A Sense of Place - Introduction

It was on American Airlines Flight 44 that I first pitched the idea for this book to Travelers' Tales Executive Editor Larry Habegger. We were flying from San Francisco to New York, en route to a travel journalists' conference in Bermuda. Somewhere over Nebraska I knelt in the aisle next to his seat and shared my nascent thoughts for a book of interviews with travel writers. I felt like I was kneeling at the altar of publishing, seeking benediction for my project. When a flight attendant approached with a rolling cart and a nasty glare, I thanked Larry for his consideration and went back to my seat.

That was September 4th, 2001. A week later the Twin Towers crumbled and the Pentagon was shattered, sending shock waves through the American psyche and economy. Few industries were hit as hard as travel, and travel publishing was reeling for months.

Yet the idea stuck with me. Each year I spend the week between Christmas and New Year's on silent retreat at the Sonoma Mountain Zen Center. During my 2001 retreat I kept thinking about this project, and it began to take shape. Initially I considered interviewing each writer about travel writing, but soon realized I wanted to discuss much more: their lives, their hopes, their aspirations, and their thoughts about the world. That last part—their thoughts about the world's politics and people—seemed especially relevant after the September 11th disaster. Who better to shed light on global issues than the people who have explored the planet so widely and so sensitively, and who have written about it so eloquently?

Another thought occurred to me during that retreat: In the coming year, I would turn forty, and I wanted my life to take a new turn. For the past seven years I had written mostly about travel-tech issues, such as how to use the Internet for travel planning. I didn't want to abandon that completely, but I sought something more engaging to my soul and intellect. I sensed I was embarking on a pilgrimage, as well as a journey of tribute to the writers who have inspired me to explore the world in new ways.

I wanted to learn from the masters. And the best way would be to interview them where they lived. After roaming the planet they had settled—or not quite settled in some cases—in places far from their native homes (Pico Iyer) or on their native soil (Jan Morris). I was curious about what influenced their choices of place and whether being rooted somewhere helped them understand the world.

This would require extensive travel and some expense, but rather than hope that the project would pay off in financial terms, I chose to view it as a personal graduate school. I would learn from the interviews and from the travel. By simply being in the presence of so many prominent authors, I'd soak up knowledge and wisdom by osmosis.

The following spring I submitted a proposal. Travelers' Tales Publisher James O'Reilly saw potential but wanted "proof of concept." That's when the fun—and the hard work—began. I interviewed Simon Winchester in Great Barrington, Massachusetts, and Jeff Greenwald in Oakland, California, and wrote introductions to each conversation. The editors liked what they saw and sent me a contract.

In the spring of 2003, I began setting up interviews. That April I met Bill Bryson—Bill Bryson!—in Hanover, New Hampshire. He was as kind and congenial as you'd imagine from reading his books. I returned home on a high, enthralled by the prospect of one-on-one conversations with Pico Iyer, Jan Morris, Tim Cahill, and so many more of my literary heroes.

The exultation didn't last. When I returned from that trip my father complained of pain in his abdomen. At the Passover Seder he couldn't sit at the table through dinner and excused himself to lie on the couch. Tests showed nothing wrong, but when my father's pain became unbearable a week later, he checked into a San Francisco hospital. A CT scan showed he had cancer of the pancreas, one of the fastest-growing and most lethal types of cancer.

The weeks he spent in the hospital were a living hell that Dante and Kafka might have concocted. But we rarely left him alone—my mother, brother, wife, and I worked out a schedule that enabled one of us to be with him almost around the clock. Throughout his life, my father had been diligent about work and didn't want his illness to forestall my project, encouraging me to keep my interview appointments. To prepare for them, I spent many nights in a sleeping bag on the floor of his hospital room, reading Frances Mayes and Pico Iyer by the light of my headlamp. After twenty-six days in the hospital, my father was released and vowed never to return.

Soon I was on the road again, driving down to the Santa Barbara hills to meet Pico. I spoke to my father daily as I continued south to Arizona to interview Tom Miller, and each time he sounded stronger. The night I got back from that trip, we went out to his favorite restaurant, Gary Danko, in San Francisco, celebrating his recovery with a triumphant parade of delicacies and wines.

But his pain had already returned. On Friday, June 13th, we learned the cancer had spread. I canceled an upcoming trip to Britain, where I'd planned to interview Jan Morris and others, and spent much of the summer hanging out with my father, talking in the backyard and watching Giants' games on TV. Chemotherapy had contained the cancer for the moment, and my father insisted I get back to work. I told him I would dedicate the book to him and he said, "Then I better stay alive long enough to see it in print."

It was against this backdrop that I interviewed Tim Cahill in October and Isabel Allende in November. With each of them I discussed death and dying, and, probably without realizing it, they helped me cope with my father's loosening hold on life. The day after Thanksgiving I left for Europe to interview Frances Mayes, Redmond O'Hanlon, and Jan Morris. I told my father I could cancel the trip, but he insisted I go. He planned to stick around for a while and said that if I was dedicating the book to him then it should be the best book possible.

I called daily from Europe and each time my father's voice sounded strong, belying his deteriorating condition. Even after a discouraging doctor's appointment my father kept his spirits up—at least during our phone conversations, and encouraged me to continue on. But I sensed his condition was worsening, and I canceled my appointment with Jan Morris. I flew back to San Francisco the day after I interviewed O'Hanlon.

During the flight I reflected on how fortunate I'd been to interview so many of the world's leading authors. (I hesitate to call them travel writers because many don't see themselves that way and because their work typically ranges well beyond travel.) How fortunate to jet around the world, to have plenty to eat, to buy any book I wanted.

I got home just in time. My father was conscious but in terrible pain. He said he knew what was happening to him and that it was O.K. He listened with interest as I told him all about my trip, and later we watched a basketball game on TV. The next day, a hospice nurse arrived with a morphine pump. That evening, while holding his wife's hand and flanked by his two sons and daughter-in-law, my father departed for his final destination. I'm certain he was upgraded to first class.

Spurred on by my father's courage and determination, I continued with the interviews. In the three months before my deadline, which had been generously extended, I met Arthur Frommer in New York, Rick Steves and Jonathan Raban in Seattle, Jan Morris and Eric Newby in the U.K., and Peter Matthiessen at the far end of Long Island. It was a stirring conclusion to a project that has enriched my life in ways that are just starting to become fully apparent.

—Michael Shapiro
Sonoma County, California
April, 2004

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