A Book That Disappointed Me
One of my favourite genres is travel literature. It's not so much a desire to read about places I will never go, or a romance for the exotic, or a thirst for vicarious adventure as it is an interest in people. I am interested in people. All people. Even when they're pampered, grouchy, ugly Americans like Paul Theroux.
Having been a long time reader of Theroux's Mosquito Coast (multiple times) and knowing that Theroux is considered one of the great travel writers, I had the highest hopes for The Great Railway Bazaar. It is considered a classic of travel literature, I'd heard universally good things about it, and I expected that a man who loves to travel would turn his considerable authorial eye to all the people he'd meet along the rails of Europe and Asia and treat them with respect and interest.
What I got was an excruciating misanthrope who whines his way along the tracks, a man for whom nothing is good enough. He whines about the cleanliness of trains and their inability to keep on schedule. He bitches about how bad the food is. He moans and moans and moans about poor service and the need for "baksheesh" (bribes, he knowingly tells us). He never stops the complaints. Nothing is ever good enough for him (at least not like it is back home).
If I'd known I was going to be reading the musings of a misanthrope, I think I would really have enjoyed The Great Railway Bazaar. Being ready for pissiness would have made a huge difference. After all, that's what the travels of Karl Pilkington — he of An Idiot Abroad — are all about (and Gervais and Merchant's idiot Muppet owes a debt to Theroux), but my experience with travel literature before Theroux was full of travellers experiencing wonder at what they saw, paying respect to the people they met, becoming part of the landscape if they could, befriending those they came in contact with, being positive people in a world that was always surprisingly positive.
It's been a while now since Theroux shattered my ideas of what travel literature should be, and my disappointment in The Great Railway Bazaar has dissipated over time to be replaced with grudging respect. But I won't ever be going back to Theroux's big railway journey. I may, however, try one of his other travel stories, and I am sure I will enjoy it much more, being ready — as I am — to experience the whingings of a master whinger.
Expectations often make all the difference, and I won't be fooled or disappointed again.
