Funny old world: What's my job title again? (photo by Sara Riano)

​What do we talk about when we talk about travel writing? 
After 25 years in the business, Paul Oswell still isn't completely comfortable

In the very early days of my freelance career, I was on a solo press trip. My local fixer on this particular assignment was friendly and professional. She was someone who understood exactly what an incoming journalist needs: some structure but with an element of flexibility, efficient planning, some down time, etc.  She helpfully chaperoned me to a few of the stops - an art gallery, a bakery, a small museum. We had arranged to meet the venue’s PR person for a casual tour, but said person was not at the desk when we arrived. Conscious of the time, my guide asked the receptionist to make a call. 

“We’re in a slight rush, if you could just tell her that I’m here with the travel writer Paul Oswell.”

“OK, no problem. What was that name again?”

“It’s Paul Oswell. The travel writer.”

Now, I’m as needy as the next person when it comes to attention. I did stand-up comedy for a decade, that’s the level of constant validation that I’m usually in the market for. But something about this particular introduction - and it wasn’t the fault of my guide at all - just didn’t feel right to me.

Some of it is the “the”, of course. ‘The’ travel writer is very different to ‘a’ travel writer - it sounds like it comes with a side of “Don’t you know who this man is?” I realised, though, that I also felt a bit uncomfortable about the description 'Travel Writer'. Some twenty-five years later, I still do.

​Why is that? When I’m asked what I do for a living, I usually opt for something like ‘freelance writer’ or ‘travel journalist’. I’ll sometimes vaguely waffle that “I write about the travel industry”. Perhaps this is due to my small town and/or Catholic upbringing, with their legacies of unrelenting guilt and modesty. I doubt anybody else cares at all, and listen, I don’t judge any of my Travel Writer peers. 

To me, though, ‘Travel Writer’ conjures an image of a successful author in their study, surrounded by heaving shelves of weighty, hard-backed tomes. The Travel Writer, reclining in their library in a state of Brysonian contentment, amid translated copies of their best sellers, opening up envelopes containing royalty checks of Therouxvian proportions. Perhaps an antique globe on the desk. Possibly a dog - a chocolate lab? - at their feet. 

Now, don’t get me wrong, I know that this is a very personal position. I’m not prejudiced. Some of my best friends self-describe as ‘Travel Writer’. Also, my ‘office’ certainly has no shortage of books I’ve written, but it’s mostly just unsold stacks of ill-advised forays into self publishing. “Genie, I wish to be a Travel Writer, sat in my office, surrounded by my own books.” A flash of light, a puff of smoke and suddenly I’m sitting in a box room, 300 copies of “Game of Thrones: An Unofficial Travel Guide” towering above me. A real monkey paw situation, there. 

So, some of my misgivings are probably to do with what I view as my own professional limitations. I feel that ‘Travel Writer’ is a loaded phrase of sorts. There’s definitely a breed of colleague that wields the phrase ‘Travel Writer’ with no small amount of smugness, though. Even when they say it, you can tell they’re using capital letters. I’m A Travel Writer. Perhaps even The Travel Writer. 

This could be projection, but it sometimes feels to me as if they’re elevating themselves. It’s as if travel writing is a discipline that should be revered above, well, ‘writing’. It implies familiarity with members’ lounges and upgrades and split-level suites. It invites admiration, further inquisition, oooohhhh, where have you been recently? Is there a hint of superiority to it?

A Travel Writer Moment: I was once on a group press trip in Thailand. We were being transferred between five star resorts on a speedboat like the jammiest people on Earth. It was a 45 minute journey. After 20 minutes or so, we’re offered a choice of soft drinks. A senior member of the group started to lose his mind because the choice did not include Sprite. The attendant offered him a conciliatory 7-UP. He started yelling (“It’s not the same thing at all!”)...again, this is a grown, adult man, in an unbelievably privileged position, having a nuclear tantrum about a soft drink. We were 20 minutes away from all the Sprite you could snort. He definitely introduces himself as The Travel Writer. 

I know that isolated, anecdotal incidents aren’t enough to hang a philosophy on, but I’ll say this: in 25 years of doing this job, I’ve been around enough Travel Writers to know that there’s a type. They brandish membership cards with a flourish. They always order the most expensive wine. They yell at low-level hospitality staff who have no agency over the drinks selection on hotel-owned speed boats. 

Before you say it, I know. #notalltravelwriters. Reassuringly, nobody cares what I think and nor should they. Like I said, it’s fine by me how anyone wants to describe themselves. That’s the appeal of the self, you mostly get to decide what that is. I think maybe I’m just too repressed. I'm weighed down by lingering provincial and ecclesiastical self-doubts. In the words of the contemporary philosopher and serial monogamist Taylor Alison Swift, I'm the problem. It's me. Me. The travel writer, Paul Oswell. 

More:
Going Slightly Mad (Men) at the TWA Hotel, NYC
​Just tell me how much it costs: Tipping and taxes in America
​Where to take your partner in NYC

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