The End of Travels With Charley
Apr 22, 2025
Tags: books steinbeck
I’m not going to call this a book review, but it’s me talking about reading a book, how that book made me feel, how I reacted to those feelings and maybe even some critiques about the writing - or author - or content, yet despite all this I maintain the position that, no, this is not a review of a book. I will warn you that there could be spoilers, so if you’ve never read the book and want to go in fresh, perhaps you skip this.*
When I first started this book, I was certain the dog would not make it out alive. I had written the ending myself, signed the warrant for the titular French poodle and sent him down the green mile. There, at the end, with every page turned, I could feel my hands choking up on the cold steel of the knife switch, which when thrown kachunk would seal the fate of our furry traveling companion. And here, so certain was I just 5 days ago, I sit in the seat of an airplane without tears in my eyes, knowing that Charley got to live out his days in Sag Harbor, pronouncing his F’s ftt* and going about his days, doing this and that or nothing in particular the way his French teachers would have wanted. Or, at least this is the idealized vision of his life as I’m not quite sure that’s what had happened.
This could be the fastest I’ve finished a book. Started on an airplane as I left my home in Los Angeles to visit my parents in Massachusetts, only for us to pile into a van and drive, along with a black haired Cocker Spaniel, to meet with my Fiancées family in Ohio - a celebration of our engagement! It, the book, felt a fitting travel companion - Colby the Cocker Spaniel would prove to be more of an acquaintance than Charley, as he’s taken to imprinting on my parents, them and them alone own his heart, though he may tolerate you scratching his ears or patting his rear he’d as soon move on to the lap of my mom or the side of my dad and deliver you a dirty look as thanks. As I flew for the first leg of this journey I had thrown the book in my bag and started it as we taxied the runway.
I feel as though I’m giving an impression of my past self, through examples of past actions, that make me sound like an scatterbrained and irresponsible person. Unfinished rolls of film, abandoned websites, projects unrealized - perhaps in the past I was distracted by the things all young men are distracted by; hope for a future with someone you love, the prospect of a fulfilling or profitable career, the bottom of a good or cheap bottle - possibly more than one: the wandering eye of an artist can be a difficult thing to train and wander around it must in order to settle focus on things that it can carry across the line. I’ve had my tastes evolve and as I age I feel as though I’m able to, now, especially now by god, appreciate understand be-critical-of and experience things better than I did in my youth. Previously it was for them. Now, this is for me. And you, I guess, as I write this for a website, but no one really reads this anyway, so I maintain, steadfast this is for me.
As I read, on the plane, at near page 60 my erratic past-self reared up; a bookmark fell to the floor. Sixty pages! And not a thing remembered or felt familiar aside the name of his truck, Rocinante - a name I have never heard pronounced, have not looked up how to pronounce, and will continue to pronounce differently each time I read it, be it here or in Quixotic legend. By the time that flight landed - hooked - post one crying session early on, I had gotten through more than twice what my past-self had. And why shouldn’t I? He was a dummy hell bent on destroying himself, and I am an engaged sophisticate, on the hunt for the answers and solutions to problems I didn’t even know I had, all while I’ve still got my wits about me.
I feel so acquainted with the author that in my nightly Journal I’d refer to him as John, not Steinbeck or Mr. Steinbeck, no formalities with us, I’ve been introduced to him, shared coffee and whiskey with him, have even been granted permission to tour his beloved steed and commiserate with his dog, addressing him as anything other than ‘John’ just feels inappropriate - but I will not be caught calling him Juanito.
John, as he meanders across the country in his unique way, shows us a vision of America that feels unchanged, recognizable by the same plights, joys and struggles - 1960 and 2025 will have more in common with regards to social issues and civics than it should. In a way, his descriptions of the family fights about the elections and Republicans versus Democrats should come as no shock, but we’ve been conditioned to believe that these things have been so far exacerbated by todays extremism that we may forget the crowds of southerners cheering the exclusion of black and POC students as they began their struggles with integrating public schools. This wasn’t that long ago, it’s always been extreme and states rights has always been an excuse for racist laws. John spoke, with what I can only describe as a left-leaning centrist rhetoric that was more than likely shocking to many readers at the time - his actions and personal stories being very clear that he feels segregation wrong and sad and disillusioning, but he never comes right out and says, it is implied, subtly, if you can call kicking a man out of your truck while pretending to search for a gun that doesn’t exist subtle. These days I prefer someone to flat out announce they think racism is wrong and that segregation is bad, there is no more time for nuance, nor time for centrism.
John and I share several views of our country; the Midwest is too large and flat, the central coast of California is one of the greatest areas touched by the painterly hand of God, the nonsense over the idea of Texas is inflated (much like everything in Texas) and New England breeds stout, stern people who know how to survive a winter. These things remain unchanged by time. I would love to know what he thinks of the population explosion of Salinas, Monterey and Santa Cruz as it stands now, or of the current hogwash happening in our government (There I go with centerist rhetoric - hogwash). As he visited his home of Salinas he walked a hill where he was able to pin-point important and personal moments from his childhood and his parents lives, and the fondness he speaks of those moments and the willingness to be in those memories and remembrances made me cry. I fear that as I age and my parents move on, I may see my childhood one last time and abandon it forever, not because of some deep seeded hatred of it or from where I come from, but in the way that you fall out of touch with an old friend - you don’t set out to talk to someone for the last time, it’s just one of those thieves in life that sneaks up on you and picks your pocket of contact. A sad part of being a human who has stress and loves and dreams and sadness.
John presents himself like a man who was never afraid of being afraid, and never shielded himself from the pain of needing to express emotion. Though he sounded stout and strong, he was that certain kind of passionate and caring man that I hope to be. With all things generational, like him, I hope to be not only unmoved by change in the name of progress, but I hope to understand change I don’t understand as maybe change not meant for me. He knew that Salinas was destined to be more than a dusty cannery town and that southern schools shouldn’t stay segregated, even if these things could be scary or foreign to some.
I think in my lifetime, just as in anyone with blood rushing through their veins, I’ve suffered through plenty of Great Heartbreaks - the loss of my first dog, the young death of a best friend, the bitter defeat of my first relationship, and never having had the pleasure of eating tacos with Jonathan Gold. Now, having finished Travels with Charley, I add never having experienced coffee with John Steinbeck. To be with him, watching him brew his coffee, making conversation while he pours, observing him listening carefully to my answers and then being rewarded with him reaching for a bottle - it would be an experience worth all the weight carried by Rocinante, the drink that warmed the soul for ages, and to receive that bottle as a gift? My god the pain I feel on my soul - it is cut deep and all I can do to mend the wound is to live my life the same way; always offer coffee, don’t be concerned if the accompanying bottle isn’t top shelf, pour a little extra when you’ve just got going. And don’t forget to listen, to your guests and to your Charley (or Charlie).
