Mathias Gabriel's blog

Bar Remnants of fireworks lingered above my head, holding on for a few final moments. I snuck down the stone path, avoiding the crowd of grownups who knew right from wrong and would tell me it was past by bedtime. The smell of salt filled my nostrils as I came closer to the ocean. The bar had cleared out, and only a few workers remained. They wiped down the counter to make it look brand new. I looked terribly out of place—a young American kid surrounded by grown Singaporeans in white uniforms. They wondered what I was doing there. I wondered too. Charnj, the hotel manager, used his hand to call me over. I thought I was in some sort of trouble. “Maybe one more beer?” he asked, “to end the night?” The night was already over; a rising sun offered its light. “Do your parents know you’re still down here?” he asked out of care. “No,” I told him in between sips. “I snuck out.” The last words came out in a slur. He smiled. “You must drive your parents crazy. You drive me crazy. I’m crazy about you, you know. Ask anyone here.” I noticed the tide changing in the ocean. “My own kids, back at home, they sneak out too.” He leaned in and kissed my cheek. He was my dad’s friend. He bit my ear. The bar became light enough to see clearly. The working men wore grey, not white. I stood up, and Charnj did the same. I was taller than he was. “Let me walk you back to your room,” he offered. “I’ll tell your parents you were helping clean up.” “They probably didn’t even notice I was gone.” I felt like I didn’t owe my parents anything. I was on my own. They had allowed this to happen and now I had to take care of myself. I realized that my parents could not protect me—maybe they were as flawed as Charnj. Maybe all adults were, both men and women. I turned and walked away. I think he must have stood there for a while. I didn’t care to look back. I waived to my parents’ friends while I passed by. They smiled back. As I walked, I noticed the smell of salt once more. It reminded me of my childhood.

The Sun Also Rises “His black hair shone under the electric light. He wore a white linen shirt and the sword-handler finished his sash and stood up and stepped back. Pedro Romero nodded, seeming very far away and dignified when we shook hands. Montoya said something about what great aficionados we were, and that we wanted to wish him luck. Romero listened very seriously. Then he turned to me. He was the best-looking boy I have ever seen.” (Hemingway 167)

Much of Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises implies the emasculation of men after World War I. In previous wars, soldiers gained a sense of nobility through fighting; in this war, however, the use of new technology such as artillery shells forced soldiers to huddle together in fear of death, often leaving survival up to chance. This deprived most soldiers their sense of dignity and made them feel like lesser men, for their success in the war had little to do with bravery or physical strength. In the above quote, Jake Barnes is having an epiphany in finally realizing the insecurities about his masculinity by admiring the bullfighter Pedro Romero. Romero, just nineteen years old, is “the best-looking boy [Barnes has] ever seen.” Barnes sees him as a great, passionate aficionado who is able to look death in the eyes through his dangerous sport. He is physically beautiful.

After this realization, Barnes begins to have a sort of obsession with the young bullfighter. Romero forces Barnes to acknowledge his insecurities by so obviously being his foil. While Romero is able to face death, Barnes runs away from even the smallest of discomforts, forcing him to constantly move throughout Europe as to avoid staying in one place long enough to face any hardships. Perhaps most importantly, Brett has an obvious attraction to Romero, which she acts upon. Barnes is in love with Brett, but she refuses to be with him due to his impotency that was caused by an “accident” during the war. This, obviously, compares Romero’s masculinity to Barnes’ lack thereof. Although Barnes never states this directly, his admiration of Romero in the quote above quite clearly implies Barnes’ realization. Barnes has this epiphany because he is the narrator.

In actually, any of the male characters in the story could have had the same realization, because they all struggle with insecurities about their masculinity. Robert Cohn, for example, lets his girlfriend Frances Clyne walk all over him, and has little control whatsoever in their relationship. Bill Gorton, another friend of Barnes, tells him, “I’m fonder of you than anybody on earth. I couldn’t tell you that in New York. It’d mean I was a faggot” (121). Many passages throughout the novel hint at Gorton’s possible homosexuality, once again lessening his sense of masculinity. To further show the men’s weakness and unmanliness, Hemingway created his female character Brett to be more masculine than most of the men, particularly Barnes. She has short, boyish hair, often wears men’s hats, and can hold her liquor like a man. All of these components of the novel hint at the war’s emasculating of soldiers, an issue that Barnes does not acknowledge until he is in the presence of Romero. Through his epiphany regarding his lack of manliness, Barnes perhaps realizes what forces him to travel as much as he and his friends do. In order to avoid thinking about the war and what it has done to their masculinity (for example making Barnes impotent), the characters simply move from place to place and drink absurd amounts of alcohol. One can infer that at this moment, Barnes is realizing the emptiness of his traveling, and perhaps the fact that he uses it as a self-defense mechanism.

Honeymoon Makimari’s “Sputnik Sweetheart” examines the idea of traveling out of loneliness and desire to connect with others. The novel tells the story of Sumire, a young author who falls in love with Miu, a mysterious older woman. K, an older, male teacher falls in love with Sumire, who does not return his love. Although they never become a couple, Sumire and Miu travel to Europe together, where Sumire disappears. Sumire’s desperation for a human connection drives her to accompany Miu during her work-related travels, despite Miu’s lack of romantic interest. This aspect of the novel creates a conversation regarding the legitimacy of traveling in order to create or sustain a romantic connection between two people. The “romantic getaway,” although a cliché, remains attractive to most couples, thus fueling the continued tradition of the honeymoon. While one can argue that the post-wedding voyage is simply an excuse to travel and enjoy a different part of the world, the fundamental idea has to do more with the fact that these two people, freshly bonded by marriage, are being brought closer to together by creating new memories in a place other than where they will live together. I do not know whether one can really say this is “good” or “bad” (although, I can safely say that Sumire’s desire to travel with Miu is unhealthy, being as how the love is non-mutual). It more importantly just “is,” so we might as well look at why this tradition may have started. I personally think that a romantic voyage (whether it be a honeymoon or simply the type of trip Sumire was hoping for) is supposed to be a test of faith, during which the couple survives together through unusual and irregular situations. According to this logic, a hike in the Alps or a trek through the desert would make more sense as a honeymoon than a cruise to Hawaii or a stay in Paris. Perhaps this is why Kit and Port decide to travel through the North African Desert in order to repair their relationship instead of voyaging to an easier, more typically “romantic.” However, I can’t help but mention that this is simply a thought process that the novel inspired during my reading, and I do not believe it relates directly to any of Makimari’s themes, which have more to do with loneliness. Sumire’s travel to an alien area (Europe) must have echoed her feelings of confusion and irregularity when she falls in love with a woman instead of a man—especially a woman who does not share the same feelings. Thus, instead of traveling to a new area with someone in order to build a relationship, Sumire ends up truly alone and more alienated than ever.

Lost in Translation "China further and further, disappearing behind clouds. Below is ocean. I from desert town. Is the first time in my life I see sea. It look like a dream." (4) As I mentioned in class, I spent time in Southeastern Asia two summers ago, and spent a few weeks teaching English in Thailand in elementary schools, as well as high schools. Obviously, in an attempt to not come off as ignorant, I have to clarify that I understand that Chinese and Thai are two very, very different languages, and that one cannot compare the learning experience of a Chinese and a Thai as being "identical" when it comes to English. However, there definitely are similarities between the two, which I can recognize through the similarities between Z's mistakes when speaking English and the mistakes of the kids I taught. One of her biggest troubles, similar to the Thai kids, are verb tenses. Many of the tenses we use simply don't exist in Asian languages, or are used somewhat differently. For example, in the above quote, "it look like" instead of "it looks like." This error, quite simply, comes from the irregular nature of English verbs. Additionally, the Subject-Verb-Object pattern in English does not fully follow through into these Asian languages, often making sentences incomplete or containing incorrect word order, such as "Is the first time in my life I see sea" instead of "It is the first time in my life that I'm seeing the sea." After reading Xiaolu Guo's "A Concise Chinese - English Dictionary for Lovers," as well as spending time teaching English, I came to understand that speakers of these Asian languages often have hard times assimilating into Western culture (not just "English" or "American") because of their inabilities to speak and understand Romantic or Germanic Languages. Because the patterns of forming English sentences are vastly different than patterns in Chinese or Thai, it's safe to say that we probably think differently. (As a side note, NYU is offering a course studying the relationships between a country's language (word use, sentence pattern, etc.) and it's politics, culture, and so on). Thus, Chinese immigrants often stay sheltered by living in areas such as a "China Town." On one hand, this is a gross generalization; on the other, you don't see "French Town" or "German Town" quite so often. This made me think about whether or not it's truly possible to become completely comfortable in a country that does not speak your mother tongue. Obviously, it's possible for one to "assimilate" and learn a language, but can one ever be as comfortable in a country where they did not spend their developmental years (early childhood)? While I'm tempted to say no, I can speak once again from personal experience in telling that my mother, who moved to the United States from Sweden at the age of 30, is now far more comfortable speaking English than Swedish, and has little (if any) accent. Of course, she still prefers Swedish food, music, movies, etc. because these are the things that she grew up with. All in all, this book brought up a lot of good questions that I'm still working on figuring out, and will have to continue working on in years to come, I'm sure.

The Journey The protagonist’s adventure in The Journey of Ibn Fattouma brings about questions regarding the usefulness of “broadening one’s horizons,” as well as the existence of a true Utopia, like Gebel. In Mashriq, Ibn Fattouma discovers a culture wherein they live in the nude and worship the moon. Ibn Fattouma’s next stop is Haira, which he discoveres to be a totalitarian and war-crazed state. Even Halba, Ibn Fattouma next stop, where all religions coexist peacefully, is aggressive about its philosophy, trying to force it upon other local areas. Lastly, in Aman, justice is praised as the most important aspect of a society, thus forcing citizens to spy on one another. After Ibm Fattouma spots Gebel from a distance, the novel ends without revealing whether or not he reached his final destination. Thus, while his teacher, a Sufi, tells Ibn Fattouma that he should go see the world in order to broaden his horizons, one can argue that Fattouma gained nothing from his travels. Although he does learn about other cultures and areas, his newfound knowledge does not help to reform or improve his views on the world, clear through his persistence in searching for Gebel, a perfect land. In fact, his voyage to Gebel seems more hurtful than helpful—for example, he stayed in jail for twenty years, thus doubling his age. Because there are no recorded documents about Gebel, and because no inhabitant or visitor has ever come back to tell their story, one can interpret that Gebel, this “perfect land” that we so often are searching for through our travels, does not exist. This brings into question, however, whether Ibn Fattouma was truly searching for Gebel as his main destination, or whether it was the journey to Gebel that was meant to be significant. Additionally, some of the cities that Ibn Fattouma stays in, such as Halba, seem close to perfect, and yet Ibn Fattouma leaves. Thus, the novel has numerous possible interpretations regarding the topic of travel. One can interpret either that the broadening of one’s horizons is useless and meaningless, or that it is the journey through unknown areas and lands that is truly meaningful in life, and not the final destination, wherever it may be.

Tourist In his article, “A Phenomenology of Tourist Experience,” Erik Cohen divides travelers into five different categories: recreational, diversionary, experiential, experimental, and existential. Thus, he has taken our debate of terminology regarding ‘traveler’ versus ‘tourist’ a step further, making these terms useless. His overall thesis suggests that one seeks and accepts the “spiritual centres of others” once one has become dissatisfied with the alienation of his or her society’s own centre. The recreational tourist travels solely for the sake of entertainment, just as he or she would use “the cinema, theatre, or television” (183). While the trip is interesting, it is not personally significant, and is purely rejuvenating. The diversionary traveler is similar to the recreational, except for that his or her life is essentially meaningless. Although they are not in search of ‘meaning,’ they do have a need to get away from their jobs, which they are emotionally uncommitted to. Because the two groups are somewhat similar, I’ll pair them together. Since Cohen suggests that these travelers may appear “from the perspective of ‘high’ culture as shallow,” (184) one can easily relate the first two categories (most especially the recreational mode) to Henry James’ “Daisy Miller.” In his novella, James has Winterbourne’s aunt, a native, upper class Swiss, look down upon the Miller family, for they are “new money,” and are simply traveling for the entertainment of it; Daisy does not try to take in any of the culture surrounding her. The third group, the “Experiential” traveler, consists of those who are looking for meaning through the lives of others, and who use tourism to show a ritual respect for other cultures. Cohen quotes MacCannal, saying “Pretension and tackiness generate the belief that somewhere, only not right here, not right now, perhaps just over there someplace, in another country, in another life-style, in another social class, perhaps, there is genuine society” (187). This view, which most accurately reveals the psychology of an “experiential” traveler, most easily relates to those of the characters in Ernest Hemingway’s “The Sun Also Rises.” As members of the “Lost Generation,” characters such as Jake Barnes and Lady Brett Ashley travel from the United States to Paris to Spain to the Parisian suburbs then back to Spain then back to France, and so on. This constant traveling, in which the travelers are able to appreciate the cultures of others but continue to move because they are not quite happy stems from their belief that any other place would be better, and could solve their problems. Members of the fourth category, dubbed “experimental,” have overall decentralized personalities. Cohen describes these people as looking for a spiritual center through various means, only one of which being travel. This type of traveler most accurately describes Sal Paradise from “On the Road.” Always ready to move on to the next place, Sal seems uncommitted to any one area. He tries to find his “centre” through traversing the United States, as well as through love, but ends up unsuccessful. Finally, there is the “existential” traveler, who has decided upon an ‘elective’ centre with which to identify. These travelers have found a new culture or religion to devote themselves to, willingly, and can thus start a sort of new life. Out of the books that we have read, I would have to say that such a traveler rarely exists. In Ian McEwan’s “The Comfort of Strangers,” they do not even mention the city Venice by name—thus its cultural significance becomes irrelevant. Similarly, in “The Sheltering Sky,” Port and Kit speak about how horribly the natives are treated in the Middle East, and yet they themselves stay in fine hotels and rarely mingle with the natives. At all times, the characters in our books have maintained that feeling of “otherness;” they never seem able to forget themselves and fully embrace the cultures they encounter during various travels. The fact that we cannot find such travelers throughout our texts is very revealing about the nature of travel. Overall, I would have to generally agree with Cohen’s argument. His five categories are inescapable—there seems to be no exception. However, the lines between the various categories seem to be blurred, for it is sometimes unclear whether the travelers are being pushed away by their own society or simply drawn in by others. According to Cohen’s thesis, which I agree with, it is only when we are so bored or disenchanted to our own societies that we decide to venture outward and experiment with unexplored territory through travel.

Camera "Had Robert been following them around with a camera? Was he following them now? Mary shrugged and glanced back. Colin looked back too. There were cameras everywhere. Suspended like aquarium fish against a watery background of limbs and clothes, but Robert was not there. 'Perhaps,' Mary said, 'he thinks you have a nice face.'(97) Due to Robert's creepy and inappropriate use of a camera, Ian McEwan's "The Comfort of Strangers" made me thinks a lot about the relationship between photography and travel. Although Robert isn't using his camera during travel, because he himself lives in Venice, the couple looks around suspiciously to see if Robert is spying on them, and, in doing so, notice the vast array of cameras at every turn. When traveling, we use cameras to help us remember the trip once it is over, for apparently, our own memories are inept. In addition, photographs act as proof; by taking a picture of a person in front of a certain church, one can prove that this person did in fact exists, as did the church, and that they were once together.

However, one must also question the disadvantages of using a camera while traveling. If one is simply seeing everything through the lens of a camera instead of through his or her own eyes, is the experience as significant? I would have to argue that no, it is not. For example, although I would hesitate to ever give him such advice, Robert could have creepily enjoyed seeing Colin more if he had just watched him in person, instead of spending the time taking pictures to fascinate over back at his house. The photographs themselves work almost as masochistic tools; we are able to look back and long for something that we never quite saw, because we were too busy photographing. This does not only pertain to Robert—I think there’s a bit of this desire to long for something in all of us. The role of photography also takes place in Thomas Mann’s “Death in Venice,” which compares quite easily to McEwan’s novella. In the end of Mann’s text, Aschenbach dies while a camera stands idly on the beach, with no one to take a picture of him. Although the significance of this camera is debatable, I personally believe that Mann is making a point of showing how those who are important to Aschenbach, at this point being only Tadzio, will not remember him. Because there is no one there to take his picture, there is no proof. Thus, if based on my understanding of the camera in “Death in Venice,” this book is not as similar to McEwan’s as is often said. While McEwan seems to be mocking photography during travel, Mann perhaps believes that the photographic proof of a person having been in a place is necessary, for, otherwise, the circumstance will be forgotten, and fade into travel oblivion.

Venice Thomas Mann’s novella “Death In Venice” tells the story of Gustav Von Aschenbach, a somewhat struggling artist who travels alone to various places but winds up in Venice. Aschenbach’s motive for staying in Venice has mostly to do with, if not everything to do with, his newfound, unmeasurable love for a young Polish boy named Tadzio. Aschenbach sees the boy’s beauty as godly, and seems to find it incomprehensible that Tadzio is simply human. He follows Tadzio’s Polish family around the city, finding his affection for the boy (with whom he has never spoken) to be uncontrollable. Eventually, the city is infected by Cholera, which the city officials try to keep secret as to not scare away the tourists. Although Aschenbach knows that he should leave Venice for his own sake, he cannot bare the idea of leaving Tadzio. Although he has never officially met the boy, brief moments during which their eyes meet make Aschenbach so happy that he believes he would die without Tadzio. Much of Mann’s text seems to be discussing the concept and importance of Aesthetics. Gustav Von Aschenbach is an artist himself; thus, the protagonist of the story emphasizes and creates aesthetics for a living, despite the more “proper” occupations of his somewhat known line of ancestry. The beauty of Venice itself, which Aschenbach references as the inspiration for great artists before him, is something that brings Aschenbach to the city. It is then the awe-inspiring beauty of the Polish by Tadzio that convinces Aschenbach to stay in the city, despite the imminent danger that eventually causes his death. Many of the books we have been reading in class reference the somewhat beautified, tourism-drawing views of traveling. It is often the beauty of a tropical island or a hilly, European countryside that draws tourists in. Often times, our characters travel based off of their romanticized views of other countries, which reality often falls short of. Mann plays with this theme when a lovesick Aschenbach lets a barber convince him that he too needs to be beautified. He dyes Aschenbach’s hair, puts powder on his face, scents him with perfume, and even applies red coloring onto his lips. Aschenbach’s new “beauty,” like that of Venice, seems forced and rather unappealing. Internally, he is going through a rather ugly struggle with what I took to be self-hatred, due to his old age and incapability of talking to Tadzio. The fact that he dies, like Daisy Miller, may be taken as Mann’s warning against careless traveling, which Gustov Von Aschenbach partakes in until his death.

hitchhiker “I walked by the jewelry store and had the sudden impulse to shoot up the window, take out the finest rings and bracelets, and run to give them to Lee Ann. Then we could flee to Nevada together. The time was coming for me to leave Frisco or I’d go crazy.” (Kerouac 67) The farther East Sal travels during the Jack Kerouac’s novel On the Road, the more we see that he is not simply moving around for fun, but due to complicated and dark psychological reasons. Like many of us, when it comes to travels, Sal is an extreme idealist. He romanticizes his trek across the country, which begins with his drive to see a bunch of areas that he has predetermined to be much better (more scenic, friendlier people, more homely, etc.) than they actually are. Every time Sal reaches one of his destinations, in this case San Francisco, he soon states that he needs to leave and move on to the next place. Although it may seem this way initially, Sal’s desire to constantly move himself from one area to the next comes not from his restlessness or curiosity to see the world, but from his fear of disproving his predetermined images of wherever he is at that moment. As soon as he begins to feel lonely in San Francisco (“…it was just the loneliness of San Francisco and the fact that I had a gun…” {67}, he decides that he needs to go. However, this can be interpreted as just an excuse for Sal to move on before he is able to realize that San Francisco is not all the he dreamt it up to be. By constantly changing his location, chasing after the postcard imagery that he has created in his mind, he avoids every feeling disappointed, for he never spends enough time in an area to strongly dislike it (except for, possibly, Denver, which he is heavily disappointed with.) Even after Sal reaches Los Angeles and sleeps with a pretty Mexican girl named Terry, the pair begins to plan on heading back to New York City, from which Sal was previously escaping. This just goes to help prove that Sal does not necessarily want to “see the world,” or even the country. He simply wants to be anywhere but where he is in that moment. Sal’s character is easily relatable for most readers, including myself, for we (perhaps instinctually) believe that a simple change of location or scenery will make our lives more exciting, help us “discover ourselves,” as the cliché goes, or even allow us to start anew. It is not until we get to these locations that we realize they are not all we imagined them to be—that WE are not all we imagined we would be whilst in these new locations. Yet, like Sal, we tend to make the same mistake over and over. We continue to move ourselves in order to avoid problems, even when it does not seem to be working.

The Sheltering Sky "He did not think of himself as a tourist; he was a traveler. The difference is partly one of time, he would explain. Whereas the tourist generally hurries back home at the end of a few weeks or months, the traveler, belonging no more to one place than to the next, moves slowly, over periods of years, from one part of the earth to another. Indeed, he would have found it difficult to tell, among the many places he had lived, precisely where it was where he had felt most at home.” (Bowles 6) Much of Paul Bowles’ novel The Sheltering Sky discusses our initial debate of the tourist versus the traveler. Port and Kit attempt to classify themselves as travelers while George Tunner is a “tourist,” for he is only staying in the country for three or four months. However, one can argue that the Moresby’s are not “travelers” at all, for they do not experience Africa as thoroughly as a “traveler” would. They stay in hotels, travel using cars and trains, and barely interact with the natives of any area in which they find themselves (besides those that carry their bags, kidnap them, or whore themselves). Simply because they will physically be in a country for a few years does not separate them from tourists because they will still spend their time as tourists (i.e. living in hotels, visiting tourist attractions, etc.) However, the Moresby’s initial labeling of themselves as “travelers” instead of “tourists” also comes from their desire to separate themselves, as Americans, from the French, who treat the Arabs poorly. They are able to look at the French with disgust and pity the Arabs because they do not consider themselves to be a part of the evident exploitation occurring in front of their eyes. In reality, they are helping to perpetuate much of the horrible treatment that they are viewing. Overall, this book seems to imply that the terms “traveler” and “tourist” are not interchangeable, but meaningless. Both are described in a somewhat negative light. The Moresby’s, despite the fact that they are “travelers,” still suffer through tragedies by the end of the book (Port’s death and Kit’s kidnapping), which one can interpret as punishment for their lifestyles. The book seems to be commenting on the meaninglessness, as well as pointlessness, of much of our travels—or, at least, the style in which we travel. Bowles seems to suggest that the characters gain nothing positive from their travels.