The Old Guidebook

The travel guide had been her grandfather’s, and it showed. Its spine was cracked in three places, its maps had been opened and closed so often that some street names had worn away, and its margins were crowded with his small, careful notes: a price, a time, a single word of approval. It was forty years old, and Ines had decided, half as a tribute and half as an experiment, to see the city through it.

The first morning was a sequence of small losses. The coffee house where he had underlined “best coffee in the old town” had become a shop selling phone cases. The fish market had been moved to an industrial estate beyond the ring road. The hotel he had stayed in still existed, but its name, its owners and, judging by the prices, its idea of who its guests should be had all changed. She found herself walking as if she were looking for someone who had just left the room.

By the afternoon, however, something shifted. Following one of his notes, “steps behind the church – view!”, she climbed a narrow stairway that no newer guide mentioned and came out on a small square above the roofs. The view was exactly as the note promised. Two old men were playing a board game on a bench, and when she showed them the book, one of them laughed and pointed at the old map: he had grown up in a street that no longer existed, torn down to make room for the road she had arrived on.

They talked for an hour, in a mixture of languages that worked better than it should have. He told her which of her grandfather’s recommendations had survived and which had disappeared, and why; the history of the city, as he told it, was mostly a history of things that had been replaced by something more comfortable and less loved.

On the train home Ines tried to decide what the trip had actually been. It had not been a visit to her grandfather’s city, because that city no longer existed, if it ever had in the form his notes implied. Nor had it been an ordinary holiday; were it not for the book, she would never have found the square or the man who remembered the lost street. Perhaps, she thought, every journey was like this: a conversation between the place one expected and the place one found, in which neither side was entirely right.

The travel guide had belonged to her grandfather, and you could see it. It was broken in three places, the street names on the maps had worn away, and its margins were full of his small notes: a price, a time, one word of approval. The book was forty years old. Ines had decided to see the city through it, half to remember him and half as an experiment.

The first morning brought many small losses. The coffee house with the “best coffee in the old town” was now a shop that sold phone cases. The fish market had moved to an industrial area outside the city. His hotel still existed, but the name, the owners and the prices had all changed. Ines felt as if she were looking for someone who had just left the room.

In the afternoon, however, something changed. She followed one of his notes, “steps behind the church – view!”, and climbed a narrow stairway that no newer guide mentioned. At the top was a small square above the roofs, and the view was as good as the note promised. Two old men were playing a board game on a bench. When she showed them the book, one of them laughed and pointed at the map. He had grown up in a street that did not exist any more: it was taken down for the road that Ines had arrived on.

They talked for an hour in a mix of languages. He told her which of her grandfather’s tips still existed and which had gone. In his story, the history of the city was mostly a history of things that were replaced by something more practical and less loved.

On the train home, Ines thought about the trip. It was not a visit to her grandfather’s city, because that city did not exist any more. But it was not a normal holiday either: without the book, she would never have found the square or the man. Maybe every journey is like this, she thought: a conversation between the place you expect and the place you find, and neither side is quite right.