Delhi, 4.may.99

Worlds inside worlds inside worlds.  Asia in Earth.  India in Asia.  Me in
India.  Me in a tourist cafe in India.  Here is a million places, all
nested one inside the others.  And here is one place only:  this chair.
This cafe.  This me.  In India.  Not in India.  In a tourist cafe in
India.  In a tourist cafe anywhere.  These places belong to no place; they
are global.  Kao San Road in Bangkok.  Matisse in Ulaan Baatar.  Papillon
in Quito.  Byblos in Bamako.  Main Bazar in Delhi.  All over the place,
all over the world, and all the same.  Chinatown is Chinatown.
Travelertown is Travelertown.  And with a culture all its own.  We're easy
to spot:  the tan white skin gives it away; burnt white skin even more.
The depth of the color is seasoning:  are you a seasoned traveler?  How
dirty are your clothes?  Do you have the shits?  How long have you been
here?  Subtle competition, but relaxed.  Holiday makers on one side,
off-duty expat employees on the other, occasionally but far rarer a
long-term wanderer, a veteran, a lifer.  All are interesting, from the
wonder of the new, or the insight of the world-bath, or the accumulated
experience of a world of different places.  Everybody's friendly.  See an
empty chair:  sit in it.  The easiest place in the world to meet new
people, and as fascinating a culture to watch as whichever world happens
to be outside.  Worlds inside worlds.  A table full of Israelis, clearing
their throats with speech.  The gritty fluid of jabbering Spanish.  A
Japanese English accent talking to a Scandinavian English accent.  And
always a few locals, the kind who love foreigners.  A culture made of
cultures, a context made of contexts, worlds inside worlds.  You see them
on the streets, but it's never the same.  Safe in this habitat, the
travelers take on an approachability which as wandering strangers in the
open air seems somehow misplaced.  It can be a weird thing, to encounter a
traveler while meandering through a market or down some foreign boulevard.
Often, you pay no attention to them, or they to you -- intentionally.  Of
course each is acutely aware of the other: travelers develop sharp eyes
for their kind.  Sometimes nods and slight smiles are exchanged.
Sometimes a brief hello.  Because in public the affinity between traveler
is a brotherhood they're often reluctant to recognize, a sort of shame.
"I don't know you, why should you interest me?" or "You're white too, why
should that interest me?" or "I'm conspicuous enough, why are you looking
at me?" which all often boil down to "I'm more secure with my own kind
than with foreigners, why must you remind me?"  It's an insecurity,
almost, and must be disproven.  Just nod in acknowledgement and keep
walking.  But... venture into travelertown, and the walls crumble.
Everyone needs a taste of home, or at least of closer-to-home,
occasionally.  Of course, that doesn't concentrate exclusively in the
travel cafes... bus stations, train cabins, visa-extension waiting-rooms,
all these are safe places for meetings of the Travelers' Local 504.  And
more and more, internet centers.  They're popping up everywhere now, a
table, a monitor, a keyboard, a chair... and a white person in that chair.
Writing home, or frequently writing to other wanderers like themselves:
"Where are you?  What's it like?  Do you have the shits?  It was really
great to meet you in (insert city).  I saw (insert monument) today.  Where
are you headed next?"  And so on.  World inside worlds spanning worlds
collapsing worlds.  The diaspora linked.  But such community definitely
serves a purpose, even beyond the reminding comfort of home.  We are,
after all talking about explorers, who as such have a wealth of
information, suggestions and tips.  A couple enters, looks around, and
sits at the table next to me, backpacks the size of Volkswagens leaned
against their legs.  Newcomers.  "Where are you coming from?" I ask.  The
most up-to-date guidebook in the world, these cafes.  And who knows?  You
might make a good friend.  I suppose given the volume of new people I have
the opportunity to meet on the road, it isn't surprising that I have
indeed formed a few very durable friendships.  Because I like travelers.
They're often more interesting and open-minded than other demographic
categories, and I have also found that the more remotely I travel, the
more interesting, by and large, are those I meet.  The common will toward
journeying into the middle of nowhere acts as a sort of pre-selection
process.  Likewise, in big centers like Delhi, there's more anonymity,
which can also be nice.  Even as I write, I'm sitting across from a German
man, a friend of sorts.  We've spoken a few times now over perhaps four or
five days, we know each others' basic stories, and twice now we've sat
across a table from one another, writing in silence.  But... we don't know
one another's names.  Perhaps we never will, perhaps after tonight I'll
never see him again.  An anonymous friendship, built on circumstance.
It's very possible that under more home-like social conditions, we
wouldn't like each other.  "There are times," wrote Conrad, in Lord Jim,
"when a man must act as though life were equally sweet in any company."
Conrad was a traveler.  He knew all about it.  But for the moment my
German friend suffices:  the simplest companion, a mute one, is more than
enough for me for the moment.  Worlds next to worlds... and always, when
this world grows old, the coffee cup drained, the letter completed, the
world outside remains open, waiting for me to explore.