The Best American Travel Writing 2013 Read Free Page B

those tiresome bulls in Pamplona? In fact, do we really need another story at all involving bulls and Spain and manhood in any manner whatsoever? No, Kevin. No, we do not.”
    Well, as it turns out, Yes, Kevin. Yes, we do. But we only need this story when it’s told with such bare, vibrating honesty. There is not a trace of machismo in this piece, only a near-tearful longing for the most intense possible act of self-revolution. Until reading Chroust’s story, I never really understood why a young man might need to run with the bulls in Pamplona (honestly, I’ve never even really understood why people need to ride motorcycles or get on roller coasters), but now—thanks to this vivid explosion of writing—I get it. I get why there are times in life when people need to put themselves “in arbitrary danger” in order to burst through to the other side, to some white-hot experience of purification more radiant than anything that mere safety could ever provide.
    Still, though, I think the most dangerous story in this collection is Colleen Kinder’s essay “Blot Out”—about her experiences walking through the streets of Cairo as a woman, both covered and uncovered. The risks that she took on the day she describes here are staggering in their audacity. An older woman—knowing more of men’s potential savagery and infused with a more ingrained sense of self-protection—probably would not have done what she did. I myself would rather run with the bulls every afternoon for a month than expose myself to the potential of such true and vicious physical violence. And yet the ending is so victorious! A victory over violation! A victory over the absurd and the oppressive, both!
    Speaking of which, I put some absurd stuff in here, too, just for fun. Travel should be just as much about light delights as about dark daring, and I’ve included some simple and charming tales, perfectly told. Lynn Yaeger’s account of how much she packs when she travels—and why—is a messy, crazed amuse-bouche in the midst of these heavier meals.
    I also want to stress that I read all these articles without their bylines attached. I know a lot of writers personally, and I didn’t want to be swayed in my decision making by either my affinity or my distaste for anybody. (I was more afraid of committing an act of revenge than an act of nepotism.) My curiosity over authorship drove me nuts during the process, but in the end I was glad that I read everything blind, for it turns out that I am now madly in love with some writers I’d never heard of before—like the brave and stalwart Judy Copeland, who strikes me as the most sensible person you could ever meet, but who also took herself all the way to Papua New Guinea because of a dream she had about a red line appearing on a map of the world.
    For the most part, I was completely surprised and delighted to find out who had written these pieces (though in some cases I was not surprised at all; you don’t really need a byline that says “by David Sedaris” to know that something was written by David Sedaris). For the longest time, I could not figure out why I loved so much the little essay called “A Farewell to Yarns,” until it was revealed that, of course, the great Ian Frazier had written it. That would explain how a piece of writing could be so simple and yet so simply wonderful—because it was in the hands of a storyteller who, after so many years at his craft, really knows his business.
    There are some stories in this anthology that I felt just needed to be next to each other—the way total strangers meet on a train and somehow make each other’s journeys more interesting. “The Pippiest Place on Earth” is, in its own right, a fantastic exploration of a Charles Dickens theme park, but it takes on a far deeper meaning after you’ve read “Dreaming of El Dorado”—which is
truly
Dickensian. I put “Bombing Sarajevo” right next to “Vietnam’s Bowl of Secrets” because both of