I call myself The Literary Adventurer because when I travel to cities such as New York, Paris and London, I am continually following the paths of my literary heroes.

I hit upon the title The Literary Adventurer when I was roaming London in search of the buildings famous writers had called home. Among them on this particular trip was Oscar Wilde, Henry James and George Eliot. During trips to Paris, the list has included Ernest Hemingway, Gertrude Stein, Rainer Maria Rilke, Natalie Barney and Edith Wharton. And in Venice, it was Peggy Guggenheim’s world I sought as I read her biography surrounded by the lapping water she glided across in her gondola.

Though she is not as well-known as a writer as she is an art collector, her salon, which drew all manner of literati, was a sought-after experience. But she was a tough cookie and she would ostracize practically the entire roster of Beat poets who visited Venice, the most disappointed among them Allen Ginsberg. Gregory Corso and William Burroughs actually made it through the gate, but only once for Burroughs and he was not invited back because he made an off-color remark about a certain part of Guggenheim’s anatomy. It’s historical meanderings like these of writers who came before me that fascinate me when I’m embarking upon a literary adventure.