Can't stop thinking about travel. That's probably because I'm spending quite a bit of time logistical planning one of the biggest (maybe the biggest) trip I've taken or planned. I don't mind, not at all; I find the planning a large part of the fun. The background makes the arrival that much sweeter. But sometimes I overdo it in the planning department. My wise husband and two wise sons caution me about this, with varying degrees of success. During the planning for this big trip, youngest wise son resorted to Star Wars talk (the journey vs. the destination, very Yoda) to drive the point home. They're right of course. It's often the unexpected, unscripted travel moments that are indelibly marked in my memory; it's when I recall those that I get the strongest sense for the place and people, which is why I travel to begin with. Last night I found myself remembering some of them.
Like the market in Kusadasi Turkey; after touring Ephesus we had time to spare before boarding the boat back to Samos, Greece, and I had in mind that I wanted to buy a carpet bag, one of those old fashioned woven bags I never see anymore. Walking down the market lane was like running a gauntlet, with merchants literally blocking our way exclaiming the delights of their wares (our favorite: the guy who proudly told us he had 'authentic fake watches'). I settled on one booth with a great looking bag on display, when I asked the price I was naturally quoted something ridiculous. I countered with half and was met with a great sigh. Why do you insult me so? the merchant said. I am not a rich person, I replied. I came all the way here from America, and I am putting two sons through university. At the word 'university' the old merchant's demeanor changed dramatically. Two sons in university?! he asked incredulously. My son, he said, wants to go to American university. I know how much they cost. Then he took my arm, led me graciously into the back of his booth, and said effusively, come! Now I will bargain with you!
Or that trip to England years ago, when I confused the booking date for our last b&b and there was no room at the inn when we arrived. We went instead to the nearest town, an unheard of place named East Grinstead, and found a room at a nice little hotel. The next morning was our last in England and with time before our flight we visited East Grinstead in search of a bookstore; oldest son was very fond of a series written by an English author, and the latest installment was available only in England. We found a delightful town full of history; the church had a memorial to those 'martyred in the name of religion,' and the downtown had a classic High Street with what appeared to be an original Tudor building. We were also most definitely the only tourists, a big plus for us. The Tudor building was, as luck would have it, the bookstore - a delightful, rambling crooked-floored bookstore run by two lovely ladies who seemed quite pleased to have our little family as their one and only customers. They confirmed it was an original Tudor building, and then asked if we'd ever heard of Anne Boleyn. We exchanged a four-way look; we'd just spent a week in England, and after visiting the Tower and National Portrait Gallery even youngest son at age 7 knew that name. The lovely lady motioned us to follow her; behind the cash register she pointed to an original wooden support beam. There on the beam was a charming carving of a young woman in silhouette. This was once the home of some of the Boleyn family, she said. Legend says that this is Anne. We were stunned. We'd been caught up in history for the last three weeks and on this our last day we were given this totally unexpected little history gift, like a send off. Oh, and yes, they also had my son's much-wanted book.
One last travel gift, this one courtesy of Todos Santos, Mexico, a pretty little town on the Baja peninsula northwest of Cabo San Lucas. A very small arts town in something of a state of disrepair, Todos Santos is the kind of place where you've got to pay attention while walking the crooked and wobbly cobblestone streets or risk twisting an ankle. But it's very pretty in its shambly little way, and the arts community is thriving, supported by daytrippers from Cabo and by a goodly number of ex-pat Americans who've adopted the town as home. My husband and I were strolling the main street and had reached a spot where the sidewalk was pretty much non-existant; the building beside it was boarded up and morning glory vines swept across the boards and onto the path. This was one-way foot traffic only, and an elderly Mexican gentleman was approaching. I remember thinking he was a man who had worked with his hands his whole life - I must have seen something I no longer can recall, like calloused hands or gnarled fingers. I stepped aside and motioned for him to take the narrow path first. As he did, he broke off one of the full white morning glory flowers, and when he stood before me the old man bowed, kissed my hand, and presented it to me with a giant smile (almost no teeth), exclaiming something to me in Spanish with great passion. And then he walked on, still toothlessly smiling, a debonair old Mexican gentleman. I was speechless. What a charmer he must have been in his youth, and boy could he still deliver. Although bent and toothless, he presented that flower to me with flourish and flair, like he was Errol Flynn and I was Olivia de Haviland.
That's why I travel.
