The world draws closer through globe and atlas
Where in the world is Kiribati? With his love for maps, atlases, and globes, Robert Klose knows.
By Robert Klosefrom the May 4, 2007 edition
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I'm sure I'm not alone in my love of maps. I can be just as happy with an open atlas as with a fine novel or newsy magazine. Talk about getting lost in a book: Once I commence my journey through the world of maps, I become irretrievably consumed, oblivious to the world around me.
I'm not sure what exactly it is that draws me in. The color-coded countries? The shapes of the land masses? The exotic place names? Surely it must be some alluring combination of all these.
The thing is, can there be a better way to indulge one's wanderlust short of hitting the road in the flesh? Here, then, is my perfect evening: I pour a mug of hot chocolate, adjust the pillows on the sofa, turn on the reading lamp, curl up in my quiet corner, and open an atlas. Where shall I commence my journey this time? Australia? The American South? Myanmar? It really doesn't matter, for despite my chosen trajectory, I always get diverted into interesting byways, backwaters, and vest-pocket principalities.
As I said, the colors themselves offer one aspect of the attraction, but the place names give one much more to chew on. Just listen to this pleasant poetry: Gulf of Bothnia, Andalucía, Sevastopol, the Cheviot Hills, Kandahar, Elbasan, the Tunguska ... and on and on.
And then there are the – to English speakers – unpronounceables: Kyzyl, Bydgoszcz, Hódmezövásárhely, Nyainqêntanglha.
When I delve into a map, I feel as if I am sinking my arms up to the elbows in one of those proverbial chests of jewels Middle Eastern folk heroes are always chancing upon – so many riches, so much color, and so many worlds within worlds.
As I run my eyes over the Atlas Mountains of Morocco, the Hungarian plain, the endless Siberian forest, or the tiniest of islands in the South Pacific, I find myself considering that there are lives being led in these places. At the very moment I am looking down at Bhutan and running my little finger over that tiny Himalayan state, I imagine a man – a farmer, perhaps – carrying his young son to bed and pausing to whisper a few last loving words to him in a language indecipherable to me. Then it's lights out in Bhutan, and I am off to another wonderland where dawn may be breaking.
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