Maps

There's something about maps that fascinates me.  I don't know when it started or, for that matter, why, but I collect maps as much as I can.  Unlike some, I actually sit down and peruse them from time to time just for the fun of it.

Maps tell a story beyond just giving directions.  They possess within them history above all.  They certainly possess geography.  But they can reveal things that are quite personal as well.

When I look at a map of Spain, I remember certain trips I took during my year abroad.  I search for Arriondas, where I had a meal of bread, cheese, strawberries and a Coke in lieu of a bottle of wine.  I look for Tossa de Mar, one of my most favorite places on the planet.  I search out the tiny northwestern village of Cariño, where I took an all-day trek in a bus so that I could mail a letter to our Mother and get its post stamp.  I trace the roads I road in cars or buses, search out rail lines and reminisce about the times I spent in places.  Finding Pedraza reminds me of the wild puente I experienced there eating roast lamb.  I go southeast and find El Saler, where I snuck into a five star hotel hard against the Mediterranean, then glance northwards to see where I spent the night in a phone booth.  Then I go back to the north and Santillana de Mar, where an Irishman bought me beer after beer in thanks for rescuing him from the awkward attempt to order dinner.

I find a map of Ireland and look for the jetty that juts out into the bay beside Dublin against the Irish Sea.  Our uncle and I took a long walk there once.  I find Cong and Ma'am's Cross and remember the wild beauty that is Connemara.  I go back east and look for Skerries, where our uncle's typical control of the situation was trumped by a pair of distant relatives whose Arsenic and Old Lace routine proved too much for our uncle's seminarian training.

I find the United States maps and look for Iowa City, then search out all the routes I used to ride on my bicycle.  I try to pinpoint scenic vistas along the routes, remembering how they impressed me enough on my ride that I later went back in a car and photographed them.  I search for Door County in Wisconsin and look across Lake Michigan to Traverse City, two of my favorite places to visit.  I search the Upper Peninsula and remember how it awed the young boy I was then. 

Kentucky's relatively new to me, but I still search out the maps and look for Carter Caves and the Natural Bridge.  I remember the lush countryside that ultimately provided me with my girl.  I go further southeast and remember the majesty of the Smokies and the Cumberland Gap, wishing I'd wussed out and let Karen drive so I could sightsee more.  I find Cowpens, South Carolina, and remember how close we came to being able to visit my first Revolutionary War site.  Now I look at the Florida map and trace our trip from Pensacola to Destin.

I go back across the pond and find Coimbra, the college town with so much history in Portugal, then struggle to find Entroncamento, the rail hub where I got off to switch trains.  It reminds me of how sunny it was then, how young I was with my life ahead of me, and how I wondered if I'd ever return to visit.  I go north along the coast, searching for the site of that photograph I took of the fisherman's chapel on the beach against the Atlantic.  Then there's Oporto, where I engaged in my only act of drunkenness in Iberia.  Farther north still in Spain is Santiago de Compostela and the mislabeled Finisterre, which conveniently ignores the spur of Portugal farther south that is well past Finisterre's claimed location.

I enjoy books about maps.  The Island of Lost Maps wasn't something I could exactly emphathize with, but it did keep me enthralled.  How the States Got Their Shapes, although it's been panned, is another book I want to read.  And recently Maphead came out, which has caught my eye.  From what I've read about the book, I may not enjoy every chapter in it, but I do want to read it.

How maps are made intrigues me.  I can't figure out how cartographers were so accurate prior to the advent of satellites.  Nautical maps blow me away; how can one be so certain about what lies beneath the waves?  Nautical maps, in addition, have just as much history as do topographical maps about land.

That there are people out there that can't read maps amazes me.  I could understand not being able to calculate altitudes or depths based on maps, but not knowing which way is north on a map puzzles me.

I'm sure it's the inner nerd in me that cherishes maps so.  I hit upon a way to get maps cheaply and called or wrote various state and country tourist bureaus asking for tourist packages and always made sure to ask for highway maps.  Cheap, I know, but it works.

And I have plenty of maps to satisfy my love of map reading.

(c) 2013 The Truxton Spangler Chronicles