Travel

What is it about travel? The desire for the new? Mobility? The thrilling alienation that comes from disrupting our routine?

I enjoy the rolling panorama of driving, the rush of airplanes on takeoff and looking down at the earth, the ferry leaving the dock and the water dividing at the bow. The sound of voices, the scent in the air (salt water, pine), the surprise of what's new.

What's local refreshes me. In Wisconsin I had a local stout made with smoked hops. In Paris my palate encountered jellied fish. In Mexico I ate pollo mole poblano that was like chocolate chicken (true!) in my mouth. In Toledo I enjoyed hand-made tortillas for the first time. In Cleveland I once drank a Hungarian wine that was pale green, sweet and quite delicious.

Carl Sandburg asks, "Where to? What next?" Good question. What's the good answer? Get out the atlas and the map.

I loved maps when I was a kid. I still do. My eyes scan the maps for highways, backroads, high elevations, unexpectedly crazy names, state lines, rivers, lakes (always the lakes). Campbell McGrath has a poem in Road Atlas in which he imagines trying to visit all the towns named Campbell or McGrath. I can't say for sure, but I bet there are more towns like Robertsville or Roberton than Miltnersburgh.

Next month I will be in Mexico City and Cuernavaca. Already I am looking through the travel guides for old hotels and local mercado restaurants. When I travel I take in the world through my eyes, ears, nose and mouth. Don't just ask me what a place looked like--I'd rather tell you how it tastes.