New Horizons and Old Dreams

Because I wasn’t able to pay for this trip all by myself, I feel as if I need to make sure it is worthwhile for other people, as well as me. How that will happen, I’m not sure.

Yesterday at the library, I checked out Anne Perry’s little novel, A Christmas Odyssey, for a quick read before leaving, and guess what I found on page 4, describing one of the characters:

“He was filled with energy of mind and spirit, an insatiable hunger for life that made other people think of new horizons, even resurrect old dreams.”

That’s me! I hope that someone who has been on the fence about doing something outrageous, will take courage and leap because of my example. If that’s you, I enthusiastically push you forward to the edge of the cliff, knowing that your own adventure will be life-changing!

Margie’s recent blog talked about the tiny golden plovers that winter in Hawaii then fly 4000 miles to summer in Alaska! How do they navigate? Margie had thought that the young ones follow the experienced older ones. Well, they do, but they don’t leave until the older ones are too far away to give any advice to the novices. Imagine! You are only a few months old, more used to walking than flying, and one day your mom and dad take off into the great blue sky over the great blue ocean, calling out, “See you in Alaska! You’ll know it when you get there!”

You look around at your fellow birdlets. All are as perplexed as you are, but then a few take a hesitant jump into the air. As the air currents hit the cliffs and carry them upwards, something happens. The land-preferring birds feel the call of high adventure. “Come on!” they call to their buddies below.

The others then find the courage to spread their wings and catch the wind.

What do they discover about themselves on this non-stop 4000 mile journey? I ponder this and have no answer when dealing with plovers, but for myself, I have a few answers. These are not the final ones. I expect more answers will come even years from now.

One of my daughters said, “It may not be until one of your granddaughters goes traveling on her own, that the impact of your adventures will be felt. She will write a three-generation book about us all, and it will bless many lives.”

I have decided to let go of fear. Well-meaning friends send messages of terrorists and crime, my dentist tells of his daughter being robbed twice in Paris. Everyone has a story. But Mary and I will be not be afraid. We will be wary, and alert, but not afraid.

Like Guy de Maupassant, I know that “it is the lives we encounter that make life worth living.” I am eager to joyfully encounter new lives of all kinds, all ages, all circumstances.

Just two more days before Mary and I will hoist our 17-lb backpacks and climb aboard British Airways. Au revoir! A bientot!

Pablo Neruda's Socks and Me

Walking into the English class where I would be subbing, I quickly checked the lesson plan. “Read with the class ‘Ode to My Socks’ and discuss.” Finding the page in the textbook, I saw that the poet was Pablo Neruda, a Chilean, very important (what makes a poet “important”?). I’d heard of him but never read anything written by him.

How could he have known, when he wrote, that he was telling my story?

The narrator, I’ll call him Bob, receives a gift of colorful, woolen, handmade socks from a neighbor woman. Bob is poor, probably lives in Chile, probably has never worn socks because they are a luxury he can’t afford. The woman is also poor in money but is a shepherdess rich in knitting skills. The socks are her way to say “thanks” for some favor he has done her.

Bob is overwhelmed by the gift. They are colorful and soft. His feet are unworthy to wear them. Still, he carefully, slowly, deliberately smooths them on over his calloused, lowly feet. Neruda shows us how grateful and undeserving Bob feels, now that his feet have been transformed into two long, shining, heavenly “fish.”

Bob felt about those socks the same way I felt when, just one day earlier, I also received a gift of handknitted socks.

My friend Elaine knitted them during this winter’s long, cold, Colorado evenings by the fire, and sent them to me in thanks for a very small thing I had done for her. The yarn is wool from well-loved sheep, along with soy fiber and a touch of fiber from shrimp and crab shells. How special is that!?! Are you as amazed as I was/am? Has anyone ever knitted socks for you?

I felt like Bob, that the socks should be hung on display on my wall, but instead, I slowly slipped them onto my unworthy feet and was transformed into the Queen of Socked People!

When I tried to explain to the tenth graders how it was, they paid attention, they smiled, even laughed, but they couldn’t understand how deeply Bob and I felt about our socks. Maybe someday they will get or give such a gift and then they will know.

Isn’t that what education is about? A touch, a sound, a word that stays hidden inside you until one day something happens that trips the switch in your memory? Instantly you remember, and it’s not strange anymore – like the day when the substitute teacher told them about socks and gifts of love.

What does this story have to do with my trip to France? I long to find room in my stuffed backpack to take the socks with me and show them to everyone we meet there. Show people that my friend spent her evenings knitting these marvels of rainbow colors for my insignificant feet. I want them to know that some people in America still knit by firelight on winter evenings, surrounded by two dogs and a cat.

Then they will know that America is full of odds and ends that don’t get talked about but that are part of what makes up the better part of us.

Hiking Boots at the Opera?

Shoes are not trivial!

First on in the morning are my pink plastic sandals because our concrete floor is cold. Then I go outside wearing my walking shoes or hiking boots. I come back and work in the garden in my gardening shoes. I play volleyball or take the grandkids to the park wearing my athletic shoes. I go shopping and wear my nicer casual shoes. I go out to dinner or to church wearing my heels, or if it’s cold, my long boots.

In one day it’s easy to wear six or seven different pairs of shoes. How can I choose only two pairs, one to wear and one in the backpack? I can’t wear hiking boots to the opera! I can’t wear my walking shoes in the shower if it’s grungy. I need … I need … I need to leave some of them behind. But which ones?

Will my lifestyle be stunted, my backpack overflowing --

Because I also need a change of clothes, an extra sweater, toiletries, a bed sack (for hostels), notepaper, drawing pencils, etc. It’s going to be cold sometimes. It’s going to rain. It’s going to occasionally be sunny. Layers, on and off, colorful and bland. But still light enough to keep the backpack under 11 pounds.

After five weeks of wearing pretty much the same clothes, I expect to feel like I did after each pregnancy – hating all my pregnant clothes. Ready to make a bonfire of my T shirts and watch them turn to cinders. What if I buy some new ones in Aix en Provence? This trip is all about going cheap, so that might be cheating.

Solution: I could buy new T-shirts on the pretense that they were presents for friends who just happen to be my size. Then I could wear them to test how they’d work for those friends!

That's fine for clothes. For shoes, there is no hope. Clumpy shoes at the opera? Swallow my pride -- I have no choice.

My Mother's Curse - Football

This entry has only a tiny bit to do with hitchhiking in France. Still, I must get it out there, get over it, put it to rest.

My mother spent the first day of my life listening to the Rose Bowl game (USC 7 – Duke 3) on the radio (no TV yet). She’d planned it that way, scheduling her C-section and me for the 31st of December.

A lifelong fan, especially of OU, she was thrilled when I was hired by Dave and Dave who did most of the artwork for the NFL. The picture is the program for the 2nd AFL vs NFL contest, not yet named Super Bowl. I only did paste-up for that since I was on vacation from the Metropolitan Opera Company at the time (stage-managing, not singing).

Because I liked the Daves, and they loved football, I developed an appreciation for the artistic side of football (yes, it’s in the photos of guys upside down in mid air or zonked flat out on the ground), but also an impatience with the importance people gave (give) it.

I happily ignored football for years after the Dave era.

It began creeping in again when we (Thrim and I) worked at the University of Colorado during the time McCartney was coaching the Buffs and won (or tied for, depending on your perspective) the national championship. Phone conversations with my mother became non-confrontational as we talked about football – OU still, of course; UCLA, Colorado, and the Rams (Los Angeles’s team until 1994).

Yesterday I watched the Pro Bowl, comic relief between the regular season and the Super Hyped Super Bowl. There were no riots afterwards, nor will there be for the Super Bowl next week, unlike soccer in other parts of the world where fans think a win or a loss is an occasion to burn, riot and steal.

The first soccer match I ever saw was on a cold morning at a hostel in France. Warming up in the kitchen with hot cocoa, I looked out the window and saw two teams running around the field next door in shorts! Shorts! While I was freezing inside a warm room.

This was, again, in the dark ages. Soccer was almost unknown in America. I watched in awe and never forgot those hardy young men running back and forth like basketball players.

When I rank the athletic ability of players of various sports, first comes basketball, then soccer, then football.

It’s amazing to see a 280 lb linebacker do a somersault or a backflip, or go skidding across the grass to be buried under a thousand pounds of the other team then get up to do it again. Weird, eh?

Oh, at the bottom of my ranking is baseball, the sport where men stand around in longjohns and watch the catcher and pitcher throw the ball around.

Now, on to the Super Bowl and then no more football for a long, long time. Go, Lakers!

Analyzing a Puzzle

“Why France?” Thrim asked as we took our walk in the desert.

The question was so strange to me that I couldn’t think of an answer. I didn’t blurt out my first thought, a puzzled “Why not France?,” but kept walking and, odd for me, trying to figure out “why?” I’m impulsive rather than analytical.

Why, indeed, did Mary and I want to ramble around France for five weeks?

Stalling for time instead of answering his question, and curious, I asked, “Where would you go?”

Without hesitation, he replied, “England. The castles, the history, the stories. England.”

What a great idea, I thought. Why didn’t Mary and I think to do that instead of France?

Maybe it’s because France is where we first hitchhiked, taking just a week to get in close touch with people and places. It was such a good experience that hitchhiking became our main type of transportation throughout Europe except in Spain and southern France where we rode our motorscooter.

We had so many friendly, harrowing, exciting experiences that the time stretches in memory to take up a much larger space than ordinary weeks or even years do.

In addition to that first week, we found jobs for six months near Chambley, a tiny town in Alsace-Lorraine, at a U.S. Air Force Base. Waking up every morning in the French countryside, walking the farm road to St. Julien (the sketch above is of a roadside shrine near St. Julien), eating at Renee’s tiny restaurant where I first discovered quiche Lorraine, shopping in Metz and Nancy, also endeared France to me.

The jobs came about because Russia began constructing the Berlin Wall in August 1961, and in October detonated a 58 megaton hydrogen bomb known as Tsar Bomba that still holds the record for the largest man-made explosion. President Kennedy, judging those to be unfriendly acts, called up the Air Force National Guard and sent them to Europe to man a few old unused bases from WW II.

At that same time in bleak December we hit a low point in our adventure, hitchhiking on icy roads, cold all the way through, and maybe even a bit homesick. When we heard that the Air Force might be hiring, we immediately went to Wiesbaden (or Frankfurt?) to apply.

I was hired as the Service Club Director and Mary was my Assistant (they didn’t check qualifications, so desperate were they to have us). For the six months the base was open, we did a good job of running the recreational activities and planning trips for our guys all over France and Europe.

Since we were being paid on a U.S. government payscale and had housing on the base, we were able to save enough to keep us traveling cheaply and slowly for another five months as far as Japan.

“That’s what I mean,” Thrim continued, still puzzled. “You went all the way around the world, you saw all those places, and yet you want to return to France?”

“Yes. Yes, we do.”

My attempt at analyzing the “why” only came up with, “We both loved our time there.” That’s it.

Why France?

“Why France?” Thrim asked as we took our walk in the desert.

The question was so strange to me that I couldn’t think of an answer. I didn’t blurt out my first thought, a puzzled “Why not France?.” I kept walking and, odd for me, tried to figure out “why?” I’m impulsive rather than analytical.

Why, indeed, did Mary and I want to ramble around France for five weeks?

Stalling for time instead of answering his question, and curious, I asked, “Where would you go?”

Without hesitation, he replied, “England. The castles, the history, the stories. England.”

What a great idea, I thought. Why didn’t we decide to do that instead of France?

Maybe it’s because France is where we first hitchhiked, taking just a week to get in close touch with people and places. It was such a good experience that hitchhiking became our main type of transportation throughout Europe except in Spain and southern France where we rode our motorscooter.

We had so many friendly, harrowing, exciting experiences that the time stretches in memory to take up a much larger space than ordinary weeks or even years do.

In addition to that first week, we found jobs for six months near Chambley, a tiny town in Alsace-Lorraine, at a U.S. Air Force Base. Waking up every morning in the French countryside, walking the farm road to St. Julien, eating at Renee’s tiny restaurant where I first discovered quiche Lorraine, shopping in Metz and Nancy, also endeared France to me.

The jobs came about because Russia began constructing the Berlin Wall in August 1961, and in October detonated a 58 megaton hydrogen bomb known as Tsar Bomba that still holds the record for the largest man-made explosion. President Kennedy, judging those to be unfriendly acts, called up the Air Force National Guard and sent them to Europe to man a few old unused bases from WW II.

In that same bleak December we hit a low point in our adventure, hitchhiking on icy roads, cold and maybe even a bit homesick. When we heard that the Air Force might be hiring, we immediately went to Wiesbaden (or Frankfurt?) to apply. I was hired as the Service Club Director and Mary was my Assistant. For the six months the base was open, we ran the recreational activities and planned trips for our guys all over France and Europe.

Since we were being paid on a U.S. government payscale and had housing on the base, we were able to save enough to keep us traveling cheaply and slowly for another five months as far as Japan.

“That’s what I mean,” Thrim continued, still puzzled. “You went all the way around the world, you saw all those places, and yet you want to return to France?”

“Yes. Yes, we do.” France, in a way, was home.

Teaching an Old String New Tricks

Mary and I are leaving on Monday, April 4. We would have left on the 1st, but I need to play in a concert on Sunday the 3rd. Before you ooo and ahhhh about how wonderful it is that not only am I planning on hitchhiking in France at my advanced age, but that I also do concerts, let me tell you how this came about.

I quit playing violin in the ninth grade putting away the old fiddle with no regrets.

Unfortunately for me, I love my daughter in law. She adores my son, is the mother of three perfect grandchildren, and teaches high school French. I try to help her whenever and however I can, but when she asked me to join the beginning string ensemble with her, I balked, explaining my history with violin.

Mandy has only played for about a year, so she still has enthusiasm. Not me. The only reason I said yes was because she needed company on the hour-long drive to rehearsals.

We had to audition, playing one piece from memory and doing some sightreading. I could hear Mandy’s audition through the wall of the non-soundproof room and knew it went pretty well. My own audition was terrible. I forgot how the piece went, and every sour note I’d ever played returned, not to mention the screeches.

“This is why I quit!” I moaned to the nice lady doing the judging.

“It wasn’t that bad,” she replied, but I knew it was, because when I left the room, a young boy in the second violin section was playing my piece from memory and sounding a lot better than I had. Almost everyone in the Ensemble is in either elementary school or middle school. Humbling!

When we got the results of the audition, Mandy was first chair of the third violins while I was the second chair. It was a safe place with no expectations of brilliancy.

A few days later, my D string broke while I was tuning up. Luckily, I found an unused replacement in my case. I hoped it hadn’t been waiting there for fifty years, but even if it had it went on easily and seemed fine.

The more I played on it, though, the less fine it felt. There was a squishiness that didn’t seem natural. It went too far down whenever I drew the bow across it, which too often made the bow hit one of the adjacent strings. The sound that emerged was even worse than my normal sounds, and the resonance from the string was never as full and rich as I wanted it to be. I would saw away, willing it to answer with aplomb, but all I’d get was wimp.

Still I practiced, hoping that someday be more like that little kid in the second section.

When that didn’t happen, I finally complained to Mandy. Strings come in three strengths: light, medium and strong Mandy said I probably had a light D string or one that was too old to do the job.

After rehearsal, we stopped at the music store and I bought a new medium D plus a medium A, in case that one decided to break also. After replacing the D, it felt better but not great. In a few days it felt as bad as the other one had.

“Mandy, would you feel this? I think it’s squishy but maybe it’s just me.”

She tried it out and to my relief agreed something was not right. Back we went to the music store to get a new D, this time a strong one. I wanted to use the new medium A string as an exchange, so got the envelope out of my case. Oddly, it was empty. I then picked up the D string envelope which I hadn’t thrown away, and found there was a string in it.

“What’s going on?” I asked Mandy, who can figure anything out.

“I think you replaced your D string with the A string,” she replied.

Since each string is manufactured to a certain tension and tone uniquely suited to the notes and tones they are meant to play, an A string cannot be a D string any more than a D can be an A.

We drove back to Mandy’s house where she replaced my D string, which was an A, with the real D.

The first note I played on it was a revelation. It felt strong and resonated with a full, rich tone. I almost cried. After weeks of struggling, I had found out it wasn’t all my own lack of skill that made them play badly. The A string was undoubtedly a fine A string; it was simply in the wrong place trying to be a D.

It felt so good to have that D string turning out decent sound that I began to practice twice, three times longer, and enjoy it more. Yes, I now enjoy playing the violin. I’ve never said that in my life!

Am I as good as that kid in the second violin section? Nope. He keeps improving because he’s at the beginning of his potential. He’s now in the first section while Mandy and I have moved up to the seconds, so we are improving, too.

And that’s why I have to wait until Monday to fly to Paris. It's important to be in my right place, doing the best I can for those good young players. This odd turn to my life, playing violin with an Ensemble of young musicians, takes priority over scurrying off to Paris. I’m grinning in amazement as I type that.

I Am an Important Target Market!

WooHoo! Listen to this! A study [by Hawes, a guy] in the Journal of Travel Research showed that we female travelers in the 70-and-up group are as sensation-seeking as younger ones, but that those between 50 and 60 aren’t. We non-male 70s love the uncertainty of unplanned adventures.

When we were 22, Mary and I lived by Europe on Five Dollars a Day and the Youth Hostel Guidebook (or whatever it was called). Every day was full of glorious uncertainty. Hostels were about $2.00 for a dorm room including breakfast.

No planning even worked in places like India and Thailand where we would watch the other airline passengers climb into hotel buses and be whisked to their American-style lodgings while we opted for a YM- or YWCA or cheap hotel and a local way to get there.

I feel only slightly guilty about all the planning we’re doing for this trip. A recreational glance into the availability of hostels/hotels in Paris proved to me that if we wanted a place to stay, we better book it now. One thing led to another as I spent an additional day planning out each stop and then two mornings making hostel/hotel reservations on the Internet.

It proved to be a good idea because I finally realized how quickly thirty-five days can fill up when you want to go to so many places. I had to cut out some of the choice ones for equally choice ones, remembering, for instance, that Mary really wanted to see Carcassone and I really wanted to see St. Malo. We won’t get out to the tip of Brittany. We won’t get to St. Puy, the place with the church stuck on the pinnacle of a high, skinny mountain, and we won’t see the china factories in Limoges, along with a hundred other wonderful places. What we do see will be fantastic!

But it won’t be like this was, our first day (November, 1961):

“Our next ride was with a great giant of a woman, Lianne, in a tiny Citroen 2 CV like the one our Parisien outlaws drove [more about them in a future entry]. Full of energy and enthusiasm, she would have turned off the road and jounced over a farmer's field if the spirit had moved her. Showing us one of the dozens of maps she had with her, she assured us we'd never make it to Dreux that night and that instead we should head for the hostel at Ergal.

“Fine, but where was Ergal? Off the main road. She'd take us part way then point out the direction and we could walk it.

“It was a fine evening, just before dark. Silhouettes of trees at the edges of the fields were just visible against the sky. Tiny diamond-pointed stars peeked out and night fell blackly around us. How exhilarating, walking freely down a dirt road through the countryside without traffic or buildings crowding around.

"About two miles later, when we'd all but given up hope, an arrow tacked onto a tree pointed the way to the hostel. A few minutes more and we were in Ergal, our first provincial village.

“There seems to be no more than 50 people living here. Just after we got checked in to the hostel, we had to walk down the road to the farm for milk. An empty wine bottle from the hostel served as the container for rich creamy milk that must have only recently left the cow.

“We then found the grocery store and bought sausages, bread, chocolate, fruit, soup and vegetables, probably enough for an army but we were hungry after our busy day. The people there were friendly and curious, recognizing us immediately as hitchhikers, which assured us we were now professionals though it was only our first day at it.

“The only heat in the hostel was from the stove in the kitchen where we lingered as long as we could. It's a wonderful old house built out of stone hundreds of years ago. The family that runs it was very nice, and the room we had was so cold we had to wear our mittens, coats, and six blankets to bed.

“Hitchhiking is so much fun! All day we've felt so free, as if we could walk as far as we wanted, in any direction, and still meet friendly, warm people at the end of the road.”

Not to fear, Mr. Hawes. These two older women will still have plenty of unplanned adventures and find warm people at the end of the road!

Future Think or Seat of Pants?

I booked our air tickets through Expedia two months and 29 days ahead of our departure date. Soon I will go online to find a room in one of the Paris hostels, and Mary and I will plan the rest of the trip. This future thinking is far different from how we did it in 1961.

We left from Newport, California, on September 22,driving Mary’s father’s old car across the country because we felt we needed to see America before seeing Europe. Our arrival, on October 6, in Washington D.C. was just five days after Roger Maris broke Babe Ruth's 34-year old home run record, and five days after President Kennedy, as a result of the Berlin Crisis, mobilized the Indiana Air National Guard, to go to Chambley Air Base in France. Construction of the Berlin Wall had begun on August 13.

It was a great ride. Once we had seen everything we wanted to along Route 66, D.C., Boston and New York, we weren’t ready to go back to California. Passing the NYC Icelandic Airlines office one day, we went inside and bought tickets to Scotland with an open-ended return.

The day before we left, we went to Radio City Music Hall and saw "Breakfast at Tiffany's" with Audrey Hepburn. In my favorite scene, she sits out on the fire escape with her guitar singing "Moon River," echoing the wistful, somewhat scared way we were feeling about leaving America and going into the unknown.

We had both worked all summer, living cheaply and saving every extra penny. Mary held down a couple of jobs, including one as a bar maid, while I worked graveyard sorting checks for the Bank of America. The Bank was several miles uphill in Santa Monica. Since I had sold my black Ford convertible to an ex-boyfriend, I rode my bike up the hill every night and coasted back down every morning.

It’s not much different for me now. Between us, my husband and I have two smallish pensions, having used up a couple of retirement accounts and inheritances on things like houses and travel.

Here’s how I am paying for my part of the trip: I Substitute Teach at the local high school. The kids are great and the pay is $120 a day if I am called in. Also, I have written a book, a Young Adult historical novel that will be a best seller if I ever find an agent who loves it enough to sell it to a publisher. And I do calligraphic art and sometimes get paid for it. The one shown was finished this morning. I didn't know how to turn it around. Oopsy.

Consensual Joy

In Normandy and Brittany, the icy north wind blows lustily off the ocean. It was so in 1961 and will be so in April. Do I care?

As an adventurer I should answer, “No, of course not.” But that would be a lie. I care.

Three years ago, Thrim and I left our mountain home in Crestline, CA, to build an all-steel home in the Mojave Desert. We lived in a 5^th wheel which was at the mercy of the constant west wind.

As the RV rocked and rolled, buffeted by 30-40 mph gusts, I prayed it would stay upright and not go crashing into the row of oleanders separating us from the neighbors 200 ft away.

Once late night, I braved the wind to go outside and check on the skeleton of our house. Stars shone through the red iron girders erected earlier that day by our friends and held together by bolts. The iron moaned like a wounded ship while I clung to it and prayed. How long could steel survive such an onslaught?

Thrim slept soundly in the RV -- I wrote a haiku for the occasion:

#1

Raging wind screams

and torments our newborn house.

How can Thrim still sleep?

The desert wind isn’t always so angry and adversarial. Sometimes in the morning it is mysterious and smells of the sea. I don’t know how it manages that, but it does and I love it.

#2

Wild gypsy wind calls!

I run, barefoot, coatless, free.

Consensual joy!

So here’s the deal. I respect the wind (and rain) enough to be prepared. As my defense against the winds in Normandy and Brittany, I have a bright yellow windbreaker. To keep dry, there’s a big plastic cape that covers even my backpack. Under that, I have layers of those new miracle fabrics. Even an adventurer can be prepared. So, wind and rain? Bring it on!

Drowning Standing Up

The coldest and wettest I have ever been was when we were hitchhiking in the Loire Valley in November 1961.

We were given a ride by a young man who started out friendly, but then got too amorous.

Here’s what I wrote: “He pleaded that since it was getting so late and so dark we’d have trouble getting another ride, but if we would let him share our hotel room, he’d drive us all the way, anywhere, himself. He probably would have, but we ended the ride on the banks of the Loire. There was no town or village nearby, just the river and the road and us.

“It was then five o‘clock, two hours’ travel to anywhere at all, plus it was raining again and getting dark. Up the road a half mile was a small combination inn and gas station that turned out to be home base for the coldest, wettest, most miserable fifty minutes I have ever spent! It didn’t help that my coat wasn’t waterproof or that the wind was icy, or that only a single light was on in the inn with no-one inside.

“Hope flickered each time headlights flashed through the rain. We waved, jumped up and down, looked pitiful, but either they didn’t see us in time or didn’t want the company of our misery. Mary even took to waving a dainty lace handkerchief. No luck. I wondered what the authorities would do with the bodies of two soggy young girls who had drowned standing up.

“Finally, a Knight in Shining Armor riding a Snow White Charger rescued us! He was actually driving a huge warm dry truck heading toward Angers where we arrived at nine o’clock. God bless truck drivers!”

I know it will be cold and rainy this time around, too. However, this is 2011 and miracle fabrics will keep me toasty and dry, even my feet.

Modern clothes wash easily and dry overnight. Back in 1961 “drip-dry” was a recent invention that took forever to dry and wrinkles were eternal. Now, everything can go un-ironed, even cotton. Wrinkles are OK, even on faces. I hope that last statement is true because I can't iron out my face.

Fact: Back in 1961 we hitchhiked in skirts and tights, black tights. No pants. That’s right, no pants in France. Watch the movies from that era and you will see Doris Day wearing skirts, hats and gloves in The Man Who Knew Too Much. Audrey Hepburn was almost always in a dress. So, like movie stars, we wore skirts. We weren’t odd. We would have blended in except for our purple tennis shoes.

This time, I’ll be in miracle fabric pants and lots of layers. Spandex! Bravo Spandex! Hiking boots and comfy socks. I love how times have changed!

Choosing Adventure

At 14, I dreamed that one day Tom Rogers would send his lopsided smile my way and say “Hey.” It was a hopeless crush, me being a lowly nothing and Tom being gorgeous, smart, and on the football team.

Books were an escape. One day after school I discovered The Royal Road to Romance in my parents’ library. Why had I never noticed such a lusty title before? I pulled it from the shelf, hoping it would lead me into forbidden territory and help me forget about Tom. The cover was dark green, old, and worn. The author had the romantic name of Richard Halliburton. What juicy scenes must be inside!

Even though no-one else was home, I felt unseen eyes upon me as I moved the other books around to fill in the empty space where it had been. Hurrying to my room, I peeked at the first words: “May had come to Princeton.” Princeton, wherever that was, in springtime, seemed like the right place for royal romance to happen. I slid the book under my pillow, hiding it till later.

That night, lying in bed, face to the wall, I began to read in earnest. There was a moment of disappointment when I discovered that “romance” meant adventure and following dreams, but Halliburton’s story was so compelling I couldn’t stop. He searched in the farthestmost corners of the earth for the beautiful, the joyous and even the love type of romance. He sailed to foreign ports, swam the Hellespont, climbed great mountains, communed “in solitude with the moonlit Taj Mahal.” My obsession with Tom Rogers faded as dreams inspired by Halliburton began to take its place.

In the 11^th grade, a Career Day counselor asked what I wanted to do in my life and I replied, “Travel the world.” He shook his head and actually smirked. Maybe he didn’t believe that such dreams could be achieved, especially by girls from poor families. I knew otherwise.

I knew from Halliburton’s example that a person can do anything if they work hard enough for it. His parents had been wealthy, but he worked his way to Europe on a steamer, and then earned money as he needed it. He had planted a seed that began to grow and become a part of me.

Six years later, I graduated from UCLA with a BA in Theater and a job offer to work as a secretary. My roommate Mary and I chose adventure instead. Working through the summer, we saved every penny we could, sold all our belongings including my car, and drove her car to New York. From there it was logical to go on to Europe. Icelandic Airlines flew us to Prestwick, Scotland, the first stop on what became an around-the-world journey.

I had loved how Halliburton traveled with no reservations and no itinerary, seizing opportunities as they came. That’s how Mary and I did our trip. We took trains, hitchhiked, motorscootered, walked, and rode rickshaws. We worked when we needed to. Our accommodations were hostels, train stations, native hotels, and YM- YWCAs. After more than a year away, we sailed home on a Japanese freighter with six passengers and a delightful captain who baked us an apple pie.

Other fine adventures came along including living and working in new places, getting married, and raising four children. The most recent adventure was moving from tree-rich mountains to the Mojave desert.

On my morning walks down unpaved Royal Roads I see the mountains to the east aflame with sunrise. A tarantula might meander across my path. Frequently I pass a sidewinder curled up digesting last night’s meal. Bright red scorpions have danced their mating dance, taking no notice of me. There is adventure here! The summer air is rich, smelling of spices and warm sand. There is time for meditation under the stars.

Sometimes, though, when the west wind feels as if it comes straight from the ocean, I find myself stopping in mid stride to taste it, to imagine where it has been, what it’s bringing to me. Then I’m aware that Richard Halliburton is still at my side giving me a lopsided grin and saying “Hey!”

April in Normandy? Hitchhiking again?

Why not!

The right book can do that to you.