In brief: Hemingway on planes and trains, and Annie Lennox

A mini-study in surprises!

One) I was pleasantly surprised to see that most international travelers still carry books with them. Actually, really surprised. One would think that with all the Nooks and Kindles and Ipads...well, old-school, bound-up stacks of real paper might be deemed too bulky by many. I've even had such a thought recently. After all, the airlines pretty much charge you for every centimeter of space you breathe in these days.

On the way to Italy a few weeks ago, bleary-eyed and marginally claustrophobic as our jet took off, I felt oddly comforted by the sight of paperbacks, bends in spines and all. Hell, I'd planned to watch movies, drink complimentary chardonnay, and doze off at intervals. Here, these other coach-folks were planning on tackling Austen above the Atlantic, or some Dan Brown, and one person even Joyce! Oh, how I underestimate all of us. All this business about it being doomsday for the printed word...I cry rubbish. People aren't giving up their tactile experiences so easily, nor, apparently, their literary ones.

I made it through only about five pages of Ernest Hemingway's A Moveable Feast (some might call it "minor Hemingway"?) on the plane. The language is slow and almost lust-y, like molasses, unlike most of work; it wasn't until I'd come down from the high of the trip that I was able to give it real attention. I sat in the (surprisingly empty) dining car of an Amtrak train, inching through Alabama, my journey almost over, and soaked the words up. If I were a poet, I would write a sonnet about Hemingway on a train.

Two) I harbor no shame in loving Annie Lennox. She's outdated, of course, remembered now mostly in hazy, boxy images of shaved heads and red lipstick (basically, she's a mental montage of the 1980s). People forget the pop sensibilities of her work in the 90s. Americans do, anyway! Imagine my surprise when, on a stroll past the Forum on our last day in Rome, I hear strands of "Walking on Broken Glass"...louder, louder. My walking companions must have imagined I had a seizure. I skipped ahead, elated, mouthing the words like a kid with a hairbrush-microphone. The song was coming from street speakers, set up for some sort of event, but there it was...unabashed, in broad daylight, one of the best pop songs EVER...

"Take me from the wreckage, save me from the blast//lift me up, and take me back//don't let me keep on walkin' on broken glasssssss....ooh ooh..."

Back in the real world (which I call anything that is not Italy right now), I'm in gelato-withdrawal, and I'm trying to write a little bit every day. Summer is in full-swing, of course, which means high humidity indexes and burning sun around here. Texas will be even worse. Or better, however you perceive of sun.

More to come...