when did Travel Writing become boys-only?

I was perusing the Travel Writing section of Foyles today (because, of course, I should have been at home doing readings and preparing for a presentation) when I was struck by all the male authors. Paul Theroux, Bill Bryson, lots of dudes named David.... and I started wondering why this genre of writing -- the adventure -- is dominated by men almost to the exclusion of women.

Worse, I started thinking about the travel books I've read or encountered that have been written by women, and it donned on me they fit into a handful of Harlequin-inspired sub-categories within the travel genre. Where men's stories are all raw adventure, hiking boots in-hand, jump-on-a-boat, ride-a-motorcycle, fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants deals, women's travel stories can be.... well, I was going to say "girly," but then thought better of it. Let's say, intensely focused on the self, the home, and sex.

For example, Around the World in 80 Dates? Let's call that the Sex and the City sub-category. Under the Tuscan Sun -- if the movie is anything to go by -- is a "find yourself away from it all and, cross your fingers, love too!" book. Eat, Pray, Love straddles the "find yourself" and the "find your taste buds" categories. Then you have something like Out of Africa, which rounds things out a little, but dwells less on adventure and more on the contrived and not-so-contrived differences between the writer/European audience and the "other"/African residents, tribespeople and servants.

You can see I got myself a titch worked up. Then I came home and searched through the Chapters database for "travel" and "adventure and literary travel." Things got better from there, actually. There's more of a diversity of women's writing on travel, and it isn't all of the Sand in My Bra/humour fold or the "Paris! Men! Shopping!" genre.

Still, some questions carrying forward:

Do women who write about travel slip into the natural style of women's magazine writing because that's what women want to read about? Would we prefer to read about "a woman alone in (insert country here) overcomes cultural differences" than "a woman startlingly begins hitch-hiking through the Middle East, then hops onto a train across much of Asia, a boat across the Pacific, and a motorcycle through the Canadian west coast"?

Do popular women's travel titles simply reflect a high interest in the memoirs of those who have lived "happily ever after" in our Oprah-inspired age of "buy shit, live the dream?" And what is the male counterpart to "buy shit, live the dream" if they are busy reading travel stories about guys retracing the steps of Genghis Khan?

Finally, am I being terribly humorless about all this, and should I really set my mind to school work?

love, love, love....

It’s gorgeous out there today, so I’m keeping this short.

First off, welcome to November! No snow on the ground yet! (Knock on wood. Apologies now to all fellow Edmontonians if I jinxed us.) I feel like this is going to be a good month. A great month. A month of blogging in a timely fashion.

Admittedly, I’m not off to a fantastic start. In about 24 hours I am expected to meet at book club to discuss a novel of which I have read 40 pages. Despite T’s advice not to leave it to the last minute. Note to self: Always, always listen to T.

What I did read while on vacation, however, was this.

Oh, come on!

It’s all in good fun. Author Jennifer Cox preps herself to go on 80 dates with men all over the world -- it’s real-life rom-com! Exactly the kind of travel book I can buy into, because apparently I’ve become the most romantic person ever lately. All cuddly and smiley. Don’t worry -- I will get over it.

So, this woman went out there, into the world, to find her soul mate, on the theory we all spend so much time at work these days we take no time for romance. And any time we do take is from the seat in front of our computers. And why don’t we treat our love lives with the same focus and attention we treat our jobs? Why not be goal-oriented? Why not write out your relationship resume, then make all your friends set you up on a series of dates that really do take you hop scotching across continents?

Well, maybe because it’s a bit irritating. And crazy. And does anyone want to admit to being so obsessed with finding a mate? Not to mention, does anyone actually have time for this?

But the thing is, Cox comes across as super endearing (for most of the book -- towards the end, the inevitable happens and she starts to sound like one of your friends who Won’t Stop Talking About Themselves and you kind of want to toss the whole thing, content in the knowledge she’s content despite her bitching). And her dates are actually interesting. Some are completely over the top -- apparently men in every single non-land-locked place on earth think a romantic date involves a big… boat…. Others are brutally hilarious -- at one point, she finds herself getting a foot rub with a date when her masseuse discovers a disgusting wart and hacks it out mid-conversation. Yikes. I laughed out loud on the plane, couldn’t help myself.

And some of her dates simply aren’t dates. This saves the book, too, because at points you need a break to enjoy the scenery and pure quirkiness of humanity as much as she does. She spends a quiet afternoon at Jim Morrison’s grave in Paris, and has a fascinating conversation with a “love professor” in Sweden. She goes on a date with Romeo, and meets a man dedicated to a love long dead…. (sorry, but I thought it was super creepy)….

At times, her writing devolves into Carrie Bradshaw-esque questioning: “Clearly the Laureates were accomplished, unique people. But was being accomplished and unique at the expense of something more everyday and vital to our happiness? In short, to be a great idealist did you need to be pretty self-centred and emotionally unavailable? Were they just a smarter, more noble version of me: choosing a job over a partner? But since they were making the world a better place rather than writing about where to go on holiday, did that make it okay?” (p. 96)

But mostly, the book is a romp. A silly, easy-to-read, not un-educational romp.