Foreign Climes

Dear You,

On my return from three weeks in the South, my muse suggested that it seemed I "had been in a foreign country." Judging by my senses this morning, I had.

When I stepped outside to fetch the newspaper, tiny ice pellets struck my glasses. The sky was shades of gray and leaves completely obscured my lawn and the flower beds. On the patio the four burning bushes had turned their greens to the red that named them. Later, at the grocery store, everyone was dressed in layers, and we all leaned into the wind as we walked the lot toward the entrance. Rosy cheeks indeed.

How different it was 1500 miles away and -- was it really just yesterday? Shorts and a tee shirt, palms tossing their heads gently to the sides against that blue-blue sky, long-legged birds wading at the side of the lake in search of their breakfasts, folks waving from their golf carts on the way to the course.

For one reason and another I have missed crossing oceans, and only the border to Canada has ever interrupted my travels. No stamps in my passport. How odd, then, that after all those years of being a stay-at-home I find myself going from one foreign place to another.

Relaxation and Vacation

Dear You,

With the pace of travel I currently have set, I've been thinking about the process quite a lot. The past summer found me in Columbus, Seattle, Cheboygan, Long Island, Olean, Long Island again, Olean again . . . and I'm just back from two weeks on Cape Cod before heading south to Florida for three weeks. I write all this to remind myself where I've been and to know where I am.

Sure it's been fun, and it's always important to spend time with far-flung friends and family. But it's also work. At this moment bags are still to be unpacked and boxes emptied . . . before packing again for the drive south.

A few weeks ago I read through Austen's Pride and Prejudice, and what sticks are the visits made by the Bennett daughters. Travel was not at the distances I have recorded above, but they seemed much more leisurely and for longer periods. No rushing about. And when one of the girls arrived at her destination, the chief occupations seemed to be morning walks, afternoon talks, and long periods at the table, followed by cards or correspondence in the evenings. Books, for those who were literate and inclined to the life of the mind. Most notably, once arrived, they suffered no further expense.

These past two weeks tended to blur -- tickets on a boat or a train, meals at a variety of restaurants, browsing through one gift shoppe after another, "picking up stuff and talking about it" as I described to a relative. Yes, I took time to work on my aunt's quilt, and I very nearly finished a book -- The Secret Life of Lobsters. Relaxing? In truth, not enough to suit me. But soon I'm off again.

Fool's Paradise

Dear You,

I awoke today to a steady rain. Yesterday was cold and overcast as I prowled the Wareham Cranberry Festival, a cup of tepid coffee in hand. Today I may find myself on a train ride, bundled against the raw and looking out on dreary bogs as it chugs toward Sandwich.

Last week was mostly hot. I mean, "let's go for a ride in the car and turn on the air" sort of hot. This rented house in Brewster was poorly equipped for heat -- the little window air conditioner units were already in the closets.

In a note about travel, Emerson looked around at the sights and said he was unimpressed. One takes his giant with him wherever he goes, he observed. And here I am on Cape Cod to learn it is so. Uncomfortable bed (it sags), uncomfortable couches (nowhere to stretch out), uncomfortable toilet seat -- it's flimsy and shifts sideways! What a grouch I am, I think. I'm in a tourist mecca and yearn for home.

Perhaps around the next corner something will be revealed to make all this time and expense worthwhile. Perhaps on my gravestone someone will chisel: "He's still looking around the corner." Optimism, too, may be a fool's paradise.

Travel Indignities

Dear You,

Back in Rochester after the flights from Seattle to Atlanta and home, I'm newly reminded of the indignities of travel in the modern world. All my reading life I've enjoyed stories of travel. Even though I have been very few places (and never across an ocean), I've had the vicarious pleasure of trips to France, to South America, to Egypt . . . oh, lots and lots of places, on ships and trains and planes. And I think those long-ago travelers would be horrified by what we've done since 9/11.

Everyone shuffling through those dismal lines at airports, past a uniform who checks the passports (to get to Seattle???) and peers into their faces before scribbling something on the boarding pass . . . and not a complaint! At least nothing audible. The screening -- shoes off, belt off, oops, the shampoo bottle is bigger than three ounces. Confiscated! Yes, but you can have as many as two books of matches (will three bring down an airplane?).

Each time they spot a police car, a relative jokingly cautions his daughter, "Act Natural!" Then he laughs and tells me, "You know, it's not paranoia if they really ARE looking for you!"

Isn't this the Orwellian problem we face today? "They" really are looking for us. All of us, even if all we really want to do is get to Seattle and back with our favorite brand of shampoo.