Mexico City-based author Daniel Saldaña París known as “the Mexican Philip Roth” – undoubtedly not only due to his frank and unsparing portrayals of life, but additionally due to moving insights his writings convey.
He has published two novels, Strange Victims and Ramifications, but on August 20, Catapult will publish the English translation of his first collection of essays, Planes Flying Over a Monster. In ten personal essays, Saldaña París takes readers through Havana, Montreal, Madrid and other cities, reflecting not only on the character of every place, but additionally on the memories we form and the way writing and reading in the method can change our understanding of ourselves and the world around us. In an email exchange, he spoke to SCNG Premium about his thoughts on travel:
Can we discover or rediscover parts of ourselves in other places that may remain unused in familiar places?
Yes, absolutely. Visiting a brand new city, a brand new culture, opens up a complete latest world of possibilities. Traveling heightens the senses and forces us to listen to details we would otherwise miss. Even if we bring our own memories and private history with us, the novelty of one other city creates a break from routine.
Of course, all cities on the earth have a special character, but what makes a city great for you, a spot price returning to?
I like to consider cities as palimpsests: layers upon layers of history, individual stories and meanings assigned each by the fictional representations of that city (movies, books) and by its inhabitants. For me, a giant city is one through which all of those layers are kind of legible or obvious to an attentive visitor. A city that doesn’t impose a monolithic image of itself on you, but invites you to construct a private relationship with it. Therefore, for me, a giant city doesn’t hide its contradictions, irrespective of how uncomfortable they might be.
What trick have you ever learned to search out your way around in a brand new place?
Even if I'm only in a single place for a number of days, I like to search out a spot to return to—a restaurant, a park, an intersection. Humans also find meaning in repetition, and sometimes it's price returning to the identical place a number of times to construct a meaningful relationship with it, somewhat than walking around attempting to see as much as possible. I also practice walking a block or two at an unusually slow speed, taking note of the signs of the town: its shops, graffiti, architecture, even its trash. I like getting a feel for a spot by eavesdropping on conversations and writing them down in my notebook.
“If, as Plato believed, knowledge is remembering, then I have always remembered Cuba…” you write in a memorable essay about your visit to Havana. This city is central to your personal origin story, and yet you might have never been there, no less than not as an adult. Can we are saying that the places we traveled to became a part of our personal mythology?
Some do, and sometimes it's hard to say why. I spent 10 days in Port of Spain, Trinidad, about 15 years ago, and I still think that trip was formative for no particular reason. I also imagine that literature enriches the experience of visiting a spot: having read books by local authors, you perceive a special, deeper, more nuanced reality. I’ll at all times prefer translated literature to tourism.
Which travel reports have influenced you and are, in your opinion, a must-read for each traveler?
I like the diaries of filmmaker Jonas Mekas, his sense of place and intimacy. I like the journalistic work of Jon Lee Anderson, the best way he can refer to anyone and get something essential out of the conversation. I also recommend the travelogues of Belgian explorer Alexandra David-Néel. Strangers on a Train by Jenny Diski is one other of my favorites.
Do we’ve got to depart our home to fall in love with it again?
I often feel like there isn’t any such thing as returning: the one that leaves is rarely the exact same because the one who returns, and the place we return to has often modified too. But distance allows us to have a look at our home with latest eyes and rediscover details we took without any consideration. We find the exotic within the familiar and vice versa. Love can grow out of this alienation.
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