A Taxi by Any Other Name

By Patricia Winton

In 1971, a grad school classmate showed me an ad for The Book of the Month Club which offered the new Compact Edition of The Oxford English Dictionary as a low-cost premium for joining. She made the case that signing up for a trial period was worth the price to get the OED, even if I spent my enrollment purchases on seedy romances. And she was right.

At the time the OED was a thirteen-volume work, condensed in the concise version to two large volumes, reduced to very fine print. The set came with a slip case for the two volumes and a little drawer above for the magnifying glass required for reading it. It sat on my shelf for thirty years until I sold it on eBay before moving to Italy in 2002.

I miss it. I loved to search for the first published use of an English word and be taken on a journey through English prose. Even more fun, I loved to open to a random page and put my finger on an entry to learn about a word.

My enthusiasm for this exercise sometimes came to a sad end. I once took the set to a class I was teaching at Virginia Tech and tried to get my students to share my enthusiasm. It was a dismal defeat. They were bored. The entry I showed them was for “taxi.” They yawned. I hope you’ll find it more interesting.

The original term for what we today call a taxi or a cab was taximeter cabriolet. The cabriolet half is from the French cabriole, which in the 19th century, meant to caper or jump like a young goat, from the Latin capri. The term identified a two-wheeled, horse-drawn carriage that tended to careen left and right as it traveled, reminding people of a baby goat at play. 

Today, in French, cabriolet can mean convertible (as in the car), perhaps because the original cabriolet carriage had a folding leather hood that could be raised over the two occupants to protect them from the rain or pushed back to expose them to the wind and sun. The cabriolet also had a leather lap robe to protect the occupants from mud splatters.

The taximeter part of the term comes from the German taxe, meaning a charge or a measure of costs. Invented by Wilhelm Bruhn in 1891, the taximeter originally clung to the wheel on the driver’s side, counting the revolutions.

Wilhelm Bruhn

The cabriolet carriage first entered England in 1823 before the invention of the taximeter. The English immediately shortened the name to cab. When the meters came across the Channel, the taximeter cabriolet became taxi cab. Now we say, “taxi” or “cab,” but rarely both.

I’ve had a few bouncing cab rides, lurching through city streets as I imagine the original cabriolet did. But they have reminded me less of a goat at play and more like a charging bull.

Visit me at ItalianIntrigues.blogspot.com where I write on alternate Thursday about all things Italian.

Unique Word, Common Problem

By Supriya Savkoor

Every now and then, I learn a new word that I wonder how I couldn’t have known before. The one I learned most recently was completely new to me, despite it describing a common phenomenon in a great many modern cultures.

In fact, the word irredentism itself is fairly modern. It comes from the Italian word irrendentismo, meaning “unredeemed,” and originally refers to a popular movement to unify all Italian-speaking people within a national identity. The movement unofficially began when France annexed the then-Italian island of Corsica in 1768, followed soon after by Napoleon’s annexation of Tuscany, Piedmont, and Liguria. The Kingdom of Italy considered any community in which Italians, or a majority of a population speaking Italian, a part of this “unredeemed Italy,” and made it its mission to unify Italians, a movement that took off in the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries.

The term came into use in 1866, when the Kingdom of Italy fought its third war of independence against the Austrian Empire and won back Venezia (Venice). Three years later, it achieved the milestone win of Rome itself, where the papacy had reigned supreme for more than a thousand years.

Irredentism was the main reason Italy entered World War I, after which it reclaimed several more important territories, including Trieste and Istria. Fascist Italy in World War II began annexing even areas in which Italians were only a minority, and after the war, the movement slowed down altogether.

By then, the idea of nationalism was catching on big elsewhere, with unification movements springing up across Europe along linguistic, cultural, and ethnic lines. Nationalist movements and ethnic uprisings began challenging and ultimately breaking up the powers of the Austro-Hungarian, Russian, and Ottoman empires, leading to the independence of many “majority” linguistic groups we now know as Greece, Serbia, Moldova, Bulgaria, Poland, Croatia, Serbia, Romania, Slovakia, Ukrainia, the Czech Republic, Slovenia, Cyprus, Egypt, Sudan, Armenia, Libya, Syria, Israel, Lebanon, and Turkey. These cultures formed national identities around their native tongue, including historic, folkloric, and literary traditions, and ultimately, around their common political aspirations.

Irrendentism plays a role in much of the world’s modern political challenges. When colonial powers redrew borders in Africa, Asia, and the Middle East, many of the resultant states were unhappy by the artificially imposed national borders, conflicting historical claims, and ethnic groups splitting up between countries (such as the Pashtuns between Afghanistan and Pakistan and the Yorubas between Nigeria and Benin).

An area claimed by more than one group is also considered irredentism, and no surprise, you’re already familiar with a bunch of them. China’s claim over Taiwan. The “tug of war” between Israel and the Palestinian National Authority over the West Bank and Gaza. India and Pakistan’s equal claims (and multiple wars) over Kashmir. Argentina’s longstanding claim over the Falkland Islands. The 2008 claim of independence by Kosovo. Greece’s claim over the name “Macedonia.” The now-resolved issue of Northern Ireland between the UK and Ireland.

The word appears in lots of white papers and policy briefs, along with such words as “nationalism” or even “revisionism.” And, of course, in the media. Surely now, you’ll see it more often, as I have. Such a big part of our world today, yet now that I know the precise word for it, it feels sadder somehow, perhaps a kind of proof that we’re trending toward splintering off rather than coming together?

Who knows. But as you contemplate my "new word" discovery, any words that surprised you or made you view the world a little differently? Do share.

The Road to Jiri

Road in Nepal, north of Kathmandu
Photo by U.S. Dept. of Agriculture

Alli is off for a couple of weeks, so we’re running another Nepalese adventure by Tracy Tyson, an occasional guest on the blog. Tracy is an American educator living in Nepal, where she trains teachers and helps schools set up Montessori programs. In a two-part travelogue, she describes a trip to Jiri, a village in the northeastern part of the country.

In early May, we had a two-day holiday and I was feeling a bit stir-crazy in Suspa, the village where I lived, so I decided to go to the town of Jiri. Once a popular departure point for climbing Mount Everest, Juri fell somewhat out of favor during the Maoist insurgency (1996—2006), and even though the insurgency is over, it still hasn't regained its former popularity. During the insurgency, trekkers hiking from Jiri to Lukla (the next large town on the way to Everest) would often run into groups of Maoists (or even non-Maoists taking advantage of the political instability) who insisted on a “donation” and often threatened to take it by force if it wasn't given freely. Needless to say, the trekkers rapidly began avoiding Jiri and environs.

I set off early in the morning to walk up to Charikot. It had been getting hot pretty early in the day as we headed into the Nepali summer, and I wasn’t relishing the idea of sitting on top of the bus in the sweltering heat. An hour and a half later, as I approached Charikot, it occurred to me that the bus hadn't passed me on the road yet. In fact, I hadn't seen any vehicles at all so far. At first I considered the possibility that road construction was holding up the traffic, but the closer I got to Charikot, the more I started to think that there was probably some kind of transportation bandh, or strike.

Bandhs of various kinds frequently occur in Nepal. Sometimes the strike only shuts down transportation or closes the schools. Other times, it brings absolutely everything to a standstill.

Strikes can occur in just one area or they can affect the whole country. Someone told me that the idea for these strikes came from the Maoists, who used them to shut down the country in order to put pressure on the government during the insurgency. Later, the situation got out of control, with people calling for strikes on a whim for no discernible reason. However, that might just be a nasty rumor started by someone who supported the monarchy. Who knows? When a group has a grievance that they don't feel is being properly addressed by the government, they usually call for a strike, but at times no one knows why the strike is being held.

Sure enough, when I arrived in Charikot there wasn't a bus in sight. I waited for 15 minutes to see if the lack of buses was some kind of temporary fluke, but all I saw on the road were a few trucks and motorcycles. Eventually I decided to ask the policeman at the traffic checkpoint if I was actually at the correct spot in the road to catch the bus. He told me that I was but that none of them were running that day. Although he explained why, my Nepali wasn't good enough to understand the reason. Then he asked the driver of a truck that had stopped at the checkpoint where he was going.

“Jiri,” the driver replied, and the policeman asked me if I wanted to ride along. I had no desire to walk back to Suspa and sit in my room for the next two days, so I accepted the offer.

Upon climbing into the truck’s cab, I noticed it already held a few people who’d been waiting at the bus stop earlier. Apparently, hitching a ride under such circumstances is fairly common. It was a tight squeeze in the cab but a lot more comfortable than the bus would have been, with padded seats and a great view out the window. At one point, a huge peacock flew across the road right in front of the truck and landed in a tree on the opposite side. It was gorgeous!

Gaurishankar, viewed from near Jiri
Photo by Sundar1

A couple of the passengers were teachers going to a conference in a town on the way to Jiri. We chatted for a bit in English, and when they got out, they were replaced by a family—mom, dad and a toddler. Nature particularly abhors a vacuum in Nepal!

With the truck loaded down and a very curvy road, we made top speeds of no more than 30 or 35 miles per hour—usually far less. At that pace, it took us four hours to reach Jiri.

Fifty years ago, Swiss contractors built the road leading to Jiri, and the town is often dubbed “Little Switzerland.” But whoever christened it with that moniker has apparently never been to Switzerland! The style of architecture is typically Nepali, although the town’s layout has a bit more order and organization to it than you usually find in small Nepali villages. Maybe that's what qualifies it as Swiss.

A single road runs through the town with lots of hotels and guesthouses on either side—tourism plays a major role in the local economy. One of Jiri’s claims to fame is a cheese factory, which sounds very Swiss, but the cheese is made from yak milk, which doesn't sound Swiss at all.

After arriving in Jiri, the truck parked on the main road and everyone got out of the cab. I set out to explore the town, get acquainted with the terrain, and scout out a good place to stay for the night.

Check back next week for the second half of Tracy’s adventures in Jiri.

From "Hashish-Eater" to Assassin

Alamut fortification in Iran
Photo by Payampak

By Heidi Noroozy

In 1930, British explorer and travel writer, Freya Stark, undertook an unusual journey across Persia, from the western province of Lurestan to the Caspian Sea. Her travels took her through a remote and as yet unmapped region of the Alborz Mountains called the Alamut Valley, better known to Westerners as the Valley of the Assassins.

Nearly 900 years before Freya Stark’s expedition, Alamut was home to a heretical sect of Shia mystics called the Nizari Ismailis. Their leader, Hassan-i Sabbah, captured Alamut Castle in 1090 and eventually expanded his territory to include 50 fortresses tucked away among the remote mountain peaks.

The Nizaris were a small band of men and their families surrounded by hostile enemies, and Hassan developed a strategy for dealing with threats to his power without sacrificing too many of his own soldiers. He would order them to kill enemy leaders, both political and religious, using stealth, cunning, and ruthlessness. Daggers were the murder weapons of choice, and often the Nizaris would leave a knife on the pillow of a sleeping target as a warning. This band of militant fanatics is long gone now (though the form of Islam that they followed is still practiced in parts of the Middle East and Central Asia), but they’ve left behind a chilling legacy: the word “assassin.”

Linguists disagree on how the term, “assassin,” came into English and other European languages, although most scholars attribute the word’s origin to the Nizari Ismailis, aka the Alamut Assassins. One theory comes from an account by Marco Polo, who visited Alamut in the 13^th century, not long after the sect and their stronghold were destroyed by Mongol invaders.

Castles in Alamut & Rudbar regions, Iran
Photo by Jolle

In his account of the trip, Marco Polo described a ritual in which Hassan-i Sabbah would give his young followers a drink laced with hashish that put them to sleep. He’d then place them in a beautiful garden filled with lovely maidens and wake them up, telling them they were in paradise. Later, when he sent them out on a mission, he’d promise them that if they were successful they’d return to paradise. According to legend, this practice earned the Assassins the nickname, hashishiyyeen, an Arab term meaning “hashish-eater.”

The problem with this theory is that neither Ismaeli nor other Muslim texts offer any evidence that the Assassins ever took hashish, a drug made from the resin of the cannabis plant and not usually administered in liquid form. Marco Polo’s account may have been influenced by the reports of Crusader chroniclers, who encountered the Ismailis on their holy wars. In any case, it’s unlikely that the explorer ever met any Assassins since their stronghold had been destroyed in 1256, when he was only two years old (and 132 years after Hassan-i Sabbeh’s death) .

Another theory is that the Arabic term, “hashish-eater,” had a different, more figurative connotation at the time. It meant “outlaw,” or “disreputable person,” and was likely applied to the Assassins by their enemies and not by the Nizaris themseves.

Hassan and his men called themselves the “asasayoon,” or “followers of the foundation (asas) of faith,” which leads to the third theory, that “assassin” derives from this word.

Siege of Alamut
Persian Miniature

Although this etymology sounds plausible, my money is still on “hashishiyyeen” in the figurative sense as the origin of the word. Usually it’s the victors who write the final chapter of any history, and it makes sense that the Alamut Assassins’ enemies would continue to call them outlaws decades or even centuries after they met their end.

Whatever the real origin of the word, “assassin” entered European languages during the Middle Ages. The Crusaders were frequent targets of Nizari attacks, including Conrad of Montferrat, who was assassinated shortly before being crowned King of Jerusalem. The first Western texts to document the use of the term are the chronicles of these holy wars.

Today, all that’s left of the Alamut Assassins are their crumbling fortresses, a tangle of legends, and a word that still chills the heart.

Off The Beaten Track: Bandra’s Spiritual Side

This week’s guest, Jayanti Shukla, an occasional guest blogger here at Novel Adventurers, is the head of operations for both United Way of India as well as United Way of Mumbai, a premier global non-profit network. As a long-time resident of Mumbai, she takes us this week on a unusual tour of one of the city's most glamorous neighborhoods.

If you are a Mumbaikar, meaning a resident of the city of Mumbai, India, and if your postal address has Bandra in it, then you are considered to have arrived! Bandra is known as the “Queen of the Mumbai Suburbs.” It’s home to many film and theatre stars, politicians, and expats. It’s also a highly coveted location for restaurants, pubs, and high-end stores. Over the generations, the Portuguese, Persians, and the East India Company have all contributed to its rather unique past in Mumbai’s (then Bombay) history.

I was fortunate to have lived in Bandra for 25 years. Being an avid walker, I would roam the inner lanes of this beautiful suburb often. There is still a lot of living history in Bandra, such as the old-timers, some in their 90s, who carry with them so many memories of life in old-time Bandra, that I often feel a sense of urgency in documenting their memories!

In comparison to other suburbs in the city, Bandra is uniquely cosmopolitan and has been home for generations to Hindus communities—the Maharashtrians, Marwaris, and other linguistic groups—as well as to Muslims, Catholics, the Zoroastrians, and the East Indians (the local name for the Catholic ethnic community that speaks Marathi; many East Indian families have lived in Bandra for generations). Mount Mary Church looks down benignly over the homes of the relatively well-heeled residents of Bandra who live on the hill of the same name. There are also some very old and forgotten places of worship in the older parts of Bandra, where a few devout still work hard to keep the old traditions alive.

I recently strolled the old lanes to learn more about these old forgotten places of worship. I felt transported to another era, so different from the bustling vibrant suburb of today that people know Bandra to be.

The Bandra Jain Temple

Tucked away at the end of a crowded lane off Hill Road in Bandra is the Jain Mandir, a temple for more than 140 Marwari Jain families, a trading community originating from the Indian state of Rajasthan and who have made Bandra their home for generations. Many of these families base their home-cum-shop in the bylanes around this temple. It’s obvious that the temple is what keeps the community together.

The original temple is more than 150 years old and was built in honour of the eighth Jain Tirthankar (or saint), Shri Chandraprabhu Swamiji. (The Jains follow the teachings of a lineage of 24 Tirthankars.) Some 35 years ago, the temple was renovated and a beautifully carved marble idol of the third Jain Tirthankar, Shri Sambhavnath Swamiji, was placed in the sanctum, while the idol of the eight saint was elevated to the “Shikhar,” or top of the temple, where it now resides. The temple also has idols of many other Jain saints and beautifully carved marble pillars. The marble, from the famed Makrana marble of Rajasthan, had been specially brought to Bandra, where skilled artisans specially crafted them. Quite a journey!

I found that generations of one particular Jain family, the Marlecha family of Marwad in Rajasthan, had been bestowed with the honour of being caretakers of the temple. It is well cared for thanks to generous support from the community. The temple ceremonies are many—including regular anointing of the idols with milk, saffron, and sandalwood. The religion lays great stress on donating alms for the less fortunate, and the poor throng outside the temple for free meals.

The Jari Mari Temple

For years, I took the 9:21 a.m. Bandra local train to work and watched as some commuters pushed their way out of the rush-hour trains on Tuesday mornings to make a dash for the Jari Mari Mandir (or temple), a stone's throw away from the station on S.V. Road, which runs parallel to the station road. After a quick prayer, commuters would dash back to board the next local train to get to work. What was it that made office-goers give up their seats, a coveted possession on a crowded local train, to jump out midway to go to this place of worship?

Jari Mari is one of the avatars, or incarnations, of the Hindu Goddess Shakti, a divine female power. The Jari Mari temple has a “Swayambhu” and “Jagrut” deity, meaning it is a miraculous natural creation and therefore considered to be alive and powerful.  Such a deity is said to have the power to fulfill wishes, and the temple’s devotees have immense faith that their prayers will be answered. This explains the provocation for commuters to brave their way out of a crowded train then make their way back after a quick daily visit to the temple!

The temple was built on the spot where the idol was first discovered by local dhobis, or washer men, and  the panchayat, or local governing body, decided to make the dhobi community the custodians of the temple. A lake  used to be behind the present temple premises, but it has since been drained and the land reclaimed, but the temple, which is now more than 300 years old, is believed to be as powerful and sacred as it was when it was first established.

The idol of the goddess is said to have appeared at this spot on January 9, 1696, on the auspicious day of “Angarika Chaturthi”—a special Tuesday dedicated to the elephant God Ganesh—and celebrated 300 years on January 9, 1996, when Bandra organized large-scale celebrations in the temple’s honour. 

Satghare Ram Mandir

Bazar Road Bandra is a narrow winding lane, with shops and hawkers on both sides. I love the sights and smells of this bazaar, so quaint and old world, with many even more narrow lanes branching off deeper into the locality. Who would have realized that in one of those narrower lanes is the Satghare Ram Mandir, a temple that’s more than  200 years old. I had to ask an old man sitting outside his shop for directions, and he obligingly offered to walk with me to show me the temple.

The gentleman who met me at the temple door was delighted that someone was showing interest in the temple and eagerly welcomed me in. There was something peaceful and calm about the Satghare Ram Mandir. I was told how Purushotam Malhar Seth, a well-to-do businessman of the Daivadnya Brahmin community, built the temple. Satghare, of which sat means seven and ghare means homes, refers to the seven households originally from Thane, a district near Mumbai, for whom this was the family temple. (Incidentally, Mumbai  is a city built on seven islands). Seth had acquired land in Bandra and built a bungalow here with a temple in it. Bandra was quite cut off from the mainland in those days, and this bungalow was more like a holiday retreat. As Seth was a staunch devotee of Lord Rama, he’d noted that there was no Ram temple in the suburbs. It is said that he also built the temple to bring together the people of the faith, who were in those days under pressure by the Portuguese to convert to Christianity. Looking at Seth’s  importance in the community, the British government bestowed on him the title of Mahajan, or very important person, in the community.

Dargah of Hazrat Pir Maulana Sufi Sultan Naqshbandi

Seeing my interest in wanting to document old places of worship in Bandra, my guide for the Satghare temple offered to take me to another such place, and he was sure even followers of the faith may not know of the existence of the dargah of Hazrat Pir Maulana Sufi Sultan Naqshbandi.

Tucked away in a narrow lane called Maulana Baba Lane, which runs alongside the big mosque, the Bandra Jama Masjid, on the arterial S.V. Road in Bandra, is a small dargah, which is the tomb or shrine of a Muslim saint. It looks quite nondescript from the outside, but step inside, and you are dazzled by the exquisitely intricate mirror inlay work on the ceiling of the dargah. This is the tomb of Hazrat Pir Maulana Sufi Sultan Naqshbandi, also known as Maulana Baba, a Sufi saint who settled in Bandra more than 100 years ago. Along one wall of the room sits a row of Sufis, devotees of the saint who recite the Ayate Karima, 7,000 verses from the Holy Quran, in a trance-like state. The recitation is performed by the Sufis on behalf of followers who come to pray at the dargah, since the Sufi saint is said to have the power to grant wishes.

Interestingly, it is said that Parsis (of the Zoroastrian faith) were among the early followers of the saint, and many of them used to visit the shrine to pray for his blessings.

It may be the queen of the suburbs, but for me, Bandra assumes a completely different meaning—a place where so many  communities and their places of worship coexist in complete harmony. It is no wonder that there is so much positive energy here, part of what makes it the energetic vibrant and unique place it is. 

A Walk in the Woods

By Edith McClintock

Normally I associate a great summer read with the word trashy. Preferably a sprawling family saga with sex, power, money, international intrigue, and of course a nice love story. But the Pacific Northwest is paradise this time of year, and I’ve been outdoors this past week celebrating my coming birthday with friends and family and wasting my free time watching the Olympics, so I’m going to recommend a different kind of great summer read.

Today is my birthday and I am hiking somewhere in the North Cascades of Washington, two days out on a hopefully grizzly-free, five-day trip. Last year on my birthday I was hiking in Borjomi-Kharagauli National Park in the Republic of Georgia—an over-night trip that unfortunately included too many rounds of birthday cheers and vodka shots with a group of Georgian, German, Estonian, French, and American hikers. Drinking and hiking is an experience I will NEVER repeat, but in honor of out-of-shape, alcoholic hikers, unfathomable gear, and the pleasures and pains of meandering mountain passes, I’d like to recommend one of my favorite books: A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson.

The book chronicles Bill Bryson’s return to the United States after twenty years living in Britain and his trek along the 2,100-mile Appalachian Trail, which stretches from the other Georgia to Maine. Bryson offers plenty of ecological and historical perspectives on the trail, but the best parts are his hilarious descriptions of his hiking buddy, a recovering alcoholic childhood friend from Iowa, their shopping excursions for gear, and their general ineptitude along the trail. It's a classic, and if you haven't read it yet, there's no better time than summer.

Here are a few excepts:

“So I decided to do it [hike the Appalachian Trail]. More rashly, I announced my intention - told friends and neighbors, confidently informed my publisher, made it common knowledge among those who knew me. Then I bought some books... It required only a little light reading in adventure books and almost no imagination to envision circumstances in which I would find myself caught in a tightening circle of hunger-emboldened wolves, staggering and shredding clothes under an onslaught of pincered fire ants, or dumbly transfixed by the sight of enlivened undergrowth advancing towards me, like a torpedo through water, before being bowled backwards by a sofa-sized boar with cold beady eyes, a piercing squeal, and slaverous, chopping appetite for pink, plump, city-softened flesh.”

“Nearly everyone I talked to had some gruesome story involving a guileless acquaintance who had gone off hiking the trail with high hopes and new boots and come stumbling back two days later with a bobcat attached to his head or dripping blood from an armless sleeve and whispering in a hoarse voice, "Bear!" before sinking into a troubled unconsciousness.”

“Finally with a weary puff, you roll over, unhook yourself from your pack, struggle to your feet, and realize—again in a remote, light-headed, curiously not-there way—that the view is sensational: a homeless vista of wooded mountains, unmarked by human hand, marching off in every direction. This really could be heaven. It's splendid, no question, but the thought you cannot escape is that you have to walk this view, and this is the barest fraction of what you will traverse before you've finished.”

“But I got a great deal else from the experience. I learned to pitch a tent and sleep beneath the stars. For a brief, proud period I was slender and fit. I gained a profound respect for the wilderness and nature and the benign dark power of woods. I understand now, in a way I never did before, the colossal scale of the world. I found patience and fortitude that I didn't know I had. I discovered an America that millions of people scarcely know exists. I made a friend. I came home.”

Books that Feel Like Summer

By Beth Green

For the last few months, I, ever the book lover, have been hunting down and web-snipping lists of “summer books.” As happens every year, celebrities, newspapers, National Public Radio and many blogs have weighed in on what they consider summer reads. Like Santa Claus, I’ve been checking them twice―looking for that elusive, definitive, capital-L List of books guaranteed to whisk me off to fantasyland on an e-ink carpet.

I haven’t found that List yet, but I discovered a few worth mentioning here.

For example, Slate.com has a list of books for the beach, about the beach.

The NPR has many lists, including lesser-known books for kids’ and teens’ books, and funny ones too for summer.

A chapter of the Sisters in Crime mystery writers' group (all of us Novel Adventurers are proud SinC members) has provided a list ofbeach-worthy reads written by authors in the group.

Perusing these lists and compiling them into my own List made me ponder what a “summer read” really signified for me.

Before starting high school, I was home-schooled and read non-stop, no matter the season. When I entered public school, I welcomed the summer months as a time when I could read something for pleasure, school weeks being hectically full of social activities. During summers in high school, I practiced Spanish by reading Harlequins from the bilingual section of the library and rummaged through garage sales for ten-cent books. At university, I decided summer reads should be more Educational (yes, thinking of it with a capital E), and I slipped into all the classics I could find: Anna Karenina, Thornton Wilder’s plays, Chekov, ancient Greek poetry, Ayn Rand, and a lot of literature that I’m glad I read but perhaps didn’t so much enjoy reading.

But, after my school days, it’s been hard for me to keep track of what books I’ve read in what season. Books snatch me up and carry me so far away from my normal life on their storylines that, while I realize that I must have been in some way aware of the passing of the seasons, I don’t connect it to the book I was reading at the time. It’s my favorite part of reading for pleasure―the journey outside my here and my now to wherever the writer has mandated.

So, I’d like to offer my own short list of books to the panoply of (probably better) lists on-line. The books I’ve selected perhaps at first glance seem dissimilar. They don’t fit in a particular genre and probably wouldn’t attract the same readership. But all of them are about getting out and doing the things we all want to be doing during the summer. They, at least in me, stirred up that last-day-of-school tingle of excitement.

Even if you haven’t got the time to sit down and read these books before summer greenery turns into autumn’s yard work, they’re worth finding and keeping aside until winter (or perhaps just until a forlorn bad-weather day that needs a touch of sunshine) because, if you’re like me, they will transport you to an endless summer.

1. Beach Music by Pat Conroy

I did read this book during summer―when I was still in school. Now, more than 10 years later, I remember the passages about food and the way Conroy evoked the feeling of walking on the beach, at night, even though I was actually on a bus, driving through the rain, on my way to a summer job.

2. The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway

Perhaps because he wrote it during the summer, this, more than Hemingway’s other novels, pulls me into summertime feeling. The parties, the travel, the crazy nights―it all spells s-u-m-m-e-r.

3. Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert

I get laughed at every time I mention this travelogue to my bookworm friends, but I will continue to sing its praises. In the summer, who doesn’t want to jet off to Italy for pasta and romance, to India for some spiritual cleansing, and to Bali for enlightenment and, yes, more romance?

4. Across China by Peter Jenkins

Travelogues almost always make me feel summery, so that’s why I’m including two on this list. This thick description of Jenkins’ trip to China when the country was just beginning to ‘open’ to foreign influences again is a pleasure as much for his physical journey from his farmhouse and pregnant wife to the Mt. Everest Base Camp as it is for his emotional journey as he sees and experiences new things.

5. The Vision by Heather Graham

One of my favorite warm-day activities is scuba diving. So, I knew I was going to like it when I picked up this paranormal mystery. Graham serves up plenty of scuba adventures, a strong female lead character, and a great backdrop of the Florida Keys. Sounds like sunny vacation time to me!

6. Careless in Red by Elizabeth George  

I do love a detective-on-vacation story and this one and the next book on my list are good both for thrills and for vicarious traveling. In this novel, George’s main series character, Thomas Lynley, seeks the remote Cornish coast to help him recover from the loss of a loved one (trying not to put in any spoilers for those who haven’t started the fantastic Lynley series). Though the fog-swept bluffs and rocky beaches described in the book won’t make everyone’s heart sing “summer,” I certainly got the feeling I was on vacation while reading.

7. The Web by Jonathan Kellerman

A different type of holiday is in store for amateur sleuth (and professional psychologist) Alex Delaware, Kellerman’s main series character, when Delaware accepts a short assignment on a tropical island in the Pacific. The island itself may be a figment of Kellerman’s amazing creative powers but it doesn’t feel like it while you are reading the book. The foliage, the beaches, the reefs…if you want an island vacation but your budget doesn’t, this book is a quick way to get a taste of beach-side living, with a thrilling storyline to boot.

What books make you feel like summer?