Pico Iyer, according to the New York Times Book Review, is “a post-modern traveler, rooted nowhere and moving in order to disprove the illusion of home. Travel for him is a metaphysical project—a meditation on space, a sermon on our estrangement.” Tuburan, Cebu, Philippines
I wonder sometimes about the merit of that miraculous tenacity, that adherence to a lost landscape and a senescent language. A case could be made that they would have been better off melting into the landscape as no doubt many now forgotten did, adopting native tongues, stories, places to love, ceasing to be exiles by ceasing to remember the [place] they were exiled from so that they could wholly embrace the [place] they were in. Only by losing that past would they lose the condition of exile for the place they were exiled from no longer existed, and they were […]
Writing about one’s hometown starts with lovely ruralish images—bordering between innocent homesickness and cheap tourism—and ends with a tormenting confession. I used to have motion sickness. Raised in farmlands and having mountains for playgrounds, the city was like the American Dream to the young me. I didn’t even know the existence of America then. Let memory bring the Tuburan that I knew, and let the present disrupt this memory. This will be a series of thoughts, recollections, confessions that may reveal the regrets and longings of my childhood home: Tuburan.