Saturday, February 28, 2009

Traveling Literature

Setting yourself down in the cool wake kissed shade of a gazebo nestled at the end of a small dock intended for kayakers, picking up a haggard manuscript gingerly freed from the wrestless confines of the bag at my side, thumbing it open. The bookmark, the last page of the abused novel, roughly torn from its binding by careless handling by its carrier, folded into quarters, so as not to be lost. The date scrawled alongside a line or two in french inside the front cover is 1979... older than I am, and probably better traveled.

Thinking about how the plight of a tourist is similar to the plight of an Oakie in California. Thinking about how that last thought is actually pretty dumb. Thinking about so many destinations are chosen for their ability to provide a haven for continued reading...

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