Kissing Through a Pane of Glass Read Online Free Page B

flamboyant displays in defence of my integrity, even now I do not condemn my former self for such excesses.
     
    Twenty-one-year-olds are entitled to be brash, optimistic, egotistical. They have, in fact, a right to such feelings. They have yet to suffer the blows of disappointment that start to rain down as one grows older; they have yet to become world-weary. We should applaud and sanction their self-belief, because as we approach that chimerical phase of life known as adulthood, with its attendant uncertainties and complications, it is our belief in ourselves and our confidence in our abilities that is most swiftly eroded, and we are left without dreams, desire and the energy required to achieve our goals.
     
    So do not be angry with twenty-one-year-old Michael Montrose and his wide-eyed naiveté, his swaggering bravado, his inability to accept even the most mild criticism. Allow him these few brief months - maybe years - of unbridled enthusiasm. You, too, were once young.
     
    Remember?
     
    ***
     
    I was to learn, eventually, that it is no easy matter trying to make a decent living as a travel writer. It sounds like a cushy number, doesn’t it? One of the great glamour professions - travel the world, visit exotic locations, scribble down a few impressions and hey presto, money in the bank. What could be easier?
     
    Trying to fly of one’s own volition, that’s what. Or inscribing the New Testament on the head of a pin.
     
    The problem is, anyone who can scrawl their name on a piece of paper and has been further afield than Bognor, thinks they can write travel articles. They believe their visions and versions are as valid as the next person’s, and consequently there’s no reason why they shouldn’t get paid for their well-informed opinions. The really sickening thing about this is, it’s true.
     
    The competition is phenomenal, especially these days. Independent travel has become the Holy Grail of the late twentieth century. Anyone with a few hundred pounds and a couple of months can now become a Grand Explorer. The world is full of roving bands or neophyte reporters, searching for the exotic, having “experiences”, seeking nirvana. The Third World has become an event supermarket, complete with daily specials, bargain offers and cut-price, shop-soiled goods. You just wander along the aisles selecting the desired items according to taste and cost (Thailand: convenience; most attractive packaging. India: cheapest, best value on offer. Galapagos Islands; most expensive and exclusive commodity etc.). Head for the check-out, flash the credit card and voilà , instant life experience (which, like instant coffee, may be more convenient and cheaper than the real thing, but bears only a passing similarity to it).
     
    And just like shopping at Tesco, you can’t help but feel at the end of the day that you’ve been conned, seduced. You arrive home, look at what you’ve purchased, and what do you find? Fancy packets filled with mass-produced, processed muck which is full of artificial additives and tastes of nothing much in particular. It is also, invariably, over-priced and bad for your health.
     
    The great travel writers know the truth. Paul Theroux, Eric Newby - they know that travelling is a dreadful experience, circumscribed by boredom, loneliness, frus- tration, confusion and sickness. To add insult to injury, one pays good money and expends valuable time in the process. They’re honest enough to tell us all this (espe- cially Theroux), but do we listen?
     
    We do not. We become envious of their amoebic dysentery; their sleepless nights in flea-infested hotel rooms that double up as brothels; their endless hours of aggravation at the hands of insane Customs officials who are not content with merely ripping their bags apart, but wish to do the same thing to their bodies, having first raped them at gunpoint. We remain victims of the travel agents’ brochurese gobbledegook. We have been brainwashed by too