“Holidays are made for reading,” Sarah Harmer sings in “Things to Forget”. Though I think she was singing more about empty days than vacations, but still the line runs through my head on repeat as I’m prepare for a trip to San Francisco. We’re leaving on Saturday.
Of course, Harmer’s point, whatever the context, is inarguable. Keen readers and book lovers often find vacations are linked to bookishness. On the extreme end, the literary pilgrimage (and in lieu of actually going on one, you can read Jack Hodgins’ short story “Galleries” if you wish). But even the most spontaneous trip involves a book in a bag, and the question of which book is crucial.
Size is definitely a factor. This is tricky for flights, during which one needs a book that will last long but isn’t bulky. And is there even such a thing? Nineteenth century tomes are out of the question,which is unfortunate because they’d last the longest. Hardcovers aren’t a great idea either, because who would want to carry one?
Further, you’ll probably want to bring your hardcover back with you– there are advantages to less valuable books you can get rid of and replace with another, but the reader runs the risk of such a book being “rid-able” just because it’s terrible.
Paperbacks are probably best, but then flights get long. Travelers en-route always get held up in the strangest ways and places, and so it’s probably best to pack two books. Or three or four. And a magazine, of course. Or two.
Though I will never resort to the in-flight magazine. Being stuck on a plane or a train with nothing else to read is the most horrifying thing I can imagine. (Buses are an altogether different story, as reading on buses makes me ill, which is why I try to never ride them.)
Holidays are often more about the destination than the journey (or at least I hope so, because if my five hour flight sans meal is a highlight, I’ve got grounds to be concerned). And though I’ve never spent the entirety of any holidays reading– for sadly, I’ve never visited a tropical resort– that I am a lazy tourist means reading is inevitable.
But it’s one of my favourite things about holidays, actually– the opportunity to sit down with a book someplace new, and for the book and place to become linked inextricably. You’ll be more relaxed than you would have had you visited a museum, and you’re left with the glorious memory.
I remember reading The Maltese Falcon under a tree in a park in Budapest. The sunny afternoon with The Life of Pi in Edinburgh’s Princes Street Gardens. As pictured, the novel What the Dead Know by Laura Lippman spent the weekend with me on a Muskoka dock last summer. Last June in Northern England seemed the right time to read Lancashire Where Women Die of Love. After finishing Joan Didion’s Run River, I left it in a Bangkok hotel lobby, thinking I’d never ever miss it, but I did.
Holiday books are often quite random. Perhaps you’ve finished the books so carefully selected for the journey, but upon arrival you’re left with odds, ends and discards. In an non-English country, one has very little choice– which is how I ended up reading The Assassination of Marilyn Monroe twice in Austria. Strange libraries can be found in hotels and hostels, books you wouldn’t touch normally but you turn to in desperation.
When choosing a book for holiday, I think it’s best not to be too aspirational. Sure, the best chance of me ever reading In Search of Lost Time is when I’m stranded on a desert island, but it just probably means I’ll find something else to do. Like befriending a volleyball. Popular novels fit well into holidays, in my experience. But then, when else would you ever be so able to concentrate on a book requiring dedication? It’s a risk that might just pay off, but then it could go so terribly wrong.
Thematic reading is also an option, one I chose last June with Lancashire Where Women Die of Love. Which was a fascinating experience, to no longer take the cotton industry, Blackpool or the Rugby Football League for granted, though it also meant I became an annoying travel companion. And the natives really don’t like being educated on their own turf by some pipsqueaking foreigner, paperback in hand. (“What? You never knew [trivial detail about the cotton gin]?”).
Novels are probably a safer bet, if you so feel like getting into the spirit of things. The wiki-type site BiblioTravel is a good resource for books about places– plug in your destination, and the search engine produces possible reads. Though I actually like reading about places after I’ve visited them, the story a kind of souvenir.
And speaking of souvenirs, of course there is also the fact that most places have bookstores. Though you can never be sure, so plan for the worst and bring lots of books. And if you get lucky, you’ll only be pleasantly surprised. Bookstores can be tourist destinations in themselves– I am particularly looking forward to seeing City Lights, where I will curb my desires as best I can. A stack of ten, no more. Or fifteen. We don’t need to eat on our holiday, do we?
Holidays may be made for reading, but it’s not as straightforward as Sarah Harmer makes it seem. And best to bring a second suitcase.
