Bridges to travel: celebrated transgender travel writer Jan Morris reflects upon her century of sojourning the ever-changing globe.

Along with Paul Theroux, Jan Morris, author of over 40 books, is one of the most famous travel writers of our era. Born in 1926, she began life as James Humphrey Morris but from childhood felt that she was a girl. Though doctors had warned that a sex change could have unforeseen effects upon Morris's personality and literary talent in 1972 she had the surgery in Casablanca. Elizabeth, Morris's former wife and the mother of their five children, has supported Jan through all her transitions, and the couple lives together in a small village in Wales to this day: This interview is excerpted from the new book A Sense of Place." Great Travel Writers Talk About Their Craft, Lives, and Inspiration With Michael Shapiro (Travelers' Tales, $18.95).

Shapiro: Imagine this comes up in almost every interview: You started life as a male and exulted in one of the greatest masculine journeys of all time, the ascent of Everest. Now you've spent the second half of your life as a woman. Could we talk about this in terms of your writing and in terms of how or if it has affected your view of the world? Morris." I don't know. I have no idea--other people say it has affected the prose, but I don't notice it myself When I did this book [The World, a collection of previously published articles spanning Morris's career], I honestly can't see much difference between the prose at the beginning and at the end. As you get older your experience widens in every way; and it's hard to know how much of that is simply age and how much is the difference between genders. Of course I changed, but I would have changed anyway.

When you were touring with your latest book, The World, you made a comment about the American Empire, and you said, "Don't worry-yours will subside too." Do you feel that the American Empire is subsiding now? Yes, visibly. Morally, certainly. I suppose economically and politically, probably not. But the rot is setting in. And a good thing too: Hubris has most clearly set in and hubris is the precursor of the end. I think it has gone too far, but then I think the whole democratic capitalist system has gone too fan There's too much of everything.

Too much capitalism or too much democracy? Both. It isn't working very well, is it? I know Churchill always said that democracy was an awful system, but that there wasn't anything as good. And there is that, but at the moment if you look at the democracies, by and large they don't seem to be pursuing the aim of human happiness very successfully. And so one has to wonder if it is necessarily the right system. In America, particularly; it's assumed that it is the right system, that it's the end of all, is it not?

You allude to your smile test. What have you found by grinning at people in different cities? Oh, that's a very useful device indeed, though unnerving for the recipient. But it's true that if you smile deliberately at people, their responses are very revealing because they show every degree of confidence, or shyness, or self-doubt, inhibition--all things which can be extrapolated not only into a civic meaning but even into a national meaning if you're rash enough to do it.

Let's talk about the spirit of place, because when you started writing you did something different from most people who wrote about place. It wasn't,"Here's what you'll find in New York" and "This is what Venice looks like," it was more impressionistic. Would you talk a little bit about how you convey the spirit of a place? I very rarely tried to describe a place, I was only talking about its effect upon me. So what you call the spirit of the place is the spirit of the confrontation between two forces, the city itself and the writer. I didn't do that consciously, but I do realize that's what it is. And that's why it doesn't feel like, and isn't, in my opinion, travel writing.

But as to the spirit of the place, I have several rules: One is to grin like a dog and run about the city. Another thing is from E.M. Forster, who wrote an alleged guidebook to Alexandria. He said the way to look at Alexandria is to wander aimlessly around and to have all your antennae out in all directions so that nothing, absolutely nothing, is uninteresting. I've written that I don't mind going to the dentist in a foreign city because it's bound to be interesting. It might not cure the toothache, but it gives you something for the essay you're writing. So that is my technique for getting the spirit of the city, just to be absolutely open to it in every way. And it is fun because if you're in the mood, absolutely nothing is boring, nothing at all. Think of the most boring thing you can--what's the most boring thing?

Going to the motor vehicles bureau. That would do--I'd like it very much. I'm sure I'd get material out of it.

In Conundrum, you say on your 40th birthday, "What a wonderful life I've had." I thought:What an optimistic viewpoint, because you had written about feeling lonely, struggling, not content with your gender. Yet you still felt you'd had a wonderful life. Yes, it's true, because there have been anxieties and worries, but nevertheless, on balance I'd rather have had this life than any other.

So how does the second half of your life compare to the first? I hesitate to say because it gets better and better. It comes out smug though, doesn't it?

You've written that since your childhood you've felt different or separate or outside. It would be much more interesting if I said, "Oh, I've suffered so much from being an outsider." But I never did. I'm quite proud of being different. It may be sometimes a bit lonely, I suppose.

You were just talking about endings a moment ago, and you've witnessed the ending of James Morris, in a way. Does that give you any perspective? No, because it's a blur. People always think I went to bed one night as a male and woke up the next morning as a female. It was nothing as simplistic as that. It's partly the body, partly the spirit, the gradual movement from one to the other. So no, I don't think that's a good analogy you've produced.

OK, we'll scratch that one then. Is there anything you'd like to share about what you've learned about human nature or about the world by such extensive travel throughout more than 50 years? The only lesson I've learned from a lifetime of wandering is that on the whole people are decent. That's the conclusion I've reached. If they aren't, it's usually because something has happened to make them not decent. So I don't believe in the original sin; I believe in original virtue, as a matter of fact. That's a rather profound conclusion, isn't it?