Today I am en route for Spain. Currently hovering somewhere over the panhandle of Idaho or maybe the rugged western region of montana (it hardly matters either way). I have in front of me a copy of Sartre's "Nausea" which I have been waiting for some time to find. It has prompted me to begin writing. As I read the diary of Antoine Roquetin, I'll be writing my own. Sartre's journalist in the novel writes "What is there to fear in such a regular world?" My own situation is of course not free from this fear. Perhaps the point or object of travel is to recognize a surface level difference and that after experiencing and participating in that culture, one is reassured that the world operates on a "regular" order. I hope this is not the case. As sartre appropriately titles "Nausea", there is no gurantee of regularity in the bowel tract of existential living.
