Jonathan Lethem’s name is synonymous with Brooklyn—specifically Dean Street, in Boerum Hill. It’s where he grew up in the 1970s, as well as the setting for his beloved novels Motherless Brooklyn, The Fortress of Solitude, and, most recently, Brooklyn Crime Novel. But Lethem is not afraid of change. He’s now based in Southern California, and his latest book, Cellophane Bricks, presents an entirely new side to the author. Lethem grew up in his father’s art studio, went to art school, and, until age 19, preferred a paintbrush to a pen. Cellophane Bricks collects Lethem’s art writing and images from his personal collection, which includes works by Larry Sultan and Alexis Rockman. Here, the author offers his tips for smooth traveling, from Brooklyn to Claremont and beyond.
What do you wear to the airport?
Jean jacket with multiple deep pockets, and recycled Prada shoes that are like slippers, the easiest possible on-and-off. I’m obsessed with not losing my cool at security. There’s no place where I like myself less, but it can pass briefly if I’m efficient. The scripts that run in my head are so inflamed—I want to lecture the whole world on what is wrong with everything and everyone the moment I get to the belt.
How long before your flight boards do you get to the airport?
I like to be early, because a good long inbox-clearing session in the airport is a ritual for me.
Check bags, or carry-on only?
This really depends on the destination and length of the journey. I have toothbrushes, shampoo, and deodorant hidden at a few places besides my home, and the trick of carry-on only when I’m headed to one of those stations is delightful. If doing so, I opt for microscopic amounts of clothing, too. I can always buy a T-shirt and some underwear and socks if I don’t manage to launder them in time. But I don’t fight checking a bag in other circumstances.
What do you bring in your carry-on?
If the bulk of things are checked, I like just a computer bag, with books to read, my sleep equipment, and a couple of snacks. Water, though balancing hydration against the risk of having to push out of my seat and visit the loathsome airplane bathroom dictates that I drink most of the water in the time between landing and disembarkment.
T.S.A. PreCheck or regular?
Regular. Not that they aren’t gathering your information anyway, but I like my small proletarian protests. This is the horrible self-regarding melody playing under the backbeat of my loathing while moving through security: my sense of righteous nobility that I will never, ever pay a price to simultaneously have myself tracked and to separate myself from my fellow human in some artificial version of aristocratic privilege. You wouldn’t want to be in my brain at those times.
What do you buy in the airport terminal?
Magazines I never see otherwise, which I tend to read cover to cover in the terminal before the flight boards, and chocolate, which I often eat before boarding as well. New earplugs when I reach into the pockets of the jean jacket and find them missing, or too grubby.
First class or coach?
Coach. See “proletarian protests” above.
Window, middle, or aisle seat?
I love the window seat, which is both the most womb-like, the most committed—although you have to modulate a certain amount of claustrophobia—and, potentially, the most epic and inspiring. It remains rewarding to spend time gazing out the window, though I often forget to practice this. I have a game I play at landing, too, which is to try to see the figure of a human in free space (as opposed to just knowing that a human is at the seat of a moving car, which is easy to spot).
“A good long inbox-clearing session in the airport is a ritual for me.”
How do you pass the time in the plane?
My children wouldn’t think I was being honest if I didn’t tell you that I sleep. I’m a champion plane sleeper, to the irritation of my travel companions. Very often I’m out before takeoff and only wake up at the bump of the wheels at landing. I learned to do this by necessity on the old, frantic type of book tours, where I was in a new city every day for two weeks.
Do you buy Wi-Fi?
More than I would like to. If I open my computer thinking I’ll work on things that require concentration and would benefit from being offline, I’m suddenly so near to being able to check my e-mail that I reach for it. Obsessiveness.
Best plane food you’ve ever had?
The first-class food on Singapore Airlines. (I do accept first-class when it’s offered by a literary festival, because I’m a cheapskate and a hypocrite.)
Best drink to get on a flight?
Tomato juice, ideally with lemon, which I only drink on airplanes. I’m sure a chemist could explain why it is so unusually delicious at altitude. It coats your mouth and throat in a way that seems to combat the dry air.
Do you talk to the people sitting next to you?
Long ago, I did this. Now I say a quick hello at most. Then I ostentatiously put in the earplugs, with a shrug and a smile, as if it’s a medical necessity—a perfect way to exclude any risk of further conversation and relieve that mutual pressure. Airplanes are for me a place for being alone, even if I don’t sleep.
What do you do when turbulence hits?
I don’t mind it too much. I worry more about having to reassure someone else. What would I say? You’re not going to die today? What if I’m wrong?
Worst part of the flight?
Surely everyone agrees that the worst is waiting, from a window seat deep in the rear of the plane, for everyone else to gather their bags and trundle off.
First thing you do when the plane lands?
Text loved ones.
Advice for travelers?
I think that along with shedding one’s skin and jumping out of the everyday, airplanes are places where we are forced to notice that we’re alive, a self among others, in the mystery of the herd but alone in our heads. All of which seems a pretty good thing to notice. So, there’s my advice. Notice. Pay attention.
