Chris Pavone
After college, I was burdened with student loans to repay, no financial cushion, so I wasn't in a position to bet everything on a creative-writing career — neither the writing-workshop academia life nor the freelance-writer version, trying to scrape by on short stories and house-painting gigs.
I'd sometimes go to Paris by myself — it was an easy two-hour train ride — to get a break from the everyday grind, to walk around a big city, ride a subway, feel the energy of a world capital.
What is it we want out of travel? Is it to take snapshots of ourselves in front of famous monuments, surrounded by other tourists? To eat unfamiliar food chosen from unintelligible menus? To earn frequent-flier miles? No. It's to glimpse what life is like somewhere else.
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