Novelist and master of travel writing Paul Theroux, who made his name journeying from the U.K. to Japan and back by train for The Great Railway Bazaar, hit the open road for his latest book. We spoke to him about his most recent trips—and how he's changed as he's traveled the world.
Where have you just returned from?
I've spent three or four months of almost every summer, from 1971 or '72 until the present one, in Cape Cod, where I am right now, without really moving. Traveling in the summer is no fun, because everyone else is doing it. The weather in Cape Cod is lovely throughout autumn, so I plant myself there, then travel in the middle of winter or in the spring. I also find that I get a lot of work done in the summer; you can only write if you're in one place for an extended period of time, without interruption.
What is your earliest holiday memory?
Going to visit my aunt and uncle in Hartford, Connecticut, when I was seven or eight. My parents put me on the train in Boston, alone, and I sat by the window. It was early summer, and I just looked out at the tobacco fields. It's a memory of being free and very content. I definitely had the feeling that I wanted to do it again, so that's the origin of my wanderlust, I suppose.
What is the greatest train route on earth?
Ho Chi Minh City to Hanoi. It was built after the Vietnam War ended. You can book a sleeper and continue up to the Chinese border. It's a really interesting coastal route, with nice people and a sense of forgiveness, which is a very big thing because so much was destroyed in the war.
What made you want to write a book about Mexico?
When I was working on an earlier book, I went to Nogales, Arizona, which is right on the border with Mexico. I had never seen the 30-foot rusty steel fence that divides the two before. It's a strange, beautiful object, like a sculpture running through the landscape. It had a door in it, and it was fairly straightforward: I parked my car in Arizona, went through it, and suddenly I was in Mexico, with Mexican food, people, beer, tacos. I met migrants who were trying to get into the U.S., people who had been kicked out. Then Trump became president. One of the reasons for travel is to destroy stereotypes, so I thought, I'm going to write about Mexico and see what it is, every bit of it.
How has your love of travel evolved?
When I started traveling I was a self-involved smarty-pants. I thought that a travel book was about the traveler: I like this, I don't like that. At some point I put my ego in check and realized that it isn't about whether you're having a good or bad time; it's about the stories people tell.
Do you have a favorite city?
I find city life nasty, but if I had to choose one, I would say London. You can still live in a house in London; my kids, Louis and Marcel, live in houses there. You can't do that in Manhattan. People in London are friendly, and it's a lovely place to visit.
And a favorite view?
Looking west from Waimea Bay in Hawaii, past the palm trees and the outcrops of lava rock, to the Pacific. There's something about watching the sea that is very calming, and it keeps changing with the light.
A place that most lived up to the hype?
New England in the autumn. It never fails to dazzle me. The trees turn golden. Henry David Thoreau said, 'The leaves teach us how to die,’ so when you see the changing of the season, you think, Well, this is a cycle. It's what is going to happen to us.
How do you relax?
I lie on very hot sand on a beach in Hawaii and fall asleep, with the heat against my back, and snore and drool.
The most interesting person you've met?
A beachcomber, north of Cooktown in Australia. He was originally from England, and he was alone, with a dog and an orderly little camp where he was brewing beer. He was building a raft, which he said he was going to sail around the country. I asked, ‘Do you think you can do it?’ He said, ‘You can go anywhere if you're not in a hurry.’ I don't know whether he made it, but that guy made an impression on me more than any head of state, painter, or writer.
What do you pack first?
It used to be a Swiss Army knife, but you can't travel with them anymore. Something that I always carry with me is a briefcase I've had for many, many years, made by Glaser Designs in San Francisco, which becomes almost like a portable office.
What's your guilty pleasure?
Fish and chips, more than a gourmet meal. One of the great fish-and-chip countries of the world is South Africa.
Where in the world do you feel happiest?
The guilty secret of this world traveler is that I love being at home. I have two: one in Cape Cod and one in Hawaii. When you reach a certain age, you figure out where it is you want to live, what kind of bed you want, what kind of library, what kind of swimming pool, what kind of garden. And then that becomes where you're happiest. But if you're talking about a country, I would say Mexico. I love the food, I find the people amiable—they make wonderful friends once you've earned their respect—and the landscape is everything. It has mountains, beautiful coastline, jungles, forests. And one of the great cities of the world: Mexico City, 22 million people, more than 150 museums. Plus I speak the language. That's an essential.
Anywhere you still want to go?
Well, I've never been to Greenland, Norway, Finland, or Sweden. But I do have a fuck-it list of places I'd never go back to. Anywhere there is a cave, cavern, or underground bunker. Skydiving out of a plane—definitely on the fuck-it list. It's actually a longer list than the bucket list.
Theroux's new book On the Plain of Snakes: A Mexican Road Trip ($30, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt) is out now.