A guidebook for the forgotten tourists

This article from the Times is several months old, but new to me:

For almost three decades beginning in 1936, many African-American travelers relied on a booklet to help them decide where they could comfortably eat, sleep, buy gas, find a tailor or beauty parlor, shop on a honeymoon to Niagara Falls, or go out at night. In 1949, when the guide was 80 pages, there were five recommended hotels in Atlanta. In Cheyenne, Wyo., the Barbeque Inn was the place to stay.

The story also provides an interesting example of guidebook as snapshot of a particular historic and cultural moment--because they are, in a sense, a how-to manual for everyday life, they can provide all kinds of unvarnished insights into the cultural norms of an era ... for better or for worse. In this case, the Times headline gets at the underlying story: "The Open Road Wasn’t Quite Open to All." Read the whole article here.

On a related note, one interesting thing I learned in my book research was that, even through the 1950s and 1960s, there was a strong tradition of middle class African-American tourists traveling to Europe not just to see the sites but because they knew they would encounter less racism, and be able to travel more freely, across the Atlantic. For more on that ... you'll just have to wait a year for the book (and then turn to the Vienna chapter). Or check out Christopher Endy's Cold War Holidays.

Questions, answers, alpacas, graphs ...

Hello to everyone who got here from my Q&A with travel writer Alexis Grant on her blog. Thanks for stopping by.

And if you haven't read it, well, head over there and see what I said. Topics include how I got my book deal, why I think writing voice is so important, the joys of the beaten path (but of course), the graph that guided my entire writing process, and alpacas riding unicycles. Kind of. Well, they're mentioned, anyway.

Go. Read.

Not-So-Flattering Views of Famous Places: Berlin edition

Lee and I took a walking tour of central Berlin, which started near the Brandenburg Gate, on the former East Berlin side. Our meeting point: a Starbucks. Right next door to the Museum Kennedy.

The plaza on the east side of the Brandenburg Gate feels like just another European central square, teeming with tourists and street performers and souvenir-vendors (in this case, a guy dressed as a WWII Russian soldier, selling WWII-related trinkets; you can see him the the second photo below) and random costumed characters of unknown significance. It's a classic example of Berlin's split personality and seeming inability to decide if it wants visitors to focus on the memorials and museums and reminders of the city's tangled, sometimes-terrible history ... or just to overload on the standard tourist schlock.

Some not-so-flattering photos of the Gate and the adjacent plaza:

And here's another interesting photo of Berlin. See the odd line of cobblestones cutting through the parking lot and running into the Marriott?

Or rather, in this small version of the photo, see the orange arrow in the lower left corner? Okay, now see the thing it's pointing to, the thing that looks like it could maybe possibly be a line of cobblestones? Just trust me: that's what it is.

That's the former line of the Berlin Wall.

The European Tourist Trap Finals

In honor of tonight's NCAA men's basketball championship game, I present to you a different sort of bracket: the European Tourist Trap Finals, featuring head-to-head match-ups between the finest-slash-tawdriest the Old World has to offer. Click for the large version.

Here's a close-up of one of the regions:

Round-by-round recaps:

First round

Over in the Art (Or Something) Region, two major favorites faced off in our very first match-up: Michelangelo's David, always a solid contender, versus press darling Mona Lisa. All that recent attention must have gotten to Mona Lisa's head, though, because she just couldn't stand up to the valiant war hero, though it was a close match-up. Meanwhile, tabloid star Manneken Pis had his way with oft-ridiculed Glockenspiel, making the most of the crude-but-innovative form that got him here in the first place.

Hofbrauhaus was the early favorite over in Food & Booze, and it played the part in its first-round challenge against Alt-Berliner Biersalon. This one was never close—Hofbrauhaus just has a deeper bench and a huge advantage in the intangibles: the tubas, the lederhosen, even the sports drinks. Casa Botin also lived up to its reputation, stopping stuffy Parisian comer Le Grand Colbert; this one turned pretty quickly into Death in the Afternoon, as the Spaniard was unstoppable.

Among the Big Ol' Monuments, many expected an impressive run from Checkpoint Charlie, on the strength of having overcome so much adversity in recent years. The Colosseum had other plans in mind, however, and showed off its gladiator spirit in the win; it also seemed to be carrying the extra weight of an entire city, as the Spanish Steps and Trevi Fountain both fell in enormous upsets in earlier rounds. The Italians had less luck in the other regional match-up, however, with Florence's Duomo falling to late French resistance and the Eiffel Tower's deceptively intricate efforts.

Finally, in the Public Space Region, Vienna's Prater couldn't take advantage of its towering star in the middle—the rest of the team looked like a bunch of clowns and carnies, to be honest—and fell hard to Montmartre. And in an intriguing contest between two waterway-based public spaces, Amsterdam's Red Light District made all kinds of questionable decisions, basically rolling right over and submitting to Venice's Grand Canal.

Second Round

The action resumed with a classic David-versus-Urinating-Toddler contest. Advantage: the Wee Whizzer, Manneken Pis, although he had continued foul trouble throughout. In a huge upset, Casa Botin beat out Hofbrauhaus, which many had expected to go all the way. Casa Botin credits its age and experience, as well as its cuchinillos. The monument showdown featured two of the biggest names out there, with the Colosseum cracking quite a bit as time wore on but barely eking out the victory over the Eiffel Tower, which too many times squandered its height advantage by failing to elevate quickly. Montmartre continued its strong run, and though its match-up with the Grand Canal featured several highlight-reel shots, the Parisians had the upper hand.

Semi-Finals

Man-oh-Manneken Pis!! The “irreverent little chap” just kept surprising us with his cheeky play and jaw-dropping creativity and ability to do anything and everything—this kid seems to wear all kinds of hats, and wear them well. Casa Botin superfan Ernest Hemingway had to be escorted from the premises mid-way through the competition for reasons unknown. Solid-but-not-flashy Montmartre kept doing well for itself in the other semifinal, showing off its own spunk and standing proud like a quiet but sacred city on a hill. A powerful showing.

Final
Parisian stalwart Montmartre had the best stuff in the end, starting with a solid foundation, a great outlook, and overwhelming crowd support. Manneken Pis ran out of his supply of tricks, but returns a hero nonetheless. He'll be back, no doubt, although someone really needs to help him fix his dribbling problems.

On that note, thank you all for being a part of this amazing competition, and we'll see you next time on the beaten path! 

Fodor: "The Spy Who Loved Travel"

I know a guidebook writer. He claims the gig isn't quite as glamorous as you'd think. I'm inclined to believe him since, hey, travel writing isn't all daiquiris on beaches and Mai Thais on mountaintops, either. But Eugene Fodor, it turns out, was every bit as dashing and bad-ass as the rest of us travel scribes only pretend to be. 

He was a spy. And he hired other spies to write for him. No joke. From the AP: 

According to Hunt, Fodor had worked as a spy in Austria when the Office of Strategic Services became the CIA and continued in intelligence for 12 to 15 years. Fodor tried to keep the lid on in late 1974 and early `75, fearing relatives of his Czech-born wife could be put in danger. But pressed by the paper's expose, he acknowledged his covert work _ and his hiring of many guidebook writers who were CIA spies during the Cold War.

"But I told them to make sure and send me real writers, not civil engineers. I wanted to get some writing out of them. And I did, too," Fodor told the Times in June 1975.

In unrelated guidebook-related news, I was kind of amused by this post on Esquire.com about "Great Moments in Italian Food History," specifically this line:

1960 — Arthur Frommer's book Europe on $5 a Day becomes a bestseller; tens of thousands of young Americans travel to Italy

Truth. And Chef Boyardee, among others, piggybacked on the new American fascination with this sauce-covered deliciousness. For more on that, step right this way, please.

Outtakes: Pastries in Brussels

Alas, I had to cut this from the book. When we were in Brussels, Lee wrote a guest post about my pastry problem. I'm not sure if he was feeling guilty (not that he should have) or just being the all-around good guy he is, but here's what happened the next morning:

Most mornings, I was the first to arise, but I move so slowly before breakfast that by the time I showered and got dressed and got my satchel ready for the day's explorations, Lee had already done the same, plus completed his daily reps of push-ups and stretches, and written a page or two of his work-in-progress, a space pirate opera.

This time, he hadn't waited around. Probably a wise move, I realized, given that my brain was starting up more slowly than usual. There turned out to be a second light show a half-hour or so after the first one, and shortly after that was done, a jazz band somewhere down the street struck up “The Girl From Impanema,” the horn section trying its best to drown out the rhythmically-challenged drummer in an epic battle of beats and noise. The clear losers were our ears and desire for sleep. So I had called in reinforcements as soon as the second show began, downing a couple of Tylenol PM pills and shoving some earplugs in until they practically tickled my tonsils. This appeared to have done the trick, perhaps too well. I stumbled to the bathroom, shooed the pigeons from the open window and slammed it shut, then stepped into the shower, letting the initial blast of ice water hit me full in the face.

When I emerged from the bathroom, Lee was sitting on his bed, writing. There was a yellow bakery bag on the desk a few feet away; the smell of fresh croissant perfumed the air. “Mornin',” he grinned. “I got something for you.”

“Feeding my addiction?”

“Might as well. Fighting it is clearly a lost cause.”

I have to confess to finding this very touching, but also a bit worrisome: Did I trust him—anyone—to select a pastry for me? It's a serious question. I have standards. Breaking bread together may be one of the most deeply-rooted symbols of friendship, but what if the bread turns out to be crap? A kind gesture turns into a deal-breaker, and then what do you do?

Still, when someone offers me a croissant, I will not turn it down, even if I will immediately start thinking of potential diversions, should I need to spit it out.

I needn't have worried. I should have known, by this point, to trust Lee. The croissant was hot and flaky and gooey and delicious. We planned our day as we ate, spilling crumbs all over the map.

Actual experts on technology's effects on travel

From The Guardian, via Mike Sowden (a.k.a. @Mikeachim): Jan Morris, Pico Iyer, Rolf Potts, and other travel writers weigh in on technology and travel. Specifically: "Has technology robbed travel of its riches?"

As usual, Pico Iyer nails it, with an observation I completely agree with but in words far better than my own:

My talisman as a traveller has always been that old chestnut from Proust, that "the real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new sights, but in seeing with new eyes". A place is boring only if you bring uninterested eyes to it. Some people say that democratic travel has removed the magic of places, but to me that magic is just as strong as ever (in Petra, in La Paz, even in my hometown of Oxford) if it is real. Garbo never grows old, nor Dylan young. When we worry that a place we love has changed – "Bali isn't what it used to be," I sometimes hear myself saying, "It's usually because we have changed."

The whole thing is worth a read ...