guest’s final satisfied slurping of this treat. I’ve been trying to apply that kind of attentiveness to my everyday acts—absorbing the warmth and aroma of a steaming cup of tea, slicing a rainbow of red, green, yellow, and orange peppers for last night’s shrimp stir fry, listening to the soft patter of a morning rain-shower and inhaling the rich wet- earth scent afterward. On my daily backyard expeditions, I’ve seen last week’s lone freesia joined by a half dozen others, watched white and purple cyclamen open to the sun, spied tiny crimson rosebuds emerge, and picked plump glistening lemons. And I’ve relearned that the closer you look, the more the world bestows. For music, I’m still letting Sadao Watanabe sweep me away to Japan and beyond with his luscious, lilting rhythms. I’ve also found delight in Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony, whose notes always somehow purifyingly immerse me in nature. I’ve been losing myself to Monet’s painting Les Coquelicots , which embodies eternally youthful innocence and optimism for me. From the bookshelf, I’ve been rereading a favorite anthology of travelers’ tales called The Kindness of Strangers . This collection (which, I must blushingly admit, I edited) presents 24 true stories of unexpected kindness around the world; it’s a wonderfully uplifting antidote to the isolation of self-quarantine and the awkward emotional choreography of the social distance dance. Next on my reading list is Peter Matthiessen’s masterful, moving The Snow Leopard , a book that changed my life four decades ago, which I’m hoping will again provide guidance and inspiration. I’ve also been checking in with friends around the globe to say hello and compare our sheltering situations; these e-threads weave a vibrant worldly shawl that shows just how intimately

16

17