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.

在一個(gè)苦寒的嚴(yán)冬，四下一片白茫茫，兩名旅人乘坐一輛沒有暖氣的蘇聯(lián)汽車一路疾馳而行。雪地一直延伸到蒼白的地平線，天與地的界限也漸漸模糊。成群的雨燕被汽車所驚擾，看起來就像是被拋入空中的沙石在半空盤旋。

其時(shí)是1989年，在羅馬尼亞的內(nèi)陸地區(qū)，正值革命的時(shí)節(jié)，除了這輛汽車，眼前那鄉(xiāng)村景致還未被現(xiàn)代生活入侵，輕易地便感覺時(shí)光倒流一百年。從匈牙利穿過邊境到另一個(gè)國家，在這里數(shù)天之前，一個(gè)專制政權(quán)突然被推翻，我和一名攝影師一起前往喀爾巴阡山脈尋找拉茲羅·托克斯。

我們設(shè)法溜過戒備森嚴(yán)的檢查站，并找到了此人，而羅馬尼亞軍隊(duì)卻一直沒找到他。我?guī)缀跻延洸黄鹞宜鶎懙墓适?，它們對世界大事并無顯著影響。但在那段記憶中還包含了關(guān)于旅行的一個(gè)毫不含糊的真相，其力量使得我們對所到過的地方記憶深刻，留下的記憶印記比任何用便箋或鏡頭所捕捉的影像更加難以磨滅。在那段旅程中，我對這個(gè)世界的認(rèn)知發(fā)生了小小改變，而我相信它們也存在于我們展開的每一段旅程中。

在18世紀(jì)，旅行家伊莉莎·費(fèi)伊率先展開一場環(huán)球旅行。作為一個(gè)沒有驚人美貌，沒有人脈關(guān)系，也沒有大筆財(cái)產(chǎn)的普通女性，激勵(lì)她的只是其勇敢無畏的天性和永不滿足的好奇心。從加爾各答到多佛港，費(fèi)伊出行乘坐馬車、轎子、帆船、渡船和三桅小帆船，還坐過馬匹、驢子、騾子或駱駝，還常常只能長途步行。她歷盡艱險(xiǎn)，依次經(jīng)歷過發(fā)高燒、壞心情、差路況、“暴烈”氣候、狂風(fēng)翻涌、鬼祟店主和滿床臭蟲，似乎以一種不同尋常的方式體驗(yàn)了人生。

關(guān)于類似伊莉莎·費(fèi)伊這樣的人的文學(xué)作品頗為豐富：航海家們心懷直率的期望出發(fā)，希望通過改變環(huán)境，人的整體觀念能得以發(fā)生合理的提升；某些人的出現(xiàn)使得旅者常有的陰暗誤解與對人性認(rèn)知的鮮亮光點(diǎn)交替出現(xiàn)；游客們未將離家的目的說出口，那就是要親身體驗(yàn)這個(gè)世界的混亂、煩擾和榮耀。

有時(shí)候，在長途飛行的半空中，我會(huì)把護(hù)照從夾克內(nèi)襯口袋里取出來，翻看不甚清晰的出入境印戳，那是關(guān)于我眾多旅程的褪色印記。

有一個(gè)圓柱形的紫色印戳，印在紙面上，上面淺淺地印有一個(gè)獨(dú)立鐘的紋飾。這個(gè)印記記錄了一樁不太引人注意的事實(shí)，即2004年12月6日我經(jīng)由其首都科倫坡進(jìn)入了斯里蘭卡，然后于12月25日從同一個(gè)港口出關(guān)。那些日期戳本身突顯不出什么有趣之處。但是對我而言，它們卻引發(fā)了我一連串強(qiáng)烈的回憶：印度洋冬日單調(diào)而兇猛的陽光；科倫坡碼頭旁邊廣場地面上長長的陰影；一頭神圣的寺廟大象用它的長鼻子卷走我買來供奉喂食的一大捆香蕉；在一個(gè)涼爽的清晨慢慢地驅(qū)車經(jīng)過沿海村莊去往加勒城墻環(huán)繞的古堡。

在那個(gè)特殊的日子，我停在了科斯戈德附近的海龜孵化地。我在水泥池之間沿著沙灘小徑漫步，然后停下來觀察那些細(xì)小的不停爬動(dòng)的橢圓形海龜幼苗：太平洋麗龜、玳瑁、綠海龜，還有棱皮龜。

那天清晨，我發(fā)現(xiàn)自己的行進(jìn)方式是在任何朝圣之地自己很少采用的。在這些不屈不撓的漫游者面前，我隱約涌起敬畏之情。天氣很好，大海溫和，天空是明艷的里基茨藍(lán)色。

我在圣誕節(jié)那天離開斯里蘭卡，登上了一架坐滿赤腳女香客的飛機(jī)，飛往位于遙遠(yuǎn)的印度比哈爾邦的佛教誕生地。差不多24小時(shí)之后，我留在科斯戈德海灘上的寧靜風(fēng)光漸漸倒退回去，大海流回其深處，接著涌回并吞噬了海岸線，饑餓地吮吸掉鐵軌、棕櫚樹叢、瀝青馬路、酒店，以及我一天前剛退掉的臨海房間。維克多·哈蘇海龜孵化地，也幾乎被夷為了平地，還有我在紐約的一位熟人，就像那34000名大部分我不認(rèn)識(shí)的斯里蘭卡人一樣，被海嘯吞沒，消失無蹤。

當(dāng)我們旅行時(shí)，命數(shù)似乎總是離得很近。相較于一個(gè)漫游者所面對的惱人小事——扒手、中暑、水土不服——其他事的發(fā)生則提醒我們，沒有人能夠逃脫命運(yùn)。但是，正如費(fèi)伊在信中清晰著述，旅行的危險(xiǎn)都被因留在家中而錯(cuò)過的整個(gè)世界的美妙、驚奇和無盡的奇異所抵消了。

當(dāng)然了，正因?yàn)闆]有意外發(fā)生，我所選擇的這個(gè)職業(yè)才為我提供了一個(gè)藉口，以滿足一個(gè)流浪者對于了解另一座山上埋藏什么秘密的渴望。那種對于遠(yuǎn)行的渴望曾引領(lǐng)我走過了緬甸（英文名稱一度為Burma，現(xiàn)改為Myanmar）鄉(xiāng)村那蜿蜒曲折的用木板鋪就的烏本橋。這座橋跨越泥灘和農(nóng)夫放牧牛群的淺草地邊緣，橋身搖搖欲墜，這座頗富詩意的建筑據(jù)稱是用寺廟舊筑那些柚木板搭建而成的。

那天，湖里的霧氣環(huán)繞著橋景，在沿著橋的許多地方都坐著包著頭巾的婦人，身邊帶著裝在籠子里的小鳥。就像在亞洲的許多寺廟一樣，這些小鳥都是用來出售給游客或路人積德求報(bào)的。放生一只就能為來世積攢功德。在一個(gè)竹籠子里，蹲伏著一只幼小的貓頭鷹，腦袋轉(zhuǎn)來轉(zhuǎn)去，翅膀焦慮地?fù)浯蛑鴸艡凇Ｗサ竭@只貓頭鷹的老太婆要價(jià)20美元以將其放生，而我的導(dǎo)游已經(jīng)向我解釋過這種交易是如何循環(huán)往復(fù)的了。

“如果這只貓頭鷹被放生了，她就會(huì)再去另抓一只，”這個(gè)人說道。我伸手掏出錢包，找到現(xiàn)鈔，給了那個(gè)女人，然后看著她拉開籠門，笨拙地將那只鳥倒出籠子，解除監(jiān)禁。

在那只貓頭鷹辨明情況的那令人心焦的幾分鐘里，我就站在旁邊以防其遲疑會(huì)證實(shí)了導(dǎo)游的預(yù)測。那只鳥茫然地站著不動(dòng)，停留在破碎的木板上，直到我用腳尖碰了碰它。

“也許它受傷了，”導(dǎo)游說道，然而就在他說完這句話的那幾秒鐘里，那只鳥就像一支小小的鳥火箭一樣射向天空。

我用眼睛跟隨著它直到樹冠上，接著它就從視野里消失了。即使到現(xiàn)在，那只鳥飛向自由的畫面依然停留在一個(gè)旅人的記憶中。