Barcelona, Spain

This is one story in a series of stories that tell about a backpack trip to Europe in the spring of 1976 by myself in an effort to run away from the pain of a broken heart. (To read from the beginning Google "The Ramblings of an Aging Baby Boomer" and go back to March 27th, "I'll Never Find Love Again.")

Wednesday,  March 31, 1976, Barcelona, Spain

Willem, Charles and I left Paris last night after dinner. The trains are never late and the one to Barcelona was scheduled to leave exactly at 9:06 p.m. We were casual with our time and had to run to catch the train. We came within seconds of missing it. That was way too stressful. Never want to do that again.

The first-class cabins are very comfortable with three seats facing each other. The arm rests fold up so you can lie down. We had hopes of getting a cabin to ourselves so we could sleep, but because of our tardiness, we had limited choices.  The only cabin left had a newly married Australian couple in it, and the five of us spent the next twelve hours together. Cozy.

Train from Paris to Barcelona along the Mediterranean

We arrived at the train station in Barcelona early this morning. Another sleepless night for me, but not so for Willem and Charles. They both fell asleep right away. I don't know how, as cramped as the cabin was. I ended up on the floor.

The first thing on our agenda was to eat and then find rooms for two nights. In an effort to show the guys that I am not just a weak-link tag-along, but rather a woman competent enough to get us hotel rooms, I walked into the lobby of the first  hotel I saw and said, "Tiene alguna habitations de hotel para esta noche?" Translation: "Do you have any hotel rooms for tonight?" I had practiced that line over and over (without my two companions knowing) from a small English to Spanish book I carried with me, and I felt pretty smug about how good it was received by the man behind the desk. My goal was to impress. The man looked up and smiled back at me (Good! He understood me), and then he said in a perfect midwestern American accent, "No, Ma'am, I'm sorry. We are full up." Willem said nothing, walked out of the lobby and went right next door to another hotel where he was able to get us two rooms. 

With Willem leading the way,  Charles and I walked past the hotel clerk on our way up the stairs. He smiled and stepped out from behind the desk and asked--also in very good English--if I needed any assistance getting to my room. Willem stopped and motioned for me to go on ahead of him, and then I heard him say that we could find the way by ourselves. After checking out both rooms (Willem and Charles share a room), Willem motioned for me to take the room with one twin bed. Did he think I wouldn't have been able to figure out which room was mine? Um, let's see. This room has two beds and this other one has one. I wonder which one is mine?

The agenda today was too aggressive for me. I'm operating on too little sleep, and my leg muscles are not accustomed to so much work.  First we went to the Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya, also known as the art museum that was miles away (walking) from our hotel. We went to a fortress that overlooks the harbor. With it's four huge cannons facing the sea, it was once used to protect the city from invasion. There are still guards posted by each one. In the early afternoon, we walked to a square that looked more like a circle where people were sitting in chairs relaxing and talking and watching the birds peck at the ground. Then, as we were walking back to our hotel, hundreds of chanting demonstrators dressed in bright, outlandish colors came out of nowhere and they completely filled the street. They were mostly young and their massive presence was shocking and intimidating and their angry outbursts scared me. But as fast as they arrived, they disappeared, and the streets were peaceful again.

As fast as the demonstrators

arrived, they disappeared.

When we arrived back at the hotel, the clerk asked how "our" day was but he directed his question to me. Willem does not like the clerk; I can tell. He moved between me and clerk and said, "It was a good day. Thanks."

The guys are out tonight, but I decided to stay in my room and write in my journal and hopefully get some sleep. I'll probably have the same dream I have every night. I knock on his door. He answers and sees me standing there, pathetic, apologetic, and crying, and then he says, "It's too late" and closes the door. 

Paris Done!

This is one story in a series of stories that tell about a backpack trip to Europe in the spring of 1976 by myself in an effort to run away from the pain of a broken heart. (To read from the beginning Google "The Ramblings of an Aging Baby Boomer" and go back to March 27th, "I'll Never Find Love Again.")

Tuesday, March 30, 1976, Paris, France

The phone startled me awake at 7:20 this morning. At first, I couldn't figure anything out. Where am I? What is that annoying noise? Then it came to me; I am in Paris...in the Hotel Du Pantheon. My room is tiny, only big enough for a twin bed, a small sink, and what looks like a toilet but Willem called it a bidet. (The real bathroom is down the hall.) The phone continued to ring; it knew I would eventually answer it, as soon as I got my wits about me.

(We left New York on Sunday, flew to Iceland, where we departed the plane. Don't ask me why. It was cold; really cold--snow everywhere--and all I have are sweaters and light jackets. We then flew to Luxembourg where we immediately got on a train and came to Paris where I crashed in my $7.00 room after twenty plus hours without sleep.)

It was Willem on the phone. He was anxious to get the day started. Lots to see, he said. He's been to Europe several times (his brother lives in Vienna) and he knows Paris well.

My feet hurt. We walked twelve miles today and toward the end, Willem could tell I was exhausted, so he hailed a taxi to take us back to the hotel.

I guess this is a good time to describe my two traveling companions. Willem is my age and single. He's a big bear of a guy, has a teddy bear demeanor; he's very good to me, but he's too serious. He's intelligent (he uses big words), is college-educated, but doesn't have a job at the moment, so why not head off to Europe for a month. I could be wrong--and time will tell--but he seems to be taking me on as a project. It's as if he had been assigned to someone who needs attended to because that someone--that would be me--cannot take care of herself. I hope I'm wrong about that because I don't need a caretaker. I'm quite capable of taking care of myself, thank you very much!

Charles is fifty and divorced. When Willem suggested that he take a leave of absence from his job to accompany him overseas, he jumped at the opportunity. Charles is an accommodator. He's a "yes" man. This may be a rush to judgment, but it's as if he has no original thoughts of his own. He's easy; he's pliable; he's a follower and Willem is the leader. So I guess Willem has two charges he's responsible for.

This is how we spent our one day in Paris: First the Sorbonne, on to Notre Dame, past St. Chapelle, across the Seine to the Right Bank and to the Louvre. Next Place de Concorde, where Louise 16 lost his head, up the Champs des Elysees to the Arch of Triumph, towards the Seine to the Trocadero. Willem leading the way; Charles and I following behind. We climbed up the Eiffel Tower, and went to the Hotel des Invalides, where Napoleon is entombed.

Paris Done!

We took a taxi back to the hotel to pick up our bags (we were ten miles away), went to dinner, ran to the train station, left Paris at 9:06 tonight for Port Bow, which is on the border between France and Spain.

Next destination: Barcelona, Spain

Hotel Du Pantheon

Willem and me right after
climbing the EiffelTower

So sad...thinking about him. 

Hometown Boys

This is one story in a series of stories that tell about a backpack trip to Europe in the spring of 1976 by myself in an effort to run away from the pain of a broken heart. (To read from the beginning Google "The Ramblings of an Aging Baby Boomer" and go back to March 27th, "I'll Never Find Love Again.")

Sunday, March 28, 1976

It hit me while I was standing in line to board the plane to Luxembourg. What am I doing? It felt like I had stepped on top of a live wire; my body was vibrating and I couldn't self-talk myself to calm. The realization of what I was doing had set in just minutes away from being too late to turn back.  I was thinking I could turn back now. I shouldn't be traveling by myself. What if I run out of money? What if I get in trouble? I can't speak any foreign language. 

Eventually calm did return and I decided not to abort at the last minute. I am going to backpack my way through Europe, spend the days sightseeing, stay some nights in hostels and some nights sleeping on the trains as they take me from one place to another, eat one meal a day, and most importantly I am going to forget about him.

My anxiety returned when the announcement was made that our flight would be delayed indefinitely due to a mechanical issue with the airplane. Everyone in line scattered in all directions, except me. The unexpected delay paralyzed me. Where would I go? What would I do in a cavernous airport with hours and hours of idle?  I had brought my journal so I could write but I didn't think to bring a book. Big mistake. In the distance I noticed the two men who had been in line in front of me walking fast and with specific intent. Where were they going? Did they know something the rest of us stranded travelers didn't?  I hurried to catch up with them just in case they were on to something. Uncertainty and doubt set in again. What was I doing here? If I was this unnerved over a flight delay, how am I going to cope with what is waiting for me in a strange land so far from home?

The room had two long rows of metal chairs, each one holding a small television for pay. Even though I had no interest in talking to them, I found a chair directly behind the two men I was following. There was comfort in having them nearby. I felt so alone and vulnerable. I put one quarter in my television but nothing happened. Since money is scarce, I didn't want to try again and fail again. That's when one of the two men turned around as if he knew I needed help, introduced himself as Charles, leaned over my chair and fiddled with something to make the T.V. work. One thing led to another and before long, Charles and his friend, Willem, and I were back in line together waiting to board the now-repaired airplane. The big surprise was that they are also from Indy--my hometown--and their agenda is identical to mine: Luxembourg, Paris, Barcelona, Nice (Monaco), Rome, Florence, Venice, Innsbruck, Vienna, Salzburg, Frankfort, Amsterdam, and back to Luxembourg.

"A girl should not be traveling around Europe by herself," Willem said while we were standing in line to board the plane. "If you want to, you can travel with us. We'll be your tour guides and bodyguards."

Sounds good, but I think I want to do this on my own.

Willem and Charles

Hometown boys

I'll Never Find Love Again

Thirty-nine years ago today, my little yellow VW bug and I found ourselves smack dab in the middle of a traffic jam during rush hour in New York City. Days earlier we had left Indy in a rush so I could catch a plane to Luxembourg. With one backpack and $300 in my pocket (the airplane ticket and Eurail pass cost $300.00) I was eager to run away from the mess I had made of my life, and oh, what a mess it was. Here's the first story in what was to be a month-long journey to Europe and back.

Saturday,  March 27, 1976, New York City

I arrived in New York City yesterday evening during rush hour. I left Indy Thursday because it was agony waiting for a phone call that never came. I spent $10.88 on a motel in Youngstown, Ohio, on my trip east, and the next morning I was starving so I went to the motel's restaurant. When I walked in, the manager must have noticed my red eyes and tear-streaked face because he kept trying to cheer me up. I knew he meant well, but his attention annoyed me. I just wanted to be left alone. I ordered breakfast and then picked at it because I was suddenly sick to my stomach. The bill came to $1.47. As I was about to leave, the manager seemed alarmed at my sadness, so he took my bill and said, "No charge." He walked me to the door, all the while giving me empty words of encouragement. Or at least they were empty to me because what he could not know was that no words can ease this pain I feel. He's gone. The love of my life is gone, and I'll never find love again.

New York City
March 27, 1976

Old and Senseless

In seventy-six a maiden fell in love with a prince,

who by no stretch of the imagination was dense,

yet he left his devoted behind to chase his dream

by following that colorful rainbow, or so it seemed,

to a far off land and away from Home Sweet Home

to secure that pot of gold filled up to the dome,

yet did it he did and with all the high glory to boast,

but you see he left behind the one thing he loved most,

his fair maiden who by now was wasting no time

having fun in the meadows with knights and fine wine,

whilst he took his sweet time to come to his senses,

and when he did in ninety-six, she was old and senseless,

but...hey...he was too, so you see it didn't matter

'cause their love was true and getting better and better.

***

nineteen years later
 and still getting better

Simply Whimsy

"I know this is going to sound weird," he said, "but I think we were lovers in our past lives." I was standing in Bruce Maximus' office holding a folder with nine short stories and three illustrations that I was hoping he would accept for his Simply Whimsy column in his newspaper, The Mountain Gap Gazette. The column ran once a month, and every year he would invite writers to present him with twelve of their best efforts to make people smile, and from these he would select one to run for the following year. After years of building the courage to stand in front of this man to show him my spin on imaginative writing and illustrations, I was finally there, but the reception was not what I had expected.

"There's something about you. I can't put my finger on it," Bruce Maximus said. "When you, a complete stranger, walked through that door moments ago, the first thing that came to my mind was to hug and kiss you and run away with you." Before I had a chance to respond to his startling revelation about our past romantic connection, he continued on. "Did you see that movie with Christopher Reeve and Jane Seymour: Somewhere in Time? Well, at this moment I feel like a love-struck Christopher Reeve." 

We were standing facing each other in the middle of his office, Bruce and I, chin to nose--my chin to his nose. I'm short but he is shorter. Not that there is anything wrong with that. It's just that I have always preferred that my lovers to be taller than me with big muscles, Roman noses, lots of unruly hair and barbed-wire tattoos on their forearms. I know; I know...love comes in all sizes and shapes, so I shouldn't be so picky. But love is not what brought me to the office of the publisher and editor-in-chief of The Mountain Gap Gazette on this particular day.

"I was hoping, Mr. Maximus, that you would like my best efforts to make people smile enough to pick me this year," I said. Just an arm's length away from me, he stood completely still, except that he was breathing heavily and panting, so I guess he was not standing completely still, after all. The expression on his face could best be described as "desperately yearning." I wanted to tell him that I was forty years his senior; I wanted to tell him I was married; I wanted to tell him that he was wrong about us in our past lives--he surely had me confused with someone else--because I would never have sex with a short man. But I kept my mouth shut--did I mention that I wanted him to pick my best efforts to make people smile?--and I just listened to love-struck Christopher Reeve...I mean Bruce Maximus.

As if Bruce Maximus knew what I was thinking, he said, "I don't care about the age difference. Love has no boundaries." I guess if love has no boundaries, then that would mean tearing up a silly little piece of paper that legally binds two people together, like, for example, my husband, Tom, and me. "After all this time, fate has brought us together again," he said. "Now that I have found you, I never want to let you go."  I thought about Tom and how much I loved him and the life we had together. I thought about my dog, Maggie Mae, and how I would miss spooning with her every night. Could I leave them for Bruce Maximus? It would be hard, yes, but sometimes we have to make difficult choices in life; sometimes we must sacrifice to achieve our goals, and I really, really, REALLY wanted to see my stories and illustrations in the Simply Whimsy column of The Mountain Gap Gazette.

"Did you hear anything I just said?" he asked. His mouth was so close to my ear, I could feel the heat from his breath.

"Huh? I said and I'm pretty sure drool was running out of my mouth and down my chin when I said it.

"I'll be fishing until noon and back home around one," Tom said. "Oh, and you're talking in your sleep again, Sweetheart." 

Before the Lion Ate Me

Before the Lion Ate Me is a title that came to mind while I was in the shower this morning. That happens all the time: not the shower--I only shower when I'm dirty--but the title thing. I'll be standing there with a bar of soap up my armpit when out of nowhere a title to a story pops into my head. Sometimes I get the intro, middle, and end of the story but not today. Just Before the Lion Ate me is all I was given. I knew what it meant though. It's about those times in my life when I broke--or should I say tried to break--one major rule: never raise your voice in anger at a loved one.

That's right. I've never been given permission in my entire life to express my anger at a family member, friend, or mate by raising my voice to the point of yelling or screaming. Nope! Not once. I know what you're thinking: Why would I want to yell or scream? Well-adjusted people don't do that. Well-adjusted people resolve conflict by sitting down with the other person or persons and calmly and maturely discussing the matter point by point, and, in the end, everyone walks away with a resolution, kisses and hugs. Right?

WRONG!

Friends of my family yell at their friends. Family of my friends scream at their family. I see it all the time. What surprises me is that the majority of the time, no one says or does anything about it, i.e. yellers and screamers are given permission to express their unbridled anger without consequence. It amazes me that they can shake, rattle and roll the foundation of what was--before their eruption--a pleasant gathering of friends and family and get by with it. What is more startling is that they believe they have a right to behave that way. Not so for me. If I ever attempted to step over that line in the sand--you know, the line that separates the words "Go ahead; yell and scream; it's okay" and "Do not yell or scream, or else..."--I knew I could be in grave danger.

It is the "or else" part of consequences that makes me stop and think before crossing that line, but it wasn't always that way. I had to learn the hard way that there are some things in this life I'm not allowed to do:  1) Never say "I never, ever get sick," or else...  2) Never brag about material possessions, or else...  3) Never boast about achievements, or else...  4) Never say, "I don't need to leave a few minutes early for my job interview; there won't be a train on the tracks today," or else...  5) Never wear white pants to a spaghetti dinner, or else...  6) Never say, "I don't need to write that down; I won't forget," or else...  7) Never look at a lamb and assume that there's not a lion hiding underneath that nice soft exterior, or else...  8) Stop and think before you raise your voice in anger at a loved one or a lion in sheep's clothing...OR ELSE THE LION MAY SMACK YOU DOWN BEFORE EATING YOU!!

Don't Hate Me

Don't hate me because I'm prettier than you.

Don't hate me because I'm not.

Don't hate me because I have more money than you.

Don't hate me because I'm poor.

Don't hate me because I'm lighter than you.

Don't hate me because I'm dark.

Don't hate me because I'm smarter than you.

Don't hate me because I'm not.

Don't hate me because I am a woman.

Don't hate me because I am a man.

Don't hate me because I say go right.

Don't hate me because you say left.

Please

Don't hate me at all.

You are me; I am you.

We are the same. 

To hate me is to hate yourself.

And God knows...that just ain't right!

Some Maintenance Required

When I was very young, I awoke each morning, sprang out of bed, and raced past a kitchen counter that had absolutely nothing on it with my name attached. There was not one thing there for me to swallow, inject, insert or apply in an effort to fix whatever ailed me. Like a car just off the assembly line, everything about me was brand spanking new and worked perfectly. No maintenance required. I had plenty of get-up-and-go under the hood, and even though I was rough on my body, chassis, engine and transmission,  I spent no time in the repair shop. It seemed that whatever I did or did not do did not matter; I was indestructible.

Not one thing for me to swallow, inject, insert or apply 

When I was thirty-something, I awoke each morning, climbed out of bed, and jogged past a kitchen counter that held my daily dose of undisciplined indulgence. Like a car with a few years on it, everything still worked pretty good, but not perfect. There was some maintenance required, but I didn't take the time or make the effort. I still had sufficient power under the hood, and even though I was rough on my body, chassis, engine and transmission, I spent little time in the repair shop. It seemed that whatever I did or did not do did not matter; I was still invincible.

...and there waiting for me was my undisciplined indulgence. 

When I was sixty-something, I carefully eased myself out of bed and slowly shuffled into the kitchen. There, on the counter all lined up and standing at attention waiting for me, were a long line of daily doses of consequences for having lived six decades ignoring the maintenance manual that came with me. Like an older model car with little effort given throughout the years to required care, everything about me (or so it seemed) was needing repair. My body, chassis, engine and transmission were now spending a lot of time in the shop. It seems that whatever I did or did not do really did matter after all.

My daily dose of consequences

Time is Like a Fickle Lover

She just wasn't herself. How long had she been so forgetful, he wondered? A year? Two years? Longer? Between the two of them, she had always been the one with the photographic memory and instant recall, but at some point during their forty years together, she had changed. Now he was the one saying, "Remember when?" "No," she would answer. "I don't recall that at all."

"You make me feel broken," she said, tears welling up in her eyes. They were standing in the kitchen where she had only minutes before put her car keys in the refrigerator and a stick of butter in the wicker basket by the door. He watched her do it, but he couldn't believe what he was seeing. "Oh, my goodness! Are you serious!? Tell me you didn't just do that?" She was stunned by his aggression. "What? she asked, but instead of telling her what she'd done, he took her by the hand and led her like a child over to the wicker basket. "Butter in the basket? Really! Is that where it goes?" Then, still holding her hand, he walked her over to the refrigerator and instructed her to open it. When she did, he once again admonished her. "And keys in the frig?!" 

He just wasn't himself. How long had he been so intolerant with her, she wondered? A year? Two years? Longer? Between the two of them, he had always been the even-keeled one. "Nothing rattles him," she would say.  "He uses thoughtful rationale with every challenge in life and then handles it with calm resolve." But at some point during the latter part of their four decades together, he had changed.  Now she was the one saying, "It's just part of aging; there's nothing to worry about." "Yes," he would say. "Oh, but I'm afraid that there is."

"You're kidding me, right? Don't you remember?! You told me that last week and the week before that?!" His irritation stopped her in mid sentence. She remembered she had told the story before, she just couldn't recall to whom. She was doing that a lot lately--repeating her stories--but most of her friends and family would just say, "Oh, yes. You mentioned that before," in a respectful manner. So why was the one person in her life who should be understanding and supportive critical of every  mental hiccup? Why was he punishing her for something that was out of her control? Were his intolerance and hurtful reactions underpinned by fear? But fear of what? Her looming dementia and how it would negatively impact his life? She thought about what her future would be like living with someone who reacted with frustration and ridicule instead of kindness and love every time her brain didn't perform to his expectations. She had read somewhere--not that she could remember where--that if you misplace your car keys, there is no reason for concern; however, if you're holding your car keys but have no idea what they are used for...well...let's just say that could be a whole different story.

Later...a whole different story

He just wasn't himself. How long had he been like this? Two years? Three years? Longer? Oh, what does it matter, anyway? Time is like a fickle lover. With its passing, you never know what surprises tomorrow will bring.

"Have you seen my car keys, Sweetheart?" she said to her husband of forty-seven years, who was standing at the kitchen sink washing twelve of his favorite ping pong balls.

"Are those the pointy, shinny things that go 'Pop, Pop, Clankety, Clank, Clank' in that micro-thingy?"

"Yes, dear."

"Are keys those things that won't float in the toilet?"

"Yes, dear."

"Are keys those things I use to scratch my initials in the table?"

"Yes, dear."

"Are keys what I use to wash my ping pong balls?"

"Yes, dear. Do you know where they are?"

"Nope! Haven't seen'em."