The Pillars of Hercules

I am just finishing a book entitled, The Pillars of Hercules by Paul Theroux. It is a true story of his journey through the Mediterranean in 1994. Thanks to Bennett Witt for the book.

As a public transportation user in Bratislava, I find that it is abundantly important to find some sort of escapism in reading. It is my belief that there are many ways in which we waste time during the day -- watching tv, sleeping, gazing out the window -- but if we are reading, learning, exploring the thoughts of someone or ourselves for that matter, it is no longer a commute to or through town, it is an adventure and a mind-opening experience. Of course, sometimes it is also the most beneficial to simply observe the people around you. They are the real Slovakia -- or insert your town name, and to pay attention to the stories they admit on their faces.

Anyway, back to the book. I teach all over town, sometimes even going outside of the town center into the territories known as the druhy pasmo (second zone), a veritable belt of panalaky (apartment buildings) in various conditions and village suburbs still touched by BA public transport -- the venerable MHD. This means that I spend hours on buses and trams daily. I counted last Wednesday, a busy day with lots of lessons, and I was on 7 different buses in one day.

And I read.
And I read.
And I read some more.

A particular part of this particular book brought me into a pensive mood, which, by the way, I like. The writer/traveler, Mr.Theroux, boards a boat in Italy that disembarks in Durres, Albania. He descibes a melee of begging and desparation upon leaving the ship. I had this in my head as I put my book under my arm and walked to school. I have never known this hardship. I have never been hungry, in wont of food/clothes/shelter, I have never been desperate. My hardships are related to energy and trying to prepare for lessons. This is so very trivial in the end. Imagine:

-- They fastened themselves to me, pleading. I could not brush them aside -- they were truly ruined. They looked hysterical, they were poor, ravaged, bumpy faced with pox scars -- mothers with children, blind men with boys, old hctoring crones, all of them plucking at me. 'Give me theeese!' (p. 259)
-- That vandalism was the salient aspect of Albania that I notices so far; that it was not merely poor -- I had seen poor countries and deprived people elsewhere -- it was brutalized, as though a nasty-minded army had swept through, kicking it to bits. It was not the poverty of neglect or penury... This was not melancholic, it was shocking. And this was violent. (p.263)

I tell my university students, "Don't float quotes". You have to introduce them, close them, make them your argument. I let this one float. I have no other words to weave it to my own, because I don't know this scene. I am not present. I am the priveledged representative reader, who has never had to "be" there.

I don't wish for this desperation. I don't want pain to make me stronger. I don't want to experience lows so that I can be happy with my high-points. I am happy in what some would consider my gluttony; but, I want a place to put this vast feeling of gratitude. Those who believe in a higher power, perhaps say thanks to it/him/she/them. But, I find this inadequate.

Perhaps the message here is didactic and I'm afraid that I am not one to talk. But, I feel we must walk with eyes open, read and learn of other's experiences. For they make us recognize our own graces. Find compassion. It doesn't matter if you find it in Biblical prose, a folk tale, or a modern travel log. Find it and spread it.