旅行存真意，欲辨已忘言

In a bitter winter landscape， white in every direction， two travelers go haring along in an unheated Soviet automobile. Snowy fields stretch to the pale horizon， blurring the boundary between earth and sky. Flocks of swifts， scared up by the vehicle， wheel around looking like 1）gravel flung into the air.

The year is 1989， and in the hinterlands of Romania， in that season of revolution， the rural landscape remains so unmarked by modernity that， but for the car， we might easily have strayed back a century in time. Crossing the border from Hungary into a country where， days before， an oppressive regime had been toppled suddenly， a photographer and I were heading for the Carpathian Mountains in search of 2）Laszlo Tokes.

We managed to slip past armored checkpoints and discover this man， where the Romanian army had not. I scarcely recall the story I wrote， which had no notable effect on world events. But in that memory is contained a specific truth of travel，its power to impress on memory the places we’ve been， leaving there a record more 3）indelible than any image captured with tablet or lens. On that trip， small 4）alterations were triggered in my sense of the world， as I believe they are on every journey we undertake.

In the 18th century， the traveler Eliza Fay first embarked on a voyage across the globe， an ordinary woman of no great beauty， connections， or means， she was stoked by an 5）intrepid nature and 6）insatiable curiosity. Making her way to Calcutta from Dover， Fay traveled by carriage， sedan chair， sailing ship， ferry， and felucca； on the backs of horses， asses， mules， or camels； and often enough on foot. She put up with hardships， fevers， tempers， bad roads， “7）boisterous” weather， tossing gales， shifty innkeepers， and bedbugs in order， it seems， to experience life from an unaccustomed vantage.

Literature is rich in people like Eliza Fay， voyagers who set out with the forthright expectation that by altering circumstance one might reasonably expect an improvement in general 8）perception， people for whom the traveler’s usual murk of misunderstanding alternated with stark flashes of human recognition， tourists whose unstated aim in leaving home was to experience firsthand the chaos， intrusions， and glories of the world.

Sometimes in the 9）limbo of a long-haul flight， I will remove my passport from my inside jacket pocket and squint at the obscure entry and exit stamps， the faded records of my 10）peregrinations.

There is one cylinder stamp in purple ink， marked on paper palely patterned with a repeat of the 11）Liberty Bell. The mark documents the notnotable fact that on December 6， 2004， I entered Sri Lanka via the capital of Colombo and that on December 25 I exited by the same port. The date stamps in themselves reveal little of interest. Yet for me they trigger an intense recollection of the flat， fierce sun of an Indian Ocean winter； of long shadows falling on the parade ground by the jetty in Colombo； of a sacred temple elephant grabbing with its trunk a great stalk of bananas I’d brought in offering； of a slow drive past oceanfront villages in the early hours of a cool morning en route to the walled fort at Galle.

That particular day I stopped at a turtle hatchery near Kosgoda. Wandering along sandy paths among cement tanks， I paused to observe the small scrambling ovals of turtle hatchlings： 12）olive ridleys， 13）hawksbills， greens， and 14）leatherbacks.

That morning I found myself moved in ways I have seldom been in any place of worship. I felt vaguely awestruck in the presence of these 15）indomitable wanderers. The weather was fine， the sea mild， the sky an intense Rickett’s blue.

I departed Sri Lanka on Christmas aboard a plane filled with barefoot female pilgrims heading for the birthplace of Buddhism in distant Bihar， India. In a little under 24 hours， the placid scene I’d left on the beach at Kosgoda would slowly reverse itself， the sea drawing back toward its depths， then surging in again to consume the coastline， hungrily sucking up rail tracks， palm groves， 16）asphalt roads， the hotel and oceanfront room I’d checked out of just a day earlier. The Victor Hasselblad turtle hatchery， too， was all but erased and a New York acquaintance of mine was， like many of the 34，000 Sri Lankans unknown to me， swallowed up by the tsunami and never seen again.

Destiny always seems close when we travel， and to the manageable 17）nuisances a wanderer faces—pickpockets， sunstroke， 18）Montezuma’s Revenge—others arise to remind us that none of us can outrun fate. Yet， as Fay’s letters make clear， the perils of the journey are offset by that of staying put and missing out on the world’s enchantments， its wondrousness and unfailing oddity.

It is certainly no accident that the profession I chose has provided me with a pretext for satisfying a nomadic longing to know what lies over the next hill. That longing to be away once led me to the zigzag boardwalk span of U Bein Bridge， in rural Myanmar， once known as Burma. Spanning mudflats and shallow grass verges where farmers graze their cattle， the bridge is 19）ramshackle， a poetic structure allegedly built from the teak boards of ruined temples.

Mist off the lake wreathed the scene that day， and at several points along the span turbaned women sat with caged songbirds alongside them. As at many temples in Asia， the birds are sold to visitors or passersby as a kind of 20）karmic barter. Free one and gain points toward the next 21）incarnation. In one bamboo cage crouched a young owl， head swiveling， wings flaring anxiously against the bars. The 22）crone who’d caught it wanted $20 U.S. to liberate the owl， and my guide made clear to me the circularity of the bargain.

“If the owl is set free， she will only capture another，” this man said. I reached into my wallet， found the currency， paid the woman， and then watched as she unlatched the door and tipped the bird awkwardly from the confines of the cage.

In the anxious seconds it took for the owl to get its bearings I stood around in case its hesitation guaranteed fulfillment of the guide’s prediction. Dazed and still， the bird perched there on the 23）splintered boards until I nudged it with a toe.

“Perhaps it is injured，” said the guide， and in roughly the time it took for him to utter the sentence， the bird shot off like a little avian rocket.

I followed it with my eyes as far as the tree canopy， and then it was lost from view. Even now， the image of that bird’s flight to freedom remains fixed in a traveler’s memory.

在一個苦寒的嚴冬，四下一片白茫茫，兩名旅人乘坐一輛沒有暖氣的蘇聯汽車一路疾馳而行。雪地一直延伸到蒼白的地平線，天與地的界限也漸漸模糊。成群的雨燕被汽車所驚擾，看起來就像是被拋入空中的沙石在半空盤旋。

其時是1989年，在羅馬尼亞的內陸地區，正值革命的時節，除了這輛汽車，眼前那鄉村景致還未被現代生活入侵，輕易地便感覺時光倒流一百年。從匈牙利穿過邊境到另一個國家，在這里數天之前，一個專制政權突然被推翻，我和一名攝影師一起前往喀爾巴阡山脈尋找拉茲羅·托克斯。

我們設法溜過戒備森嚴的檢查站，并找到了此人，而羅馬尼亞軍隊卻一直沒找到他。我幾乎已記不起我所寫的故事，它們對世界大事并無顯著影響。但在那段記憶中還包含了關于旅行的一個毫不含糊的真相，其力量使得我們對所到過的地方記憶深刻，留下的記憶印記比任何用便箋或鏡頭所捕捉的影像更加難以磨滅。在那段旅程中，我對這個世界的認知發生了小小改變，而我相信它們也存在于我們展開的每一段旅程中。

在18世紀，旅行家伊莉莎·費伊率先展開一場環球旅行。作為一個沒有驚人美貌，沒有人脈關系，也沒有大筆財產的普通女性，激勵她的只是其勇敢無畏的天性和永不滿足的好奇心。從加爾各答到多佛港，費伊出行乘坐馬車、轎子、帆船、渡船和三桅小帆船，還坐過馬匹、驢子、騾子或駱駝，還常常只能長途步行。……