The Best American Travel Writing 2015 Read online

  Contents

  * * *

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright

  Foreword

  Introduction

  Lisa Abend, The Sound of Silence

  Scott Anderson, Lawrence’s Arabia

  Kevin Baker, 21st Century Limited

  Stephen Connely Benz, Land of the Lost

  Benjamin Busch, “Today Is Better Than Tomorrow”

  Madeline Drexler, The Happiness Metric

  David Farley, Ashes to Ashes

  Lauren Groff, Daughters of the Springs

  Peter Hessler, Tales of the Trash

  Rachel Maddux, Hail Dayton

  Patricia Marx, A Tale of a Tub

  Tim Neville, The Great Pleasure Project

  Maud Newton, A Doubter in the Holy Land

  Adriana Páramo, My Timbuktu

  Nick Paumgarten, Berlin Nights

  Tony Perrottet, Made in China

  Lauren Quinn, Mr. Nhem’s Genocide Camera

  Monte Reel, Camino Real

  Paul Salopek, Out of Eden Walk

  Gary Shteyngart, Behind Closed Doors at Hotels

  Iris Smyles, Ship of Wonks

  Christopher Solomon, Baked Alaska

  Patrick Symmes, Bonfire of the Humanities

  Paul Theroux, The Soul of the South

  Contributors’ Notes

  Notable Travel Writing of 2014

  Read More from The Best American Series®

  About the Editors

  Copyright © 2015 by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company

  Introduction copyright © 2015 by Andrew McCarthy

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  The Best American Series® is a registered trademark of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. The Best American Travel Writing™ is a trademark of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

  No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying and recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system without the proper written permission of the copyright owner unless such copying is expressly permitted by federal copyright law. With the exception of nonprofit transcription in Braille, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt is not authorized to grant permission for further uses of copyrighted selections reprinted in this book without the permission of their owners. Permission must be obtained from the individual copyright owners as identified herein. Address requests for permission to make copies of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt material to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  www.hmhco.com

  ISSN 1530-1516

  ISBN 978-0-544-56964-5

  Cover design by Christopher Moisan © Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

  Cover photograph © Getty Images

  eISBN 978-0-544-57928-6

  v1.1015

  “The Sound of Silence” by Lisa Abend. First published in AFAR, February 2014. Copyright © 2014 by Lisa Abend. Reprinted by permission of Afar Magazine and Lisa Abend.

  “Lawrence’s Arabia” by Scott Anderson. First published in Smithsonian, July/August 2014. Copyright © 2014 by Scott Anderson. Reprinted by permission of Scott Anderson.

  “21st Century Limited” by Kevin Baker. First published in Harper’s Magazine, July 2014. Copyright © 2014 by Harper’s Magazine. All rights reserved. Reproduced from the July issue by special permission.

  “Land of the Lost” by Stephen Connely Benz. First published in JMWW, Summer 2014. Copyright © 2014 by Stephen Benz. Reprinted by permission of Stephen Benz.

  “Today Is Better Than Tomorrow” by Benjamin Busch. First published in Harper’s Magazine, October 2014. Copyright © 2014 by Harper’s Magazine. All rights reserved. Reproduced from the October issue by special permission.

  “The Happiness Metric” by Madeline Drexler. First published in Tricycle, Fall 2014. Copyright © 2014 by Madeline Drexler. Reprinted by permission of the author.

  “Ashes to Ashes” by David Farley. First published in AFAR, June/July 2014. Copyright © 2014 by David Farley. Reprinted by permission of David Farley.

  “Daughters of the Springs” by Lauren Groff. First published in Oxford American, Summer 2014. Copyright © 2014 by Lauren Groff. Reprinted by permission of the Clegg Agency, Inc.

  “Tales of the Trash” by Peter Hessler. First published in The New Yorker, October 13, 2014. Copyright © 2014 by Peter Hessler. Reprinted by permission of Peter Hessler.

  “Hail Dayton” by Rachael Maddux. First published in Oxford American, Spring 2014. Copyright © 2014 by Rachael Maddux. Reprinted by permission of Rachael Maddux.

  “A Tale of a Tub” by Patricia Marx. First published in The New Yorker, February 3, 2014. Copyright © 2014 by Patricia Marx. Reprinted by permission of Patricia Marx.

  “The Great Pleasure Project” by Tim Neville. First published in Ski Magazine, November 2014. Copyright © 2014 by Tim Neville. Reprinted by permission of Tim Neville.

  “A Doubter in the Holy Land” by Maud Newton. First published in the New York Times Magazine, April 6, 2014. Copyright © 2014 by the New York Times. All rights reserved. Used by permission and protected by the copyright laws of the United States. The printing, copying, redistribution, or retransmission of this content without express written permission is prohibited.

  “My Timbuktu” by Adriana Páramo. First published in the Georgia Review, Fall 2014. Copyright © 2014 by Adriana Páramo. Reprinted by permission of Adriana Páramo.

  “Berlin Nights” by Nick Paumgarten. First published in The New Yorker, March 24, 2014. Copyright © 2014 by Nick Paumgarten. Reprinted by permission of Nick Paumgarten.

  “Made in China” by Tony Perrottet. First published in the Wall Street Journal Magazine, December/January 2014. Copyright © 2014 by Tony Perrottet. Reprinted by permission of the author and the Wall Street Journal Magazine.

  “Mr. Nhem’s Genocide Camera” by Lauren Quinn. First published in the Believer, May 2014. Copyright © 2014 by Lauren Quinn. Reprinted by permission of Lauren Quinn.

  “Camino Real” by Monte Reel. First published in the New York Times Magazine, February 23, 2014. Copyright © 2014 by the New York Times. All rights reserved. Used by permission and protected by the copyright laws of the United States. The printing, copying, redistribution, or retransmission of this content without express written permission is prohibited.

  “Out of Eden Walk (Parts 1, 2, 3)” by Paul Salopek. First published in National Geographic, December 2013/July 2014/December 2014. Copyright © 2014 by Paul Salopek. Reprinted by permission of Paul Salopek.

  “Behind Closed Doors at Hotels” by Gary Shteyngart. First published in Travel + Leisure, February 2014. Copyright © 2014 by Gary Shteyngart. Reprinted by permission of the Denise Shannon Literary Agency, Inc.

  “Ship of Wonks” by Iris Smyles. First published in the Atlantic, June 2014. Copyright © 2014 by Iris Smyles. Reprinted by permission of Iris Smyles.

  “Baked Alaska” by Christopher Solomon. First published in Outside, May 2014. Copyright © 2014 by Christopher Solomon. Reprinted by permission of Christopher Solomon.

  “Bonfire of the Humanities” by Patrick Symmes. First published in Outside, May 2014. Copyright © 2014 by Patrick Symmes. Reprinted by permission of Patrick Symmes.

  “Soul of the South” by Paul Theroux. First published in Smithsonian, July/August 2014. Copyright © 2014 by Paul Theroux. Reprinted by permission of the Wylie Agency, LLC./Paul Theroux.

  Foreword

  TRAVEL HAS the singular ability to turn the most banal events into heightened drama. This can be great for travel writing. This can also be no
t so great for situations that call for less drama.

  Not long ago, following an exhausting and not-prosperous work trip, my flight home from Bilbao was delayed seven hours by a terrible windstorm that shut down several European airports. I spent five and a half of those seven hours stuck in a line of hundreds, while two overwhelmed workers at the Lufthansa desk ever so slowly attempted to reroute more than 300 passengers. As the line trudged forward, I watched the departures board helplessly as flights left, one by one, for Paris, for London, for Madrid, for Lisbon, all connections that would have gotten me home. I had an important meeting in the morning, and then my son’s first soccer game, which I’d committed to coach. As the hours passed, I knew I would miss both. By the time I reached the front of the line, there was no way across the Atlantic until the next day, and I was assigned an evening flight to Frankfurt. I was given a handwritten voucher for a hotel, and another voucher for a free dinner.

  In the grand scheme of my travels and travails, this was all relatively small potatoes. I’ve been a passenger on two planes that nearly crashed, a bystander caught in the midst of political demonstrations that turned into riots, and a victim of several felony crimes during many years of travel. My normal response to this seven-hour delay would include some cursing and a few useless, angry phone calls to the airlines, finally giving way to heavy sighs and then drinking.

  When I arrived at Frankfurt airport, it was dark and rainy, and a taxi took me to a hotel in the middle of an industrial park in a suburb called Mörfelden. After checking in and explaining to my son that I would not be home in time for soccer, and hearing my boss’s dismay at my absence, I slumped down to the hotel’s overlit restaurant and grabbed a menu. I was a wreck. My career had suffered some recent blows and this trip was supposed to help turn things around; but it hadn’t. In any case, I badly needed some comfort food, and the first item that called out to me was Wiener schnitzel. Why? I don’t know. Maybe I was channeling my mother’s old veal parm back in Jersey. Maybe it just felt like the opposite of the tapas, especially the ham, I’d been gorging on for days. Whatever the reason, I said, “Yes, please, may I have some Wiener schnitzel?” and presented my voucher. The stern waiter sneered and pointed over to a pathetic buffet in the corner: some stale rolls, a congealed soup, and a platter of rubbery chicken that had been sitting out for hours. This, apparently, was the Lufthansa Stranded Passenger Special that my voucher covered.

  I waved the waiter back over. “Please, sir,” I pleaded. “Please. I’ve had a very long day, and what I really need is to eat this Wiener schnitzel.”

  “It’s twenty-one euros,” he said. “That food over there is free.”

  I had kept mostly cool and Zen all day long, but I suddenly had the urge to scream or cry. “Look, I don’t care what I have to pay for it,” I said, my voice rising. “I just need you to bring me this Wiener schnitzel. Right now. Please.” Something in the stern waiter’s demeanor seemed to change; empathy washed over his face. He nodded, wrote my order, and whisked away the menu. A few minutes later, he brought a plate with the schnitzel. And along with it, a bottle of Rheinhessen Riesling.

  “Sir,” he said. “I am so sorry. I cannot honor the voucher for your meal. But please. I asked my manager, and he said I could pour you this Riesling in exchange for the voucher.” I thanked him quietly and averted my eyes, blushing.

  I ravenously tucked into that schnitzel and took a long drink from the wineglass. It wasn’t the greatest schnitzel or Riesling, but for some reason, my eyes started to well up and tears ran down my cheeks. These were tears of frustration, but also very much of embarrassment. I’d suddenly realized that the heightened travel drama happening in my own head had selfishly put this poor waiter in a tricky professional spot. He’d only wanted to make sure I clearly understood that I was passing up free food. Surely I wasn’t the first agitated, stranded passenger he’d faced at this airport hotel, and surely there’d been misunderstandings and complaints in the past. He didn’t need any trouble from his manager on this lousy night in Mörfelden. Meanwhile, I’d chosen to turn the moment into some kind of angsty, M. F. K. Fisher-esque epiphany.

  Perhaps only someone who reads too many travel stories would think of Ryszard Kapuściński while eating schnitzel alone in an airport hotel. But I was reminded of Kapuściński’s masterpiece, The Soccer War, when he writes: “There is so much crap in this world and then, suddenly, there is honesty and humanity.” This sudden shift, from banal to dramatic, from ugly to beautiful, from tragic to comic, from insignificant to profound, is what travel writing, at its best, does. I believe you’ll see the dynamic at work throughout this anthology.

  The waiter reappeared and said, “Is everything OK, sir?”

  “Yes, yes,” I said. “Thank you very much. Everything is quite OK.”

  The stories included here are, as always, selected from among hundreds of pieces in hundreds of diverse publications—from mainstream and specialty magazines to Sunday newspaper travel sections to literary journals to travel websites. I’ve done my best to be fair and representative, and in my opinion the best travel stories from 2014 were forwarded to guest editor Andrew McCarthy, who made our final selections.

  I’m fascinated by McCarthy’s journey from box-office heartthrob (as a teenager, I was insanely jealous that he’d ended up with Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink) to travel writer. Andrew has come to the travel writing genre humbly, with great respect for the work, and he has admirably paid his dues. His selections have been surprising and unique, and I’m happy to have so many new voices and new publications represented in our collection.

  I’d also like to thank Tim Mudie, at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, for his help in producing this year’s outstanding collection.

  I now begin anew by reading the hundreds of stories published in 2015. As I have for years, I am asking editors and writers to submit the best of whatever it is they define as travel writing. These submissions must be nonfiction, published in the United States during the 2015 calendar year. They must not be reprints or excerpts from published books. They must include the author’s name, date of publication, and publication name, and must be tear sheets, the complete publication, or a clear photocopy of the piece as it originally appeared. I must receive all submissions by January 1, 2016, in order to ensure full consideration for the next collection.

  Further, publications that want to make certain that their contributions will be considered for the next edition should make sure to include this anthology on their subscription list. Submissions or subscriptions should be sent to Jason Wilson, The Best American Travel Writing, 230 Kings Highway East, Suite 192, Haddonfield, NJ 08033.

  JASON WILSON

  Introduction

  FOR SOME TIME NOW I’ve been sounding like a small child tugging at his father’s pant leg, asking again and again, Why? In my particular case, the “why” in question pertains to travel writing. Why does it matter? What’s the point? Hasn’t it all been discovered and chronicled? What can we possibly add to the storehouse of information that has come before?

  Back in Sir Richard Burton’s day, tales brought back from darkest Africa had real import. Freya Stark’s journeys through Persia were a revelation. Ernest Shackleton’s escape from Antarctica with every soul intact was the stuff of real heroism. How do we top that? The 10 best beaches in the Caribbean right now(!)?

  My own experiences with genre emerged only after a long gestation period, as an outgrowth of my travels, the initiation of which sprang from an unwitting urge to connect more with the world in an attempt to better locate my place in it. A 500-mile walk across the Camino de Santiago in northern Spain revealed a fear that had lurked behind so many of my life’s actions, and set in motion a decade of wandering that rewrote how I experienced the world. Travel became not so much about the destination as an end but a means of understanding myself in that place. The world became my university campus. I traveled, mostly alone, to Africa and Southeast Asia, Europe and South America. I was often lo
nely and learned not to fear travel’s false power. At times I was shrouded in melancholy and came to appreciate the lucidity it evoked. And of course I had serendipitous encounters that still live inside me.

  Sometimes I was simply in the right place at the right time. As a young man working in West Berlin I passed through Checkpoint Charlie one early-winter day under the heavy gaze of Communist soldiers. I spent a memorably dreary afternoon walking the deserted streets of East Berlin, the noticeable absence of advertising helping to leave the city a uniform gray under a dirty sky. I ate soggy food and toured an empty museum. Back in West Berlin that night, for the first time I felt the expansiveness of a freedom I had never previously considered. Two days later the Wall fell and I danced amid exultant and pulsing crowds throughout those frigid November nights. I kept my tiny chip of the Berlin Wall for years before it was lost. By then it didn’t matter; my experience in Berlin had become a part of me. I had no need of tokens.

  I’ve also been witness to being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Deep in the Rocky Mountains I saw the frailty of human life and how quickly it can be vanquished—a swollen and rushing river, a bad decision, and a moment’s loss of concentration that led to tragic results.

  My experiences affected me deeply, yet my meandering had an impulsive, almost random quality. It lacked a galvanizing cord. I knew that where I was going and what happened while there had value, yet I struggled with its context.

  Then in Saigon I was walking down a sunbaked street one morning when a young man on a scooter drove up beside me and offered to show me the city. I told him to leave me alone and kept walking. He shadowed my movements, he grew insistent—he would be my guide. There was no shaking the young man in the dirty T-shirt. I hopped on the back of his scooter. The Saigon he showed me couldn’t be found in my Lonely Planet guidebook.

  He took me to the street corner where his father had been arrested and with real anger told me of the elder man’s unfair treatment. We spent an hour amid wilting plants under the oppression of Southeast Asian humidity, trudging through the community garden that his mother had often taken him to as a child. At the one temple we visited, my guide skulked in the doorway without removing his shoes, smoking, waiting for me to finish a perfunctory walk-through. Mostly I remember zipping down the wide boulevards and slashing through roundabouts, holding on amid thousands of others on scooters in the life-threatening jigsaw jumble that is daily traffic in Saigon.