For most of my life, travel has been a certainty rather than a question.
I grew up in the state of Maine where the license plates read "Vaca-
tionland" and the tourists came and went in seasonal waves. And I
have been a tourist myself often enough, looking for some relief from
the rooted realities of dailiness. But just as important, I grew up with
a sense of my family in dispersal across the terrains of the century's
immigrations. We had family in Argentina whom we no longer knew
how to contact and we had relatives in touch by letter from South
Africa and Israel. Always implicit in family narratives but rarely men-
tioned were the ones who stayed behind in Eastern Europe, now scat-
tered beyond the reach of memory or communications. In the United
States we had relatives spread across the continent-in Chicago, Min-
neapolis, Tucson, Baltimore, and lots of other places; people who
gradually lost touch or moved away again. Our closest relatives lived
in Boston and New York, ensuring that we made the long drive down
(before superhighways) from our ethnic exile way up north to the
big metropolitan centers. Travel was unavoidable, indisputable, and
always necessary for family, love, and friendship as well as work.
I was also born into a culture that took the national benefits of
travel for granted, although in the span of my childhood and adoles-
cence that certainty about the right of U.S. citizens to visit, invade,
and invest in any location came under fire. Goodwill ambassadors or
imperialists? The calls for Yankees to go home increased and con-
tinued to press for an end to U. S. military and economic adventures
abroad. Couldn't U. S. citizens travel anywhere they pleased and be
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