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In a bitter winter landscape， white in every direction， two travelers go haring along in an unheated Soviet automobile. Snowy fields stretch to the pale horizon， blurring the boundary between earth and sky. Flocks of swifts， scared up by the vehicle， wheel around looking like 1）gravel flung into the air.
The year is 1989， and in the hinterlands of Romania， in that season of revolution， the rural landscape remains so unmarked by modernity that， but for the car， we might easily have strayed back a century in time. Crossing the border from Hungary into a country where， days before， an oppressive regime had been toppled suddenly， a photographer and I were heading for the Carpathian Mountains in search of 2）Laszlo Tokes.
We managed to slip past armored checkpoints and discover this man， where the Romanian army had not. I scarcely recall the story I wrote， which had no notable effect on world events. But in that memory is contained a specific truth of travel，its power to impress on memory the places we’ve been， leaving there a record more 3）indelible than any image captured with tablet or lens. On that trip， small 4）alterations were triggered in my sense of the world， as I believe they are on every journey we undertake.
In the 18th century， the traveler Eliza Fay first embarked on a voyage across the globe， an ordinary woman of no great beauty， connections， or means， she was stoked by an 5）intrepid nature and 6）insatiable curiosity. Making her way to Calcutta from Dover， Fay traveled by carriage， sedan chair， sailing ship， ferry， and felucca； on the backs of horses， asses， mules， or camels； and often enough on foot. She put up with hardships， fevers， tempers， bad roads， “7）boisterous” weather， tossing gales， shifty innkeepers， and bedbugs in order， it seems， to experience life from an unaccustomed vantage.
Literature is rich in people like Eliza Fay， voyagers who set out with the forthright expectation that by altering circumstance one might reasonably expect an improvement in general 8）perception， people for whom the traveler’s usual murk of misunderstanding alternated with stark flashes of human recognition， tourists whose unstated aim in leaving home was to experience firsthand the chaos， intrusions， and glories of the world.
Sometimes in the 9）limbo of a long-haul flight， I will remove my passport from my inside jacket pocket and squint at the obscure entry and exit stamps， the faded records of my 10）peregrinations. There is one cylinder stamp in purple ink， marked on paper palely patterned with a repeat of the 11）Liberty Bell. The mark documents the notnotable fact that on December 6， 2004， I entered Sri Lanka via the capital of Colombo and that on December 25 I exited by the same port. The date stamps in themselves reveal little of interest. Yet for me they trigger an intense recollection of the flat， fierce sun of an Indian Ocean winter； of long shadows falling on the parade ground by the jetty in Colombo； of a sacred temple elephant grabbing with its trunk a great stalk of bananas I’d brought in offering； of a slow drive past oceanfront villages in the early hours of a cool morning en route to the walled fort at Galle.
That particular day I stopped at a turtle hatchery near Kosgoda. Wandering along sandy paths among cement tanks， I paused to observe the small scrambling ovals of turtle hatchlings： 12）olive ridleys， 13）hawksbills， greens， and 14）leatherbacks.
That morning I found myself moved in ways I have seldom been in any place of worship. I felt vaguely awestruck in the presence of these 15）indomitable wanderers. The weather was fine， the sea mild， the sky an intense Rickett’s blue.
I departed Sri Lanka on Christmas aboard a plane filled with barefoot female pilgrims heading for the birthplace of Buddhism in distant Bihar， India. In a little under 24 hours， the placid scene I’d left on the beach at Kosgoda would slowly reverse itself， the sea drawing back toward its depths， then surging in again to consume the coastline， hungrily sucking up rail tracks， palm groves， 16）asphalt roads， the hotel and oceanfront room I’d checked out of just a day earlier. The Victor Hasselblad turtle hatchery， too， was all but erased and a New York acquaintance of mine was， like many of the 34，000 Sri Lankans unknown to me， swallowed up by the tsunami and never seen again.
Destiny always seems close when we travel， and to the manageable 17）nuisances a wanderer faces—pickpockets， sunstroke， 18）Montezuma’s Revenge—others arise to remind us that none of us can outrun fate. Yet， as Fay’s letters make clear， the perils of the journey are offset by that of staying put and missing out on the world’s enchantments， its wondrousness and unfailing oddity.
It is certainly no accident that the profession I chose has provided me with a pretext for satisfying a nomadic longing to know what lies over the next hill. That longing to be away once led me to the zigzag boardwalk span of U Bein Bridge， in rural Myanmar， once known as Burma. Spanning mudflats and shallow grass verges where farmers graze their cattle， the bridge is 19）ramshackle， a poetic structure allegedly built from the teak boards of ruined temples.
Mist off the lake wreathed the scene that day， and at several points along the span turbaned women sat with caged songbirds alongside them. As at many temples in Asia， the birds are sold to visitors or passersby as a kind of 20）karmic barter. Free one and gain points toward the next 21）incarnation. In one bamboo cage crouched a young owl， head swiveling， wings flaring anxiously against the bars. The 22）crone who’d caught it wanted $20 U.S. to liberate the owl， and my guide made clear to me the circularity of the bargain.
“If the owl is set free， she will only capture another，” this man said. I reached into my wallet， found the currency， paid the woman， and then watched as she unlatched the door and tipped the bird awkwardly from the confines of the cage.
In the anxious seconds it took for the owl to get its bearings I stood around in case its hesitation guaranteed fulfillment of the guide’s prediction. Dazed and still， the bird perched there on the 23）splintered boards until I nudged it with a toe.
“Perhaps it is injured，” said the guide， and in roughly the time it took for him to utter the sentence， the bird shot off like a little avian rocket.
I followed it with my eyes as far as the tree canopy， and then it was lost from view. Even now， the image of that bird’s flight to freedom remains fixed in a traveler’s memory.
在一个苦寒的严冬，四下一片白茫茫，两名旅人乘坐一辆没有暖气的苏联汽车一路疾驰而行。雪地一直延伸到苍白的地平线，天与地的界限也渐渐模糊。成群的雨燕被汽车所惊扰，看起来就像是被抛入空中的沙石在半空盘旋。
其时是1989年，在罗马尼亚的内陆地区，正值革命的时节，除了这辆汽车，眼前那乡村景致还未被现代生活入侵，轻易地便感觉时光倒流一百年。从匈牙利穿过边境到另一个国家，在这里数天之前，一个专制政权突然被推翻，我和一名摄影师一起前往喀尔巴阡山脉寻找拉兹罗·托克斯。
我们设法溜过戒备森严的检查站，并找到了此人，而罗马尼亚军队却一直没找到他。我几乎已记不起我所写的故事，它们对世界大事并无显著影响。但在那段记忆中还包含了关于旅行的一个毫不含糊的真相，其力量使得我们对所到过的地方记忆深刻，留下的记忆印记比任何用便笺或镜头所捕捉的影像更加难以磨灭。在那段旅程中，我对这个世界的认知发生了小小改变，而我相信它们也存在于我们展开的每一段旅程中。
在18世纪，旅行家伊莉莎·费伊率先展开一场环球旅行。作为一个没有惊人美貌，没有人脉关系，也没有大笔财产的普通女性，激励她的只是其勇敢无畏的天性和永不满足的好奇心。从加尔各答到多佛港，费伊出行乘坐马车、轿子、帆船、渡船和三桅小帆船，还坐过马匹、驴子、骡子或骆驼，还常常只能长途步行。她历尽艰险，依次经历过发高烧、坏心情、差路况、“暴烈”气候、狂风翻涌、鬼祟店主和满床臭虫，似乎以一种不同寻常的方式体验了人生。
关于类似伊莉莎·费伊这样的人的文学作品颇为丰富：航海家们心怀直率的期望出发，希望通过改变环境，人的整体观念能得以发生合理的提升；某些人的出现使得旅者常有的阴暗误解与对人性认知的鲜亮光点交替出现；游客们未将离家的目的说出口，那就是要亲身体验这个世界的混乱、烦扰和荣耀。
有时候，在长途飞行的半空中，我会把护照从夹克内衬口袋里取出来，翻看不甚清晰的出入境印戳，那是关于我众多旅程的褪色印记。
有一个圆柱形的紫色印戳，印在纸面上，上面浅浅地印有一个独立钟的纹饰。这个印记记录了一桩不太引人注意的事实，即2004年12月6日我经由其首都科伦坡进入了斯里兰卡，然后于12月25日从同一个港口出关。那些日期戳本身突显不出什么有趣之处。但是对我而言，它们却引发了我一连串强烈的回忆：印度洋冬日单调而凶猛的阳光；科伦坡码头旁边广场地面上长长的阴影；一头神圣的寺庙大象用它的长鼻子卷走我买来供奉喂食的一大捆香蕉；在一个凉爽的清晨慢慢地驱车经过沿海村庄去往加勒城墙环绕的古堡。 在那个特殊的日子，我停在了科斯戈德附近的海龟孵化地。我在水泥池之间沿着沙滩小径漫步，然后停下来观察那些细小的不停爬动的椭圆形海龟幼苗：太平洋丽龟、玳瑁、绿海龟，还有棱皮龟。
那天清晨，我发现自己的行进方式是在任何朝圣之地自己很少采用的。在这些不屈不挠的漫游者面前，我隐约涌起敬畏之情。天气很好，大海温和，天空是明艳的里基茨蓝色。
我在圣诞节那天离开斯里兰卡，登上了一架坐满赤脚女香客的飞机，飞往位于遥远的印度比哈尔邦的佛教诞生地。差不多24小时之后，我留在科斯戈德海滩上的宁静风光渐渐倒退回去，大海流回其深处，接着涌回并吞噬了海岸线，饥饿地吮吸掉铁轨、棕榈树丛、沥青马路、酒店，以及我一天前刚退掉的临海房间。维克多·哈苏海龟孵化地，也几乎被夷为了平地，还有我在纽约的一位熟人，就像那34000名大部分我不认识的斯里兰卡人一样，被海啸吞没，消失无踪。
当我们旅行时，命数似乎总是离得很近。相较于一个漫游者所面对的恼人小事——扒手、中暑、水土不服——其他事的发生则提醒我们，没有人能够逃脱命运。但是，正如费伊在信中清晰著述，旅行的危险都被因留在家中而错过的整个世界的美妙、惊奇和无尽的奇异所抵消了。
当然了，正因为没有意外发生，我所选择的这个职业才为我提供了一个藉口，以满足一个流浪者对于了解另一座山上埋藏什么秘密的渴望。那种对于远行的渴望曾引领我走过了缅甸（英文名称一度为Burma，现改为Myanmar）乡村那蜿蜒曲折的用木板铺就的乌本桥。这座桥跨越泥滩和农夫放牧牛群的浅草地边缘，桥身摇摇欲坠，这座颇富诗意的建筑据称是用寺庙旧筑那些柚木板搭建而成的。
那天，湖里的雾气环绕着桥景，在沿着桥的许多地方都坐着包着头巾的妇人，身边带着装在笼子里的小鸟。就像在亚洲的许多寺庙一样，这些小鸟都是用来出售给游客或路人积德求报的。放生一只就能为来世积攒功德。在一个竹笼子里，蹲伏着一只幼小的猫头鹰，脑袋转来转去，翅膀焦虑地扑打着栅栏。抓到这只猫头鹰的老太婆要价20美元以将其放生，而我的导游已经向我解释过这种交易是如何循环往复的了。
“如果这只猫头鹰被放生了，她就会再去另抓一只，”这个人说道。我伸手掏出钱包，找到现钞，给了那个女人，然后看着她拉开笼门，笨拙地将那只鸟倒出笼子，解除监禁。
在那只猫头鹰辨明情况的那令人心焦的几分钟里，我就站在旁边以防其迟疑会证实了导游的预测。那只鸟茫然地站着不动，停留在破碎的木板上，直到我用脚尖碰了碰它。
“也许它受伤了，”导游说道，然而就在他说完这句话的那几秒钟里，那只鸟就像一支小小的鸟火箭一样射向天空。
我用眼睛跟随着它直到树冠上，接着它就从视野里消失了。即使到现在，那只鸟飞向自由的画面依然停留在一个旅人的记忆中。
The year is 1989， and in the hinterlands of Romania， in that season of revolution， the rural landscape remains so unmarked by modernity that， but for the car， we might easily have strayed back a century in time. Crossing the border from Hungary into a country where， days before， an oppressive regime had been toppled suddenly， a photographer and I were heading for the Carpathian Mountains in search of 2）Laszlo Tokes.
We managed to slip past armored checkpoints and discover this man， where the Romanian army had not. I scarcely recall the story I wrote， which had no notable effect on world events. But in that memory is contained a specific truth of travel，its power to impress on memory the places we’ve been， leaving there a record more 3）indelible than any image captured with tablet or lens. On that trip， small 4）alterations were triggered in my sense of the world， as I believe they are on every journey we undertake.
In the 18th century， the traveler Eliza Fay first embarked on a voyage across the globe， an ordinary woman of no great beauty， connections， or means， she was stoked by an 5）intrepid nature and 6）insatiable curiosity. Making her way to Calcutta from Dover， Fay traveled by carriage， sedan chair， sailing ship， ferry， and felucca； on the backs of horses， asses， mules， or camels； and often enough on foot. She put up with hardships， fevers， tempers， bad roads， “7）boisterous” weather， tossing gales， shifty innkeepers， and bedbugs in order， it seems， to experience life from an unaccustomed vantage.
Literature is rich in people like Eliza Fay， voyagers who set out with the forthright expectation that by altering circumstance one might reasonably expect an improvement in general 8）perception， people for whom the traveler’s usual murk of misunderstanding alternated with stark flashes of human recognition， tourists whose unstated aim in leaving home was to experience firsthand the chaos， intrusions， and glories of the world.
Sometimes in the 9）limbo of a long-haul flight， I will remove my passport from my inside jacket pocket and squint at the obscure entry and exit stamps， the faded records of my 10）peregrinations. There is one cylinder stamp in purple ink， marked on paper palely patterned with a repeat of the 11）Liberty Bell. The mark documents the notnotable fact that on December 6， 2004， I entered Sri Lanka via the capital of Colombo and that on December 25 I exited by the same port. The date stamps in themselves reveal little of interest. Yet for me they trigger an intense recollection of the flat， fierce sun of an Indian Ocean winter； of long shadows falling on the parade ground by the jetty in Colombo； of a sacred temple elephant grabbing with its trunk a great stalk of bananas I’d brought in offering； of a slow drive past oceanfront villages in the early hours of a cool morning en route to the walled fort at Galle.
That particular day I stopped at a turtle hatchery near Kosgoda. Wandering along sandy paths among cement tanks， I paused to observe the small scrambling ovals of turtle hatchlings： 12）olive ridleys， 13）hawksbills， greens， and 14）leatherbacks.
That morning I found myself moved in ways I have seldom been in any place of worship. I felt vaguely awestruck in the presence of these 15）indomitable wanderers. The weather was fine， the sea mild， the sky an intense Rickett’s blue.
I departed Sri Lanka on Christmas aboard a plane filled with barefoot female pilgrims heading for the birthplace of Buddhism in distant Bihar， India. In a little under 24 hours， the placid scene I’d left on the beach at Kosgoda would slowly reverse itself， the sea drawing back toward its depths， then surging in again to consume the coastline， hungrily sucking up rail tracks， palm groves， 16）asphalt roads， the hotel and oceanfront room I’d checked out of just a day earlier. The Victor Hasselblad turtle hatchery， too， was all but erased and a New York acquaintance of mine was， like many of the 34，000 Sri Lankans unknown to me， swallowed up by the tsunami and never seen again.
Destiny always seems close when we travel， and to the manageable 17）nuisances a wanderer faces—pickpockets， sunstroke， 18）Montezuma’s Revenge—others arise to remind us that none of us can outrun fate. Yet， as Fay’s letters make clear， the perils of the journey are offset by that of staying put and missing out on the world’s enchantments， its wondrousness and unfailing oddity.
It is certainly no accident that the profession I chose has provided me with a pretext for satisfying a nomadic longing to know what lies over the next hill. That longing to be away once led me to the zigzag boardwalk span of U Bein Bridge， in rural Myanmar， once known as Burma. Spanning mudflats and shallow grass verges where farmers graze their cattle， the bridge is 19）ramshackle， a poetic structure allegedly built from the teak boards of ruined temples.
Mist off the lake wreathed the scene that day， and at several points along the span turbaned women sat with caged songbirds alongside them. As at many temples in Asia， the birds are sold to visitors or passersby as a kind of 20）karmic barter. Free one and gain points toward the next 21）incarnation. In one bamboo cage crouched a young owl， head swiveling， wings flaring anxiously against the bars. The 22）crone who’d caught it wanted $20 U.S. to liberate the owl， and my guide made clear to me the circularity of the bargain.
“If the owl is set free， she will only capture another，” this man said. I reached into my wallet， found the currency， paid the woman， and then watched as she unlatched the door and tipped the bird awkwardly from the confines of the cage.
In the anxious seconds it took for the owl to get its bearings I stood around in case its hesitation guaranteed fulfillment of the guide’s prediction. Dazed and still， the bird perched there on the 23）splintered boards until I nudged it with a toe.
“Perhaps it is injured，” said the guide， and in roughly the time it took for him to utter the sentence， the bird shot off like a little avian rocket.
I followed it with my eyes as far as the tree canopy， and then it was lost from view. Even now， the image of that bird’s flight to freedom remains fixed in a traveler’s memory.
在一个苦寒的严冬，四下一片白茫茫，两名旅人乘坐一辆没有暖气的苏联汽车一路疾驰而行。雪地一直延伸到苍白的地平线，天与地的界限也渐渐模糊。成群的雨燕被汽车所惊扰，看起来就像是被抛入空中的沙石在半空盘旋。
其时是1989年，在罗马尼亚的内陆地区，正值革命的时节，除了这辆汽车，眼前那乡村景致还未被现代生活入侵，轻易地便感觉时光倒流一百年。从匈牙利穿过边境到另一个国家，在这里数天之前，一个专制政权突然被推翻，我和一名摄影师一起前往喀尔巴阡山脉寻找拉兹罗·托克斯。
我们设法溜过戒备森严的检查站，并找到了此人，而罗马尼亚军队却一直没找到他。我几乎已记不起我所写的故事，它们对世界大事并无显著影响。但在那段记忆中还包含了关于旅行的一个毫不含糊的真相，其力量使得我们对所到过的地方记忆深刻，留下的记忆印记比任何用便笺或镜头所捕捉的影像更加难以磨灭。在那段旅程中，我对这个世界的认知发生了小小改变，而我相信它们也存在于我们展开的每一段旅程中。
在18世纪，旅行家伊莉莎·费伊率先展开一场环球旅行。作为一个没有惊人美貌，没有人脉关系，也没有大笔财产的普通女性，激励她的只是其勇敢无畏的天性和永不满足的好奇心。从加尔各答到多佛港，费伊出行乘坐马车、轿子、帆船、渡船和三桅小帆船，还坐过马匹、驴子、骡子或骆驼，还常常只能长途步行。她历尽艰险，依次经历过发高烧、坏心情、差路况、“暴烈”气候、狂风翻涌、鬼祟店主和满床臭虫，似乎以一种不同寻常的方式体验了人生。
关于类似伊莉莎·费伊这样的人的文学作品颇为丰富：航海家们心怀直率的期望出发，希望通过改变环境，人的整体观念能得以发生合理的提升；某些人的出现使得旅者常有的阴暗误解与对人性认知的鲜亮光点交替出现；游客们未将离家的目的说出口，那就是要亲身体验这个世界的混乱、烦扰和荣耀。
有时候，在长途飞行的半空中，我会把护照从夹克内衬口袋里取出来，翻看不甚清晰的出入境印戳，那是关于我众多旅程的褪色印记。
有一个圆柱形的紫色印戳，印在纸面上，上面浅浅地印有一个独立钟的纹饰。这个印记记录了一桩不太引人注意的事实，即2004年12月6日我经由其首都科伦坡进入了斯里兰卡，然后于12月25日从同一个港口出关。那些日期戳本身突显不出什么有趣之处。但是对我而言，它们却引发了我一连串强烈的回忆：印度洋冬日单调而凶猛的阳光；科伦坡码头旁边广场地面上长长的阴影；一头神圣的寺庙大象用它的长鼻子卷走我买来供奉喂食的一大捆香蕉；在一个凉爽的清晨慢慢地驱车经过沿海村庄去往加勒城墙环绕的古堡。 在那个特殊的日子，我停在了科斯戈德附近的海龟孵化地。我在水泥池之间沿着沙滩小径漫步，然后停下来观察那些细小的不停爬动的椭圆形海龟幼苗：太平洋丽龟、玳瑁、绿海龟，还有棱皮龟。
那天清晨，我发现自己的行进方式是在任何朝圣之地自己很少采用的。在这些不屈不挠的漫游者面前，我隐约涌起敬畏之情。天气很好，大海温和，天空是明艳的里基茨蓝色。
我在圣诞节那天离开斯里兰卡，登上了一架坐满赤脚女香客的飞机，飞往位于遥远的印度比哈尔邦的佛教诞生地。差不多24小时之后，我留在科斯戈德海滩上的宁静风光渐渐倒退回去，大海流回其深处，接着涌回并吞噬了海岸线，饥饿地吮吸掉铁轨、棕榈树丛、沥青马路、酒店，以及我一天前刚退掉的临海房间。维克多·哈苏海龟孵化地，也几乎被夷为了平地，还有我在纽约的一位熟人，就像那34000名大部分我不认识的斯里兰卡人一样，被海啸吞没，消失无踪。
当我们旅行时，命数似乎总是离得很近。相较于一个漫游者所面对的恼人小事——扒手、中暑、水土不服——其他事的发生则提醒我们，没有人能够逃脱命运。但是，正如费伊在信中清晰著述，旅行的危险都被因留在家中而错过的整个世界的美妙、惊奇和无尽的奇异所抵消了。
当然了，正因为没有意外发生，我所选择的这个职业才为我提供了一个藉口，以满足一个流浪者对于了解另一座山上埋藏什么秘密的渴望。那种对于远行的渴望曾引领我走过了缅甸（英文名称一度为Burma，现改为Myanmar）乡村那蜿蜒曲折的用木板铺就的乌本桥。这座桥跨越泥滩和农夫放牧牛群的浅草地边缘，桥身摇摇欲坠，这座颇富诗意的建筑据称是用寺庙旧筑那些柚木板搭建而成的。
那天，湖里的雾气环绕着桥景，在沿着桥的许多地方都坐着包着头巾的妇人，身边带着装在笼子里的小鸟。就像在亚洲的许多寺庙一样，这些小鸟都是用来出售给游客或路人积德求报的。放生一只就能为来世积攒功德。在一个竹笼子里，蹲伏着一只幼小的猫头鹰，脑袋转来转去，翅膀焦虑地扑打着栅栏。抓到这只猫头鹰的老太婆要价20美元以将其放生，而我的导游已经向我解释过这种交易是如何循环往复的了。
“如果这只猫头鹰被放生了，她就会再去另抓一只，”这个人说道。我伸手掏出钱包，找到现钞，给了那个女人，然后看着她拉开笼门，笨拙地将那只鸟倒出笼子，解除监禁。
在那只猫头鹰辨明情况的那令人心焦的几分钟里，我就站在旁边以防其迟疑会证实了导游的预测。那只鸟茫然地站着不动，停留在破碎的木板上，直到我用脚尖碰了碰它。
“也许它受伤了，”导游说道，然而就在他说完这句话的那几秒钟里，那只鸟就像一支小小的鸟火箭一样射向天空。
我用眼睛跟随着它直到树冠上，接着它就从视野里消失了。即使到现在，那只鸟飞向自由的画面依然停留在一个旅人的记忆中。