Porochista Khakpour has survived more than a few historic moments that shaped a country’s character, culture, and self-consciousness. When she was just a baby, her parents fled their comfortable lives in Tehran as Iran sped into revolution and war with Iraq. The family landed in Los Angeles, where they were neither fully part of mainstream ’80s Valley culture nor the glitzy Persian diaspora of “Tehrangeles.” Later, as a young New Yorker, Porochista bore witness to the September 11th terrorist attacks – and the anti-Muslim sentiment that followed.
In a way, it’s apropos that her latest essay collection should happen to be released in the midst of the COVID-19 pandemic, which has come with its share of xenophobia and sharply drawn class distinctions. Brown Album collects decades of Porochista’s work, yet never wavers from the direct, comfortable tone of someone speaking to fellow Iranians in America – rather than educating those less familiar with being other – as she discusses her personal experiences as a woman and an immigrant.
Like many essay collections that grapple on some level with place, Brown Album feels in part like a travelogue as Porochista charts her trajectory from childhood to the present day. She recalls her parents “dancing to disco-fevered Go-goosh at full blast” in 1970s Iran, the facades of LA’s classic “dingbat” apartment buildings and a 24-hour Elvis Presley museum in the southern US. She remembers being deeply moved by the azan call to prayer in Jakarta, Indonesia, and tucking into bowls of kaleh pacheh – a sheep’s head stew – at the Canary Restaurant in Westwood with her mother.
These richly textured descriptions of place serve to illustrate something immigrants know better than most: that how we are viewed by others, and understand ourselves, is as much a matter of geographic and cultural context as it is inherent truth – perhaps even more so.
We caught up with Porochista, who is social distancing at her apartment in Queens, to discuss Brown Album, and what it’s like being a life-long traveler used to experiencing the world at historic moments. What follows is an edited interview.
Did you aspire to travel much in your childhood? Where were some of the earliest places you fantasized about visiting, and why?
As a child, I was obsessed with traveling to Africa – Kenya specifically. The only magazines we had in our home were National Geographic and Scientific American, and I got into the former. For some reason, I got really hooked on some old feature on the Masai, and I just started reading about them all the time. I wanted so badly to visit Kenya. I still do actually. Aside from that, travel was somewhat traumatic as my early memories were all of fleeing Iran from one country to the next at the beginning of the war. Travel was quite tied to the refugee experience.
A couple of the essays in Brown Album originally appeared in anthologies, or got their start in discussions with travel editors like Hanya Yanagihara who worked at other publications. What distinguishes travel writing versus other place-based writing for you, if there is a difference? What is your approach to the genre?
I deeply enjoy travel writing – or just even essays for travel magazines (I am working on my second essay for Conde Nast Traveler right now). I think setting is just a very big interest of mine. As someone who was displaced from my birth country at a young age, moving around has just been my natural state. Even in New York City, where I have mostly lived, I have moved from borough to borough and neighborhood to neighborhood. I am always going from place to place. Moreover, I have a deep interest in seeing so much of this world – places always surprise me.
I never thought that so much of America’s rural South and Midwest would draw me in, nor did I imagine I would have loved Australia as much as I did. I was also weirdly dreading returning to Paris this past winter – I never really identified as a “Paris person” – it had been 20 years since I had visited, and I profoundly loved it this time around. I also found Jakarta much more lovable than, say, Bali – the same with Mexico City over Tulum. As an immigrant and refugee, I really enjoy using setting as my hook – it’s an interesting way to explore identity, from the outside in.
We know from the final essay in this collection that you aren’t a big fan of Joan Didion or the way she’s laid claim to California in pop culture. Who are some of your favorite writers who really capture a strong sense of place or are coming at travel writing from a less detached perspective?
Well, I love all the American Southern writers – like Faulkner, as I mention in one of the essays. Flannery O’Connor, Carson McCullers, Cormac McCarthy even. I find there is a lot of fire in the writings from the American South – and much is fraught and troubling, of course, so those writers have to be incredibly engaged.
I love the haunted Caribbean and Paris of Jean Rhys’s work. I love the odd magic of South Korea in Han Kang’s works and the Scandinavia of Dorthe Nors’s writing. My favorite writers are in the Latin American magical realist category, and there is so much sense of place – I love the Latin Americas of Garcia Marquez, Carpentier, Donoso, Lispector, and so many more.
Two of your essays in Brown Album – “An Iranian in Mississippi” and “A Muslim-American in Indonesia” are, in part, about how we become different versions of ourselves in different places, and the way even unfamiliar locations can have a whiff of home. What is it about seeking out unfamiliar destinations that puts us more in touch with pieces of ourselves and our sense of our own place in the world?
I think one needs surprise, and one needs to be shaken out of one’s normal context to really see themselves and their world. To be devoted to your everyday experience without much of a wrinkle in it is to fall asleep, in a way. Whether I was in the Deep South or in Southeast Asia, I was able to divorce myself from my own standard self-image and really discover who I was. When you toss out familiarity, you are forced to reckon with identity in a much more extreme manner.
Food appears prominently in your writing, from the fried catfish you try in Mississippi to your mother’s herb, kidney bean, and lamb stews to “nonstop nasi goreng” in Jakarta. What’s been your favorite or most memorable culinary experience while traveling?
Well, in America, it is definitely Southern food – I just love it. You can, of course, find Southern food in the soul food traditions of my old neighborhood in Harlem too. Harlem just was full of the best food. I also love Chicago, another city I lived in for a while, for food. Outside of America, I love all Asian foods. I grew up in an East Asian community and live in one now in Queens, and for me, East Asian food is just very comfortable. Particularly Korean and Chinese, and secondarily Japanese foods.
I was surprised to find that Prague had a lot of interesting food. Probably the highest standard of food I’ve had was in Israel-Palestine – every meal I had whether from a rural stand or at a fancy cafe was stunning. Out of all the places I’ve lived, maybe Santa Fe had the most exciting cuisine – I miss blue corn enchiladas with Christmas chile, lavender shakes, and frito pies at the Five & Dime.
You’ve expressed an interest in moving overseas and have touched on getting your US citizenship in Brown Album. How do you approach the idea of expatriation, based on your family’s immigration history from Iran? Where do you think you’d feel most at home?
I am currently working on figuring out a move to East Asia. Hong Kong was on my list as I have friends there, but the situation currently is very difficult. Seoul is high on my list and seems the most likely, given teaching jobs and all that. I am also interested in Taiwan and Tokyo, but yes, East Asia is where I have friends and cultural familiarity. I have always wanted to live over there, but America has recently become too chaotic for me, so I think it’s a good time.
Another aspect of your identity that you wrote about in your previous work, Sick, and address in Brown Album as well, is chronic illness. You’ve traveled quite a bit pursuing treatments for Lyme and searching for mold-free spaces to recover your health. Could you tell us more about what it’s like traveling as someone who is chronically ill, and what it’s like experiencing places through that lens?
Ah, it is very challenging, of course. I travel with a portable oxygen concentrator, the only one FAA approved. I often use wheelchairs at airports. I just have to be very prepared. Luckily, I have not had many disasters with plane travel. However, I have had to go from place to place to find doctors to treat me. Fortunately, I am healthier now, but I always keep a short list of places I will need to visit in case I get sick again, like Germany where they have great Lyme treatment, for example.
You’ve lived many lives and experienced various places in different ways, from your days as a nightlife writer covering the NYC club scene to traveling for medical care. What advice would you give for getting a feel for a city and immersing yourself in a new destination? What’s your travel style these days?
Well, COVID-19 has certainly halted travel. However, just before the lockdown, I was in Europe for a few weeks – London, Edinburgh, and Paris. I realized I did what I always did – I remained very flexible and went by the suggestions of locals. I rarely ever choose my own dish in a foreign country – I always ask the waiters for suggestions, or if I am in a bar, I try to have a local beer or some regional specialty. I think that is really important.
When I used to drive cross-country in America, my rule was to only listen to local radio – no podcasts, no playlists. I wanted to inhabit the places I was in, like a local. I think being a tourist is a really poor way to approach any new destination. You have to figure out how to immerse yourself in being a local in some way.
What was it like being abroad right before travel came to a screeching halt?
Yes! It was very strange. I was in Paris and reading the news from Italy – we were right next to Italy, so everyone was quite worried. It seemed as though the French were really not taking it seriously – in mid-March, I saw no masks in Paris, and people appeared to be partying deep into the night. However, I went by the Eiffel Tower just two hours before they turned the lights off and locked it down. I left Paris just hours before the city went into lockdown mode. Therefore, I felt quite lucky.
I left London on March 16 – my flight was canceled and rebooked, and when we landed in JFK, we had our temperatures taken in a waiting area at the airport. All very bizarre. I feel fortunate that I had that little trip just before all this – of course, if I had known how severe it was going to get, I don’t think I would have been so bold to even go abroad.
You write in Brown Album about events that have had a significant impact on the global travel industry, like the 9/11 terrorist attacks in New York City. What do you think some of the long-term effects of the COVID-19 pandemic might be on how we travel?
Oh gosh, well, I think we will be wearing masks like much of Asia for a long time. I myself have worn masks for years due to my immune system. I can’t imagine riding a subway without a mask. However, I think more people will adopt this practice. I wonder if we will all avoid hugs and handshakes and turn to bowing more. Who knows? What I do know is we are likely to find ourselves in a different world once this situation calms down a bit. And I am sure it will not be the last pandemic.
Where is the next place you’re hoping to visit once it’s safe to hit the road again?
Well, apart from moving to Asia, I think I would like to visit Iceland. It seems affordable and easy at the moment. I would also really like to go to South America and Africa, two continents I have not yet explored. Morocco has been a big dream of mine, as has Jamaica and Greece. Just thinking of travel opportunities makes me so happy.
