An excerpt from the first great novel of post postmodernism:
The West for desire, the East for home. American adventure smells like gasoline and cheap perfume. Adventure is an event that is out of the ordinary, without necessarily being extraordinary, according to Sartre. I like this definition. Travel is the easiest way to obtain adventure. The experience is undoubtedly out of the ordinary – you are paying for a break from the ordinary, and when you take the trip it is a story, always a story.
But then, when you’re on the way home, you get that feeling, maybe anxiousness, maybe homesickness, and you don’t want to be in between home and travel; you want to be either/or. And when you arrive home you are different because you have had a new adventure, an experience that you have never had before. That allows you to understand that every experience is new, every fucking second is a variation, not a repetition, and that in each life-glimmer there is potential, however minute, for adventure.
You glimpse this upon your return, and you tell your friends your stories, and you feel proud to have had such daring experiences, such startling breaks from reality, and everyone enjoys hearing about these adventures, because they allow us to move away from the monotony of our forgetfulness. But pretty soon you get back to work, and the routine takes hold of you by the neck, and tucks you tightly so that you forget about possibility. And even though work is a kind of adventure, it quickly becomes the routine we crave.