troubled ethic. Yes, now I too wouldntravel.nMy fiancee decided to come along,nand so it was only reasonable to try andnexpand the trip beyond its originalnscope. We would travel—yes, traveln—to Switzerland and stay for a fewndays with some friends in Lucerne.nWe missed the plane to Munich, ofncourse. I say “of course” because this isnthe sort of thing that always happens tonpeople who travel. I have never beennlate for a business appointment in mynlife, and I always arrive at the airport,nthe train station, or even the restaurantnhours earlier than necessary. Thisntime, however, I was not in my element,nand we ended up flying tonFrankfurt instead of Munich. Indeed,nfrom the travel brochure’s point ofnview, why should one be better thannthe other? I was beginning to understandnthe arbitrary nature of pleasure.nMissing the dentist’s appointmentnwas a littie irritating, but idle lives arenmade of such petty irritations. I rememberednthe hme when, as a child, Inheard an American lady telling mynfather and the other guests assemblednat our house in the Moscow countrysidenhow she had lost her raincoatnwhile changing airlines. It was a longnand complicated story, punctuated bynthe names of distant, fabulous citiesnlike Munich and Lucerne. We tried tonsidetrack her, since we knew we wouldngladly lose all we had to experiencenone of her misfortunes, but she pressednon towards the tragic denouement.nThe insurance would not cover it.nWe rescheduled the appointment byntelephone from Frankfurt and boardednthe 13:45 to Zurich, via Mannheimnand Basel. “Unfortunately,” said thenclerk, “you will have to get off innMannheim.” It was in Mannheim thatnMozart fell in love for the first hme,nwith Constanze’s sister. Perhaps thenclerk wanted to shield us from youngnWolfgang’s torment? Doubtful.nLet me repeat. We rescheduled thenappointment by telephone from Frankfurtnand boarded the 13:45 to Zurich.nEven as I write this, I shudder. Whonam I, for God’s sake, to dial Munichnfrom Frankfurt? To say “I am sorry,nbut I am in Frankfurt instead of Munich”?nTo change British pounds fornGerman marks, and German marksnfor Swiss franks, as if the world is somensort of casino and I am there to gamblenaway my conscience? Or are Munichnand Frankfurt just places, different becausenone of them has a dentist expectingnme?nOutside the train station in Zurich,nwhere we were waiting to be pickednup, sat a middle-aged bum. With anbottle of white wine in one hand and anpiece of smoked meat in the other, henwas incongruous and therefore unappealing.nLike the American lady of mynVnukovo childhood and all the travelersnaround me today, he was unconsciousnof the blessings of his freedom.nMy fiancee asked, referring to nothingnin particular, if I had ever wantednto ride a camel. Answered in thennegative, the question was amusinglyna propos. Understood as the pursuit ofnhappiness on the back of an exoticnanimal, freedom becomes as monotonousnas a desert landscape. In thatnlandscape, the bum, the Americannlady, and many of our friends glidensmoothly and noiselessly forwardnwhile holding on to their possessions.nOur friend’s house, as one mightnhave expected, was a villa overlookingnthe Lake of Lucerne. Over breakfast,nthe host, a charming German businessmannwho agreed with everything Inhad to say about South Africa, presentednevidence that the reactor atnChernobyl had been used to producennuclear warhead material. In othernwords, we were having a wonderfulntime; but the feeling that I was innSwitzerland without a purpose, that Inwas guilty of traveling, that none ofnthis would ever come to anything,nwould not leave me. The host’s youngnAmerican wife thought War and Peacenwas a sequel to The Thorn Birds (perhapsnI misunderstood her); but thatnwasn’t the reason. The reason lay innmy realization that travel was a metaphornfor freedom, and in the context ofnthat metaphor I was on the wrong side.n”The metaphor,” wrote Georg GhristophnLichtenberg of Gottingen in hisnAphorisms and Reflections, “is farnmore intelligent than its author, andnthis is the case with many things.nEverything has its depths. He who hasneyes sees something in everything.”nIt was only roast pork I saw in thendish set before me by a nimble waiternat the Bratwurstherzel, in Munich’snHeiliggeistrasse. I was less than a travelernnow, I was a tourist.nThis column is an act of publicnrepentance.nAndrei Navrozov is poetry editor ofnChronicles.nLetter From SouthnAmericanby Thomas MolnainUniversities and Students of SouthnAmericanBy 1921, a few years after the Bolsheviknrevolution, students at Argentinenuniversities had begun to agitate fornequal rights with professors and werendemanding the same rights for thencleaning staff. It sounds like the springnof 1968 in Paris and Columbia University,nbut in South America it was oldnstuff by then. Students there have beennperhaps even more politicized than innEurope and the United States, andnpoliticization was always radical leftist.nWhen I first entered the premises ofnthe University of San Marcos, in Liman(the first to be founded in the westernnhemisphere), I saw nothing but Marxistnposters, eulogies of Castro, andnMaoist brochures. Mind you, this wasnPOETRY OURNALnEdited by Jane Greer. Traditional poetic conventions used in vigorous,ncompelling new works. Heartening manifesto for SASE. $3.50/sample.nPlains Poetry Journal, P.O. Box 2337, Bismarck, ND 58502nnnAUGUST 1987 / 33n