One hundred and sixty years ago this month, Edgar Allan Poe met a penniless end after being found on the streets of Baltimore. The city of Baltimore has been host to many celebrations of the poet’s life and works, and the focus on this city is fitting, as Poe felt much adoration for Baltimore, having lived there for several years. But 2009 also marks the 200th anniversary of the poet’s birth, and this year the city of Boston put aside pride to commemorate a decidedly prodigal son.

Edgar Allan Poe was born on Carver Street in Boston, Massachusetts, to actors Elizabeth Arnold Hopkins and David Poe. Though he moved to Virginia when he was only three years old, after his parents died, Poe returned to Boston after dropping out of the University of Virginia. Only 18, Poe faked his age and name to enlist in the Army, and was subsequently stationed briefly at Castle Island in the Boston harbor. Poe later moved back to the south, but he returned to Boston a year before he died.

Unlike Longfellow, Lowell, and the other Boston literati of his time, Poe scorned the city, insulting Boston with barbs that sting as only the gleefully clever can. In fact, a very public debate played out in contemporary newspapers following his appearance at the Boston Lyceum in 1845. After audience members took offense to Poe’s demeanor, a Boston editor published a critical review insulting his work. In response, Poe wrote:
We like Boston. We were born there–and perhaps it is just as well not to mention that we are heartily ashamed of the fact. The Bostonians are very well in their way. Their hotels are bad. Their pumpkin pies are delicious. Their poetry is not so good. Their common is no common thing–and the duck-pond might answer–if its answer could be heard for the frogs. But with all these good qualities the Bostonians have no soul. …The Bostonians are well-bred–as very dull persons very generally are. (Poe, The Broadway Journal, Nov 1, 1845.)

Surprisingly, Poe’s first published work, an 1827 collection of poems entitled “Tamerlane,” was signed simply, “By a Bostonian.” Eighteen years later, Poe would vilify Bostonians, who he often referred to as Frogpondians: “The fact is, we despise them and defy them (the transcendental vagabonds!) and they may all go to the devil together.” (Poe, The Broadway Journal, Nov 22, 1845.)

And now, all these years later, the transcendental vagabonds have finally honored the great poet: although his birthplace is now occupied by a State Transportation Building, the corner of Boylston and Charles streets shall evermore be known as Poe Square.

Check out the newest article on LiteraryTraveler.com to learn about the “Poe Toaster,” a mysterious masked man who pays a tribute to Poe annually at the poet’s grave.

Chuck Klosterman is an American humorist, best known for writing on rock music and pop culture. But did you know that he is also a travel writer? In his book, Killing Yourself to Live: 85% of a True Story, Klosterman traces across the United States, visiting the sites where famous rock and roll artists died. Much of the book focuses on his relationship with three women in his life, and his writing is often in the same high-speed, ranting, colorful style as his earlier works such as Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs: A Low-Culture Manifesto. But at its heart, Killing Yourself to Live is a road story, following the classic American structure of a man with existential questions searching for answers on the open highway. And while Klosterman includes many fictional elements, the theme of music’s “death sites” lends itself well to travel writing. The impact of music, like the sense of a physical place, can be hard to translate into words. Klosterman’s writing isn’t explicitly interested in travel, but he clearly understands the link between place and sound, how a few details can stick in the mind and conjure up an entire experience. Klosterman uses the limitations of one to convey the other: listing off band names to convey the cooler-than-thou attitude of Manhattan, or capturing the hopeless boredom of a late night drive by describing the changing songs on the radio.

As I traveled through Europe I found myself standing on the stone street of Carrer Moncada awaiting the doors to open of the Pablo Ruiz Picasso Museum in Barcelona, Spain. The line began to expand as the light trickled from the sky fell upon our heads; my roommate and I discussed our previous day traveling the streets of La Rambla viewing the amazing street performers and our thoughts on Paella, the famous Spanish dish.

The modern design structure that accommodates many creations by Picasso seemed miles away through crowd of tourists, however it was not long before the formation began to move and the walls of the museum enveloped us and our minds.

Upon entering the museum I gained a contemporary, leisurely feel and instantly felt comfortable among the many strangers who had also traveled to view the works of a brilliant artist. We were greeted by a brief synopsis of Picasso’s life and an insight into his creations. Picasso’s work was separated through the eras in his life and styles of work. The museum was conveniently divided into segregated rooms dismissing any feeling of an uneasy concentration.

As I entered each room I felt content about the amount of paintings; the division of the works made it possible to tackle and fully look at each and every work with appreciation.

I took my time and gazed upon each work,  and I began to notice the amazing amount of paint strokes that still prominently sit upon the canvas. It was as if Picasso had just taken the bristles off the canvas, as if he had just made his final stroke upon the canvas through the withstanding color. How did he know it was his last stroke? How did he know that was the last sweep upon the canvas? These were the questions that absorbed my mind as I looked closely at each painting and wondered the thoughts that crept through his reasoning.

Seeing the indents of the bristles made each painting come alive, they helped portray a sense of the pristine. Each sighting of bristles made me feel as if Picasso were standing behind me with a paintbrush in his hand dripping with paint.

As I entered each era a different ambiance took over my state of mind. The Blue Era often felt dreary, the Cubism Era often presented confusion and thought and the Rose Era felt carefree and joyous. One of my favorite paintings by Picasso, which I was delighted to witness, is titled ‘The Tragedy.’  It was composed during the time of the Blue Era. This painting resembles despair and an indefinite occurrence that lurks upon each individual. I stood close to the painting to understand their despair, and listened for a whisper that could explain the thoughts and feelings Picasso had while creating this work, there were no whispers, only my own thoughts about the composition and ideas as to what the infinite tragedy could be. When I see this painting I see three people searching for answers and lost in their own questions, I see them turning their back upon what is behind them, yet shutting off the one that stands before them. I see three people caught in a contradiction and lost in where to go.

I chose to go to the Pablo Ruiz Picasso museum because of my own curiosity. I had the privilege of briefly learning about him through various art classes but never thoroughly had the chance to dive into the entirety of his life.

Picasso was a man of exploration; he entered into art through realism but found the lines too constrictive and incorporated his own vision and definition of art.

The feeling you get from a beautiful view.

It was like a drug; addicted to the view that only made us want to persevere and never stop. It was breathtaking, amazing, and indefinable. It was the motivation to start something new and to let go of something old. It was a view of the unreachable. It was a breath, a smile, a sigh, a vision, all of something new. It was hard, grueling, painful, sweat, and pulsing. It was claming, soothing and the sounds of waves against rocks. It was a new perfection. It was a view of the larger things in life that are often never seen or understood. It was a chance; a chance to forget, a chance to push, and a chance to continue when it hurt.

It was worth it. It was freedom. It was a bird soaring through the air. It was crisp. It was an opportunity to see everything for what it truly stands for in our lives. It was alive; it woke us from our lives, our reality and put us into reality. Everything became so small, so indifferent and so useless. The fights, the tears, the anger, the worry, the aching, the dread, the pain; the emotions that fulfill our lives quickly floated away with each exhale. The beauty before us erased the want to ever allow the little things to become enormous barriers. Its tranquility became us, seeped into our skin and touched our souls while its calmness and beauty enveloped our hearts and memory.

Was it this place, or what we saw?

It was beyond the beauty of the shadow of the sun setting along the mountains. The addiction of the view pushed us, and the want to see it all pulled us to our destination. It was my everything. It was my realization. It was my savior. Each step turned into a new realization, a step with my right and I realized that it is only possible to deal with obstacles that stand in my way. Step with my left and I understood that in order to get to a destination, all I can do is get there. If an obstacle falls in the way, I must deal with it to continue. It was the fact that I can only overcome a rock when it stands in front of me and I can only deal with a hill when it lies before me. Obstacles are unfailingly present but to overcome and surpass them, is to stare into their soul. It showed me inevitably that all obstacles, large or small, will constantly exist and arise, however not to fret, worry or be concerned, only when they stand in my path do I or should I recognize it as a real issue.

It was an addiction. It was peaceful; it was a feeling upon our hearts that has been absent a whole lifetime. It was unreal and unimaginable. It was us living and walking through the discovery of our unknown.

It was everything.

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Save the date for the Literary Traveler Conference. The conference will be held at The Hotel Marlowe in Cambridge, MA. More details to follow along with registration information.