Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
My Travel Agent
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
On the block where my dog Magellan and I live is a travel agency roughly the size of a doghouse. Any time of the day or night, it can issue me a ticket to anywhere in the world. Magical trips, totally free of charge.
During the summer months in Davis, California, at this time of day, the air is dry and crispy, like slightly overdone toast. The concrete sidewalks reluctantly let go of the day’s warmth. Windows are opened to ventilate homes. Kids play on browning lawns. Butterflies pollinate a few final flowers before turning in for the night.
It’s perfect weather for my evening stroll to my local travel planner, the neighborhood Little Free Library. Dispensing free books to any random passerby, it’s part of a global network with 175,000 locations in 121 countries. No questions asked because no one is on duty to ask any.
This evening I’m dropping off a handful of books that I liked, one book I disliked, books I’ve read and two books I will never read. I have donated picture books, cookbooks, books about books. "From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs,” said famed library cardholder Karl Marx. In return, with luck, I’ll find a book to borrow.
Every book is like an adventure travel pass entitling me to explore the world in all its parts and partitions. Bookfuls of enticing itineraries, provocative pilgrimages, globetrotting expeditions. Travel untroubled by lost luggage, long lines, flight turbulence or intestinal distress.
The serendipity of a few words sprinkled on a page can explode into the private carrel of my brain causing me to journey to exotic destinations, ancient civilizations, legendary landmarks. After I read a library book about the history of salt, I flew to Austria to tour an underground salt mine. After reading about apartheid, I traveled to Soweto, South Africa. A book on the Incas sent me to Peru to wander about at Machu Picchu.
Every library is genetically linked to every other library. In Puebla, Mexico, I once toured the oldest public library in the Americas. Tiled floors, musty smell, shelves shiny from years of use. The same year in Washington, DC, I quieted myself, awestruck inside the Library of Congress with its 32 million books, 61 million manuscripts, 5 million maps and 14 million photos and prints.
In the British Museum’s Reading Room, I stood with the ghosts of Karl Marx, Oscar Wilde, Mahatma Gandhi, George Orwell, Mark Twain. At the National Library in Vienna I strolled among the world’s preeminent globe collection. In Ephesus, Turkey, under the blazing Mediterranean sun, I marveled at the ancient Library of Celsus built to honor a Roman military hero. The Library of Alexandria, the National Library of China, the Qatar National Library are architectural gems.
Two hundred years ago, 12% of the world knew how to read; today, it’s 86%. The best library in the world—I teach my students—is the one you use. They roll their eyes, but a few already own library cards.
Travel-by-book is transformative, adventurous escape, I tell them. Every book, every textbook, is an explorer’s map book.
Walking away from my local little library, wearing jeans, sandals, tee-shirt and a grin, I’m carrying Mark Twain’s Following the Equator. With a sidewalk jig, my journey begins.
