Since I have felt so cynical about the nature of most travel writing, I didn’t begin this book with particularly high expectations. I assumed that in the best-case scenario, this book would offer some anecdotes and pithy observations about his off-the-beaten-path experiences with vaguely primitivist (read elitist) undertones. Grescoe has written for some fairly heavy publications: ‘The Times of London’, ‘New York Times’, ‘Conde Nast Traveler’, and so on, but not having read his work before, had no reason to expect any different. From the intro, after a quite beautiful description of a sunset at Cabo Fisterra, the ‘land’s end’ in Spain, and a brief history of the area, he gives you a small personal glimpse of himself why he feels the compulsion to travel and that he feels it to be somewhat of a sickness.

“Ever since I was a teenager, I’ve been leaving behind friends, lovers and family in a headlong rush into the unknown, to bruise my knees on the serried backs of beach-bound charter planes, rattle my spine over the rear axles of unsuspended Indian buses,, and jettison my calamari over the taffrails of dented Greek ferries. I return to a petrified forest of house plants and a hallway sprayed with disconnection notices, already nostalgic for abruptly severed foreign affairs in a limbo of my own making.”

I appreciated the his candor right off. This immediately set his voice apart from the usual smug or folksy manner that I pick up from other travel writers, nor did this seem to be a faux self-deprecating approach. He periodically reveals more about himself throughout the book, including struggles with various substances and an inability to commit at times. Grescoe doesn’t moralize, neither does he slide into self-flagellation. He allows you to get to know him gradually as you read on, the way it happens in friendships, but this also gives a context and understanding about why he does what he does.

This is beautifully organized and constructed account of a nine-month journey. It begins on the Camino de Santiago in Spain, the 850 kilometre pilgrimage that Christians have been walking since the middle of the 10th century to Santiago de Compostela, which holds the relic of the Apostle James, and finishes on a beach at China’s ‘end of the earth’. It is not only a sort of travel journal of his trip but is also a very thorough examination of the history of travel and tourism. He explores all manner of travel and accommodation across the spectrum from travel on foot, bus, train, and airplane to cruise ship, beach hut, back street hotel and luxury room. In each chapter, he is somewhere else along his journey and while he describes everything going on around him with a sharp eye, he also gives a contextual history that relates directly to what he’s doing at the moment. Not only does he offer a wealth of information and factoids but in the process, debunks the whole myth of the ‘good old days’ of travel. With his evidence, it seems a misconception that only recently, has increased tourism ruined various sites and cultures but in fact, ever since people were able to travel, has this occurred, just in greater volume now. In discussing the Englishman, Thomas Cook, who, in the 1840s, was among the first to offer tourist travel for the average person (prior to this, it had been only available to the wealthy), he goes back further to cite an earlier documented 'travel agent’:

“As history’s seminal vulgarizers of travel, Thomas Cook and his son John Mason Cook got a bad rap for packing the cathedrals and beauty-spots of Europe with gaggles of Cockneys and governesses. To be fair, neither the package tour nor the all-inclusive ticket was their invention. In the 15th century, Jerusalem-bound pilgrims could pay Agostino Contarini or his rival Pietro Lando, who flew their banners in Venice’s St. Mark’s Square, 60 gold ducats for an all-in Holy Land cruise package, including guides, bribes, and two hot meals with wine daily. (Apparently, clients experienced a kind of “If this is Shrove Tuesday, it must be Bethlehem” sensation, complaining of being rushed through on-shore sites in less than a week).”

There are also certain traveller or tourist types and he pegs these easily. Chatting with a fellow traveller on the ‘Camino’ leg and discussing what to see next, he comments:

“Right. I was dealing with a type rampant on the road, the budget travel snob, connoisseur of the primitive, whose pleasure consists in informing you of all the authentic experiences he has enjoyed and you - poor, uncultured yob that you are - have managed to miss.”

I’ve had that feeling before, on the road, but have never been able to put it that well. I was beginning to feel a shared sensibility here, with Grescoe. That moment when you realize that one’s perception is not unlike your own and that from here on, whatever follows will be of great interest to you. It turns out to be the case, and he doesn’t just pick apart the easy targets such as resorts, cruise ships and Club Med, but also makes an excellent case against the more recent crop of adventure and eco-tours, that on the surface, appear to be more nature oriented and in touch with the ecology, but are actually insular backpacker circuits in which the travellers rarely venture out and among the real natives, preferring to congregate in spots where they can find their own. Although his observations are wonderfully scathing, he really does not come off as a mean-spirited fellow, rather, he attempts to connect with everyone he encounters in his travels, from indigenous folk to his fellow travellers, initially giving everyone a fair shake.

Nearing the end of his travels, feeling burned out, depressed, and no better than his fellow tourists, he dabbles with some opium in a small ‘theme park’ village in Thailand’s hill country and reflects:

“Strolling through the Karen village, feeling voyeuristic as I glimpsed scenes of family intimacy, part of me hoped to experience something I didn’t possess. My mobility was a form of decadence, and in travelling the world, something in me was seeking its antithesis. I’d come halfway around the globe to sit in a bamboo hut, searching for groundedness, tradition and community - all the things I’d abandoned for the endless novelty of travel. And by fooling myself into thinking I’d bought something real, I’d become a chump, a despoiler. In a word, a tourist: somebody who travels abroad to purchase a simulated antidote to an existential lack, and then denies that the transaction has taken place. Identifying the problem didn’t comfort me. It made me feel more lost.”

This book is an unbelievably honest look at the state of travel and tourism in general and at one man’s life spent in the pursuit of this, specifically. It was fascinating to me and vindicated my own feelings on the subject. More than that, it was well written and poetic at moments and philosophical always, in its examination of the state of our world in these times.

Marc Goldin currently lives in Chicago, with three cats, each one more long-haired than the last. Interests have ranged from medieval monasticism to discontinued stations on the London Underground – literary likes too diverse (some would say schizo) to list here although the last several years have been witness to an intimacy with Scottish and Irish literature. American Southern and Beat era lit also account for some of the ‘missing years’. Music tastes run the gamut from Cuban Danzon to Ska (all three waves but having a specific attachment to the second, two-tone period) to the Tuvan throat singers. Has written book reviews for a now defunct Irish literature site and has several short stories in various stages of development. Mad for black and white photography and aspires to someday have a complete collection of photos documenting every close in the Grassmarket area of Edinburgh. Works in the IT dept. of a French company in the current political climate. In football, supports Chelsea, Hibs, and for the sake of employment security, Marseille.

© 2005 Laura Hird All rights reserved.