I Chased a Fairy Tale

I Chased a Fairy Tale

I chased a fairy tale

a love that could never be

a fantasy

I chased a fairy tale

to naive to see

the fallacy

I chased a fairy tale

a notion meant to deceive

all make believe

I chased a fairy tale

love's longevity not to be

failure guaranteed


I chased a fairy tale

until it caught me

then I could see

the insanity

                                       -- carol mayer 4/14/15

Good Intentions

This is a continuation in a series of stories that tell about a backpack trip to Europe (and back) 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" go to March 27, 2015, "I'll Never Find Love Again").

I was living a lie. Bolstered by the belief that women are inherently weak and need a strong man to protect and take care of them, I played the role for many years of a damsel needing rescued.  I thought of myself as Cinderella--a really good girl who was sweet and humble and polite and accommodating and hardworking and unassuming, but unable, by herself, to make it in life without a man (a prince) by her side.

When Uncle Jimmy held me on his knees, called me a princess, and said "Boys like girls who are sugar and spice and everything nice," he was simply expressing affection and love. When Aunt Gracie read fairy tales to my sister and me every night, while my mother slept her grief away in the next bedroom, she was just being a good aunt to her nieces. Both my aunt and uncle's intentions were good.

When the authors of the fairy tales and the romance novels and the soap operas and the Hollywood love stories were writing their stories about love and romance, they would have been confused and dismayed if they were accused of having bad intentions. Writers are artists expressing their creativity with words.

When Marabel Morgan conceived of the idea to write a book, The Total Woman, in 1974, that would help women save their marriages and keep their husbands happy, her intentions were good.

When my fiancé bought me her book a month before our wedding in 1975, he just wanted to provide me with a manual on how to be the wife he wanted me to be. His intentions, albeit self-serving, were not bad.

When you combine all of the parts and pieces that make up the whole of who I was as a young woman looking for love, it makes perfect sense that I would be a fairy tale junkie. The good news is I saw the lie and discovered the truth before it was too late to know what true love really means.

Recently, I purchased The Total Woman. (I seem to have misplaced the one my fiancé bought me in 1975.) I wanted to read it again before I wrote about it in my blog. Here is my review on Amazon:

Forty-years ago, I was given this book by my fiancé. He was using Marabel Morgan as a spokesperson for him and for what he expected in a wife. Since I had a Cinderella Complex already--waiting to be rescued by Prince Charming--I didn't object to the basic theme of her book: submit, serve, obey, and have lots of sex...at first.  But as time went on, he became his own spokesperson. We weren't even married yet, and I was not even coming close to meeting his expectations. I tried but I failed and the engagement ended.

I just reread The Total Woman. I wasn't that far along into the book before I wanted to throw it out the window, take it out back and burn it, stomp on it...anything to vent my anger. But, instead I kept reading, and then I realized something. The inspiration, motivation, and passion behind this book was for a good reason: helping couples save their marriages. With biblical direction and Christian, family values, Ms. Morgan wrote a comprehensive how-to book, which, over the years, has saved and enriched many marriages--marriages that were headed to divorce court.

I'm only going to comment on the parts of her book that I like--things in any relationship that are important for it to be healthy, rewarding, long-lasting, and of course, happy.

Page 38:  "Do you know that your personal happiness depends on the attitude you decide you will have?"

Page 50:  "A man needs to be accepted as he is..." and "I need to feel accepted, too."

Page 58:  "...respect, honor, esteem, adore, praise, enjoy, and admire."

I'm skipping over the sex part. Not going to comment on "sexual intercourse every night of the week," or "spray your sheets with sweet cologne," or the part about greeting him at the door naked and wrapped in Saran wrap or pink baby-doll outfits and fuzzy boots or the part about having sex pretending to be "a pixie or a pirate, a cowgirl or a show girl." Nope! Not going there. Everyone knows that sex is important in a marriage no matter what you're wearing, or not.

Page 133:  "A woman expresses her love by words and expects words in return. A man expresses his love by actions... ." And "Understanding the one you live with and love with gives such freedom." And "A husband and wife must communicate if they hope to understand each other. There is no greater feeling than knowing you are understood."

Page 134: "Be a good listener."

Page 136: "Don't criticize or put him down." Of course, that's a two-way street.

Page 138: "Be sensitive to his moods." Ditto on what I said above.

Page 139: "Be interested in his interests." This is good as long as it's not disingenuous and short-lived.

Page 142: "Before you speak, think the problem through and put it into its proper perspective. An angry outburst can scar your husband's emotions and create barriers between you."

It's important to note that Marabel Morgan is writing this book for women. It's instructions on how to keep your man happy so he won't stray and do the nasty-nasty with the bimbo at the office. She also has a chapter or two on how to raise well-adjusted and happy children.

I can only thank Ms. Morgan, because if it  had not been for The Total Woman (I could never, ever be that woman, by the way) I would have married the wrong man for me. It took several attempts at love--I had to realize that I didn't need rescuing; I am a smart, independent, capable woman. I eventually got it right. I have won the "Best Mate Lotto." Life is wonderful and, thank goodness, I don't have to wear that pirate outfit any more.

Tomorrow's Post: I Chased a Fairy Tale

Fairy Tale Junkie

This is a continuation in a series of stories that tell about a backpack trip to Europe (and back) 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" go to March 27, 2015, "I'll Never Find Love Again").

I am a fairy tale junkie, or at least I used to be; I broke the habit in my early fifties. I'll be seventy in August. In June of this year, I will celebrate being fairy-tale free for nineteen years. But when did the addiction to desperately-seeking-happily-ever-after with Prince Charming begin, and how was I able to break the habit? In order to break free, I needed to go back to when it all started. I had to meticulously pull back layer upon layer of innocence, naivety, delusions, deception, lies and lastly good intentions to get to the truth. It was difficult and painful--and I backslid more than a few times--but if I was going to be the person I was intended to be...the real me...the person who makes me complete and whole...the person...the woman who is happy with herself and her life, then I had to do it.

INNOCENCE & NAIVETY

"Sugar and spice and everything nice." That's what I was supposed to be. Uncle Jimmy told me that over and over when I, as a two-year-old, sat on his lap embracing his affection. My father had abandoned my mother, sister and me on the day I was born, because, well, he had found his true love, and it wasn't my mother. Oops! Made a mistake. Bye, bye. So long. Adios. Have a nice life. So now my new daddy was Uncle Jimmy and Uncle Jimmy said I must be "sugar and spice and everything nice."

My mother had lost her prince charming. She slept a lot. When she was awake, she cried a lot. How could she possibly go on without him? she asked. Jimmy's wife, Aunt Gracie, took care of her and me and my five-year-old sister, Judy. She read to Judy and me every night before we went to sleep. One of her favorite stories was Sleeping Beauty.

"Within the castle lies a beautiful princess who is doomed to sleep for a hundred years until a king's son (Prince Charming) comes and awaken her. The prince then braves the tall trees, brambles and thorns...and enters the castle. He passes the sleeping castle folk and comes across the chamber where the Princess lies asleep on the bed. Struck by the radiant beauty before him, he falls on his knees before her. The enchantment comes to an end by a kiss and the princess awakens and..."

Every night it was a different fairy tale. Meanwhile, in the next bedroom was another sleeping beauty: my mother. After the prince kissed her and did a few other things to her, he left her. Shhhhh....it's a secret. He doesn't want any of the castle folk to know he's made a mistake, so can you keep a secret?

I believed in the fables. I was sugar and spice and everything nice. I was a princess. Uncle Jimmy told me so. "Little boys like sweet little princesses," he said. But there was just one itty bitty problem. I was an ugly little princess. It wasn't my fault though. The facial deformity was nature's gift, and there was no money for surgery to fix nature's mistake--I mean gift--so the only thing left to do was pray for a miracle and take no pictures. Bless her sweet little heart. 

While sleeping beauty was mourning the loss of her prince in the next bedroom, my aunt read us the story about another unattractive, less fortunate young lady who, even though she wasn't as beautiful as her competition--I mean step-sisters--won the heart of the prince:  Cinderella. See, there's still hope for Carol Louise. 

DELUSIONS

It was a miracle. I outgrew the deformity, but not the ugly. Everything a girl needed in the 1950's and first half of the 60's to be considered pretty, I lacked. However, I did have the following: coke-bottle glasses, buckteeth, turned-up nose, pimples, baby-fine hair, flat chest, skinny legs, and pencil-thin body. How in the world would I ever get the prince to notice me in this condition? "The" most important thing necessary to win a prince, I was lacking: Beauty. Even Cinderella, underneath the rags and dirt, turned out to be beautiful.

I immersed myself in romance novels.  If I couldn't have the prince in real life, then I would have him in my fantasies. Story after story told of a beautiful, demure, soft-spoken, sweet damsel winning the heart of a handsome, strong, controlling but loving man. The underlying theme was weak (woman) rescued by strong (man). This would become my story, my quest: Sugar-and-spice-and-everything-nice maiden seeking Prince Charming to rescue her.

DECEPTION & LIES

Innocence, naivety, and delusions met deception and lies in my early twenties. Hollywood love stories and soap operas mixed with fairy tales and romance novels and my need to be rescued--validated--by a prince was solidified.

Soon after graduating from high school, I left ugly behind and picked up cute. I wouldn't be so confident to use that word myself, because once ugly, in my mind, always ugly. "Cute" was a word my first boyfriend, Jack (not his real name) used to describe me. He also joked about my skinny legs, turned-up nose, and my sister Lynnette's big feet. He was a real funny guy. She didn't like him; I fell in love with him. My first love. He met all of the criteria on my prince list: handsome, strong, a man's man, someone in control who was able and willing to rescue and take care of his maiden: me.

Two years into our relationship, I inquired about marriage. "Any thoughts on when we might get married?" I asked. "When and if I get married, I'll be the one doing the asking," was his response. "The man does the asking," he followed up, just in case I needed an explanation. The years clicked by: three, four, five. While I was being sugar and spice and everything nice and waiting patiently for a proposal, I discovered an itty, bitty secret about my prince. A dash of deception. A sprinkling of lies. A cache of secrets. But he was my prince, after all, and so I waited and waited and waited some more...six, seven, eight, nine years, until...

OCTOBER, 1974

I was just standing out in the maiden meadow one day picking dead flowers, minding my own business, when off in the distance I heard a noise. At first I thought nothing of it. Then I saw it. It trotted majestically out of the woods. So big. So amazing. It took my breath away. A huge white horse. On the mount sat a knight wearing armor that glittered in the sun. The horse stopped a few feet away from me. From Me! Me! The ugly one. Oh, wait! The cute one.

I'd had a prince already--going on ten years--when the horse trotted out of the woods with a man covered from head to toe in shiny metal. When he lifted his face shield, I knew right then I could live a thousand years and never lay eyes on a man more beautiful. He met all of the criteria on my prince list, and so I let him lift me up--he was so strong--onto the horse, and the three of us trotted away. Oh, wait! There was just one itty bitty detail that I had to deal with before running off into the sunset with Prince #2: Prince #1. That would be Jack.

A week after I met Prince #2, Jack got down on one knee, professed his undying love, handed me an empty ring case,* and asked me to marry him--nine years and one week too late. I had fallen hard for my second prince. The tall, blonde, handsome, man's man football star from southern Indiana called me his sweet little princess. He liked to hold me on his lap, just like my uncle had done all those many years before. The engagement ring was beautiful; the wedding date was set--all within a couple of months.

Jack did not take kindly to the events that were unfolding before his very jealous eyes. He followed my prince and me on our dates; he sent flowers and cards professing his love; he scratched on my bedroom window in the wee hours of the morning so we could discuss once more why I was breaking up with him; he said he couldn't go on without me; he promised me that if I went through with the wedding he would come to the church, stand in the balcony, and scream at the top of his lungs.

My new prince did not take kindly to the events that were unfolding before his very beautiful, big blue eyes. He wanted to plummet Jack, but he honored my wishes to not harm this man who was suffering from a broken heart.

My knight gave me a book entitled The Total Woman, written by Marabel Morgan (a former beauty queen). It told about how a woman can keep her man: surrender her life to him, revere and worship and serve him, fulfill his every whim, and he will adore you and never leave you for that bimbo at the office.

My new love wanted me to stay home, have children, and be a housewife. In turn, he would be my protector, take care of me, and love me forever. He instructed me on the difference between women's work and men's work. Simply stated, anything inside the home was women's work; anything outside was man's work. But when I made a fire in the fireplace, he admonished me for doing a man's job. But wait! It's inside.

When the love of my life said he preferred I wear a one-piece bathing suit instead of my favorite bikini, I said, "I can do that." When he told me he didn't want me to have any men friends--even platonic--because it wouldn't look good to family and friends, I said, "I can do that." When he said, "As your husband I want you to accept that I know what is best for you," I said, "Uh..uh...uh...I think I can do that."

August 16, 1975, THE WEDDING

The fairy tale wedding on Saturday, August 16th, was growing closer and closer. Only ten days away. Invitations sent out? Check. RSVP's counted? Check. Church reserved? Check. Catering confirmed? Check. Wedding dress? Check. Flowers ordered? "Uh...uh...I'll get on that right away," I said to my aunt Gracie, who was my bridal coordinator.  I got in my little yellow VW bug and drove to the flower shop, walked around inside for a couple of minutes, and then left. My bug and I headed out of town, and all the while I was screaming at the top of my lungs, "I CAN'T DO THAT!"

But wait! He was the love of my life. My prince charming. My knight covered in all that heavy metal. I guess I can do what he wants me to do. I'm his sweet little princess. He loves me. He will take care of me. Protect me. What more could I possibly want? Yes, I can do this.

NO, I CAN'T!

Yes, I can.

NO, I CAN'T!

Yes, I can.

Yes, I can.

Yes I can.

My parents' living room was full of wedding presents. The wedding was in two days, and my little bug and I were no where to be found. We had run again...for the third time in ten days.

I just couldn't do it.

*The ring box was empty because when Jack came to my apartment unannounced to ask me to marry him, he discovered that I had company, so there was only one logical thing to do. He threw my engagement ring across the parking lot, never to be found. 

Tomorrow's post: Good Intentions

Can I Ever Laugh Again, Love Again, Live Again

This is one story in a series of stories that tell about a backpack trip to Europe (and back) 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" go to March 27, 2015, "I'll Never Find Love Again").

Tuesday, April 27, 1976 (In bed)

It's been a week since I left Luxembourg. I flew into New York and Mike and Lili picked me up at the airport. I stayed the night at their apartment, and the next morning I left for home. I bypassed Indy and drove straight to Evansville. It took me about 16-18 hours. I just had to know the answer. Did he no longer love me? Did he no longer want me?

I knocked on his door. I was trembling. As soon as he opened the door, I knew. He didn't grab me, hold on to me, hug me like he meant it, and say "I missed you so much. You are too dear to me, too precious for me to let you go." He stood stone still just inside the door; the answer was on his unsmiling face.

"Please, can I have another chance?" I said.  I wanted to say so much more. "I was confused. I love you more than anything. I know that now. It's you I want. If we set another wedding date, I promise I will go through with it. I won't back out." But I didn't say any of those things. I could tell it was useless. The answer was what I expected. "It's too late," he said and closed the door. I sobbed all the way back to Jack's house. He was very comforting. Then I came home. I took some of Mother's Valium and have been in bed ever since.

He does not want me any longer. Not only does he not want me, now he never, ever wants to see me again. I try desperately to understand how I could mean so little to him that he doesn't even care to see me again. Even passing acquaintances want to see one another occasionally. I don't understand. I don't see how I can continue on. I am a strong person and I can do anything I want, but the truth is I don't want to go on without him. How can I ever laugh again, love again, or live again.

THIRTY-NINE YEARS LATER

Monday, April 27, 2015

I just want to take a brief pause from telling my story, about losing the one and only love of my life and thinking my life was over,  to wish my son, Jason,  Happy Birthday.  He turns thirty-four-years-old today.

Jason, you are an amazing young man; you have surpassed

the highest expectations a mother could ever have for her child.

I love you more than words can express. You own my heart.

 Tomorrow's post: Fairy Tale Junkie

Back at Jack's

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.")

Thursday, April 22, 1976, Indy

Back at Jack's.

He Wasn't There

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 night, April 21, 1976,  New York City

He wasn't there.

Somewhere Over the Ocean--Going Home

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, April 20, 1976 (On the plane back home)

On the airplane, finally. Somewhere over the ocean. I'm going home.

Last night was a restless night. I kept waking up to look at my watch. I'd have short panic episodes thinking my watch had stopped and I was missing my plane, but then I'd realize that I wasn't leaving until this afternoon.  The night was long: Anticipating going back home. Anxious about what I would find when I got there.

I had the most wonderful, but at times scary dream all night long.  Each time I woke up to realize it was only a dream, I would try to make myself go back to sleep so it would continue. I was hoping for a happy ending.

He was waiting for me at Kennedy airport. This man whom I thought I had lost forever was standing at the gate waiting for me. I was stunned when I saw him there. He grabbed on to me and both of us hugged like we meant it. He was crying when he said that during my absence, he had missed me. He loved me so much. I was too dear, too precious to him to let me go.

Jack was at the airport, too. But he kept changing back and forth from Jack, the little boy, to Jack, the grown man. Jack, the boy, jumped out from behind a post and starting walking beside me. He mimicked my walking by keeping step with me. I panicked. Oh, no. What was he going to do this time? What manipulative thing did he have up his sleeve to ruin this moment. I had been given another chance. I hadn't lost the love of my life after all. Jack was going to mess with my mind again. This could turn out bad.

Jack, the boy, was walking along side us as we were leaving the airport. He had a huge grin on his face. What is going on? I wondered. I pretended as if I didn't see him. He was up to something. He would disappear for awhile, then reappear. I had to ignore him. (It was when I was trying to ignore Jack when I would wake up. I needed to get back to sleep, back to the dream. I had to get past Jack or else I would do something foolish and lose him again.)

Jack, the man, was in the car with us, but only I knew it. He was in the backseat; the mischievous, up-to-something grin was gone, and he was leaning forward between the passenger and driver's seat. He was acting like a normal, well-adjusted man--not a man who was desperate and would do anything to get his lost love back. He said that he was letting me go. He could see now that I was in love with someone else. He wanted me to be happy. So he was going to back off and stop harassing me, stop following me, stop manipulating me. If there was another wedding date set, he would not come to the church, stand in the balcony, and yell at the top of his lungs. That was a promise.

When I got up this morning, I felt so good. Hunger pains were gone. My back didn't hurt. For the first time on this trip, I have a positive feeling about my future. Maybe he did miss me. How can someone fall out of love so fast? I've only been gone a month. I want to believe he'll give me another chance. What if he is waiting for me at the airport? It could happen. I'm holding on to hope that he'll be there. I won't blow it this time. I won't back out next time. I will never run away again. That is a promise.

Almost Midnight in Luxembourg City

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.")

Monday, April 19, 1976 (Almost midnight in Luxembourg City)

I left Leiden yesterday for Luxembourg City. On the train I met three women from South America: Camil, Doris and Olga. They are beautiful, beautiful women and they speak perfect English. I think they come from wealthy families. They wear expensive clothes and they spend money like they have it, yet they are very down to earth and not pretentious. They all like to talk at the same time and they laugh endlessly. I loved being with them, and they made me feel like a beloved family member, accepting me right away. Before we arrived at the train station, they said they wanted me to spend my time in the city with them. (Everyone I've met so far on this trip has liked me; it's surprising. If I'm such a terrible person (selfish, self-absorbed) like Jack says I am, why do people like me?)

Camil, Doris, Olga and me

Luxembourg City

When we arrived in Luxembourg we found a hotel (Reinshein) for $15.00 for the four of us. That was such good luck for me. My part was $3.75, which meant I had a little more money; I didn't have to starve myself.

We rested in our room for a while, and then we walked around the city. Later we found a restaurant, and since I had some extra money from not paying for my accommodations in Leiden and my sharing a room here in Luxembourg, I was able to eat well. 

This morning we had breakfast. (Afterward I counted my remaining money: $5.00 and some funny-looking coins). We walked and talked and laughed our way through the city. We window shopped (it's Easter Monday and most stores are closed), and then we returned to the hotel, gathered our things, shared a taxi to the train station where we said our goodbyes. They were off to other European destinations, and I was heading to the airport and home. 

I started this trip with one relatively lightweight backpack and a purse. I now have a very heavy backpack, a bloated purse, and a large bag filled with souvenirs, gifts and miscellany. Carrying them is such a pain. Too big of a load for my one hundred pound body. My back hurts all the time. 

I took a bus from the train station to the airport and lugged my bags--thinking it was for the last time-- to the ticket counter. The lady said I had to go to another counter--lug, lug, lug--and at that counter the lady there said there were no seats available for me. I could not leave today. I was stunned. Just like back in New York when the flight was delayed, I was paralyzed. "But I have to leave today. I don't have any money left. What do I do? Where do I go?" That was what I was thinking. I said nothing. I just stared blankly at the woman. But she was done with me. On to the next person in line. 

Another airport employee told me there was a hotel a half mile away. My baggage now weighed five hundred pounds, not fifty. I just couldn't do it. But I had to. I had no choice. I started walking. Every step was a struggle. How could I even get a room with only $5.00? This was not supposed to happen. I should have been on that plane today. At some point, I couldn't go another step. I sat down in the dirt beside the road, threw my bags behind me, and buried my head in my arms. A car stopped and a man said something that I didn't understand. Did he think I was a lady of the night and he was propositioning me? Or was he asking if I needed a ride? I smiled and said "No, thank you." Either way, that would work. I got up and started walking again. A handsome young man walked by me and smiled. I picked up my pace to keep up with him; I forgot the pain and the next thing I knew I was at the hotel.

I walked into the office and explained my situation: I was supposed to leave today, but can't leave until tomorrow. All I have is $5.00. I laid it on the counter. There were no smiles exchanged. The man behind the counter wasn't happy; I wasn't happy. He pulled a key off a hook and started walking. I followed him and we walked silently down this long sidewalk, passing door after door, until he stopped at one, unlocked it, and pushed it open. Then he was gone without saying a word.

I had eaten a small breakfast this morning because I wanted to conserve the little money I had left. Now there will be no food until tomorrow afternoon on the airplane.

Earlier tonight I had severe hunger pains, so I left the room in search of food. I've had such good luck on this trip, maybe my luck will continue. So I walked back to the hotel clerk not knowing what I was going to say. "Excuse me, sir, but can you spare a couple of dollars so I can eat." I walked into the office; he didn't look up. I said nothing, left and came back to the room. What was I thinking? Was I so desperate that I would have turned to begging? I thought about what I could put in my mouth to reduce my hunger. Toothpaste came to mind, so I put a big dollop of Crest on my tongue and tried to swallow it. It was difficult but it did go down. Within seconds I was nauseous. Not only did toothpaste not help with the hunger, it made me sick to my stomach.

I laid down on the bed and waited for the consequences of my toothpaste mistake to go away. It did and eventually my hunger subsided. I thought about how lucky I had been throughout the trip: Strangers who gave me what I needed, right when I needed it; self-appointed bodyguards and tour guides who fed me, showed me the sights, and let me stay for free in their rooms; a hotel clerk who took me under his protective wing because I had been left behind; traveling companions who enriched my trip by simply sharing themselves with me; rich parent wannabes who cared about my well being; and then that lady in Leiden (whose name I didn't get) who took me in and just possibly saved my life. Here I was on my last day in Europe without any money but with a lot of memories and stories to share someday.

It's almost midnight and I'm still awake. My watch says 11:55. My flight is not until tomorrow afternoon so I don't think I need to worry about my watch failing me again. Just a few more hours and I'll be heading home. I'm ready.

Sick in Leiden

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.")

Easter Sunday morning, April 18, 1976, Leiden train station

By the time I arrived in Leiden from Amsterdam Friday, I was not in good shape. Every breath had a wheeze with it and there was a rattling noise in my chest.

I started walking but I had no idea where I was going. I was just blindly walking. I felt weak. It was cold, yet I was sweating. After walking a short distance, I needed to stop to catch my breath--my backpack, bags and purse had become too heavy for me--so I sat down on the front step of a village shop. I couldn't stop shivering. A man came out--the shop owner?--and said something; I had no idea what. Did he want me to leave? Did he think I was a vagabond? Was he asking me to go or was he asking if he could help? I had no clue. I knew I needed a room so I just said, "I don't feel well and I need a room." He left for what seemed like an hour, but I'm sure it was only minutes. Then he came back and motioned for me to follow him. We walked about a half block down a narrow cobblestone street where he stopped and knocked on a door between two village shops; he turned me over to the man who opened the door. Right inside the entry was a staircase that went up one level. The stranger pointed for me to go on ahead of him. We walked up the stairs and he opened another door into a spacious living room in an apartment. He motioned for me to sit down on the couch, then he left. It felt so good to be inside, out of the cold.

A half hour passed before a lady about sixty came into the room. She spoke very little English, and I spoke no Dutch. All I knew to say was what I had said to the man who brought me here. "I don't feel well and I need a room." It was hard to talk; each breath was painful, and I'm sure I looked terrible, so she motioned for me to follow her. I could not believe my good fortune. She led me to a bedroom that was big and beautifully decorated, with floor to ceiling windows that overlooked the street below. She insisted I take off my clothes and get in bed. A few minutes later, she brought me hot tea and cookies. I went to sleep and didn't wake up until the next morning.

Bacon and eggs and toast are staples in an American breakfast. Since being in Europe, no hotel or restaurant has offered such a breakfast( it was only bread and tea)...until I arrived in Leiden. Yesterday morning, my kind hostess delivered to my room bacon, eggs, cheese, roll, tomatoes, fruitcake, bread, butter, marmalade and tea. After breakfast she showed me to the shower. Oh my God! A shower.

I went back to bed after breakfast and a shower and stayed there the rest of the day. Every so often, I would wake up to find a little something for me to eat on the nightstand. I was in and out of sleep. One dream played over and over. I knocked on his door. When he opened it, he looked so good to me. Taller and more beautiful than I had remembered him and more blonde. He towered over me.  Unlike me, he wasn't suffering at all from our breakup. His eyes were clear blue and showed no sign of distress. "I'm sorry; I'm sorry; I'm sorry," I sobbed. He sighed. Oh, no...not her again. By my showing up unannounced, I could tell I was annoying him. "Can I have another chance?" I asked. "No," he said, "It's too late," and then he closed the door.

Another American breakfast was delivered to me this morning. I ate everything but the cheese, bread, and tomato. I put them in my purse for later. I am now hoarding food. I'm almost out of money.

Later when I was ready to leave, I got my wallet out of my purse to pay her, she motioned for me to put it away. I owe her nothing.

I never got her name. What is wrong with me? Jack is right; I am self-absorbed.

At the train station. Next destination: Luxembourg and then home.

View from my room in Lieden

Not a Father/Daughter Thing

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.")

Saturday, April 17, 1976

Here's what happened after I got on the train in Wurzburg, Germany, yesterday.

There was no food at the Wurzburg train station and, of course, I was starving. When you can't have something, you want it more, or at least I do. At first I had a cabin by myself on the train, and I made myself comfortable with the seat reclined. I knew sleep was out of the question, but I just wanted to be alone. I wanted to think about him. Us. How can I get him to forgive me, take me back?  My cold has now settled in my chest, and I was feeling crummy.

I heard a tapping noise. When I looked up, there was a short, wide man about fifty in a white uniform standing next to a food cart in the aisle; he was tapping on the door window, smiling and pointing to the cart. I have such precious little money left, but I was so hungry. I got up and looked at what he had to offer.  He was unusually happy and speaking in a foreign language--German, I assumed. He put his arm around me and continued to talk excitedly. I was thinking that he was just a real friendly man. I bought a sandwich and a coke which cost $3.00. Ugh! After I handed him the money, he hugged me and kissed me on the cheek. I thought that possibly I reminded him of his daughter, the way he was acting. I accepted his big smile and smiled back. He grabbed both of my shoulders, holding me at arms' length, and then he kissed me quickly on the lips. Then he left.

It all happened so fast that I didn't know what to think or do. I wanted to believe that it was purely innocent, so I sat down, unwrapped my sandwich and started to open my coke when he reappeared. He took the coke from me, opened it and poured it into a glass. Now he was beginning to make me uncomfortable. I started eating my sandwich and looking out the window. He sat down next to me, and then he moved my hair away from my face. Not good. I shook my head and said, "nein" and moved away. He had now crossed the line. This was not a father/daughter thing. I just wanted him to go away. He stood up--I thought he was leaving--but instead he turned around and tried to push me down onto the seat.  He struggled to get on top of me and kiss me on the mouth at the same time. I kept turning my face away from his and flailing around. With both arms, I pushed as hard as I could to get him away from me. It worked. He stopped and sat down on the seat next to me for several long uncomfortable seconds and then he left.

After he left, my body was shaking so hard my teeth were clattering. What in the world was that? I thought. I tried to process what happened, and the only thing I could think was that from the beginning he had been propositioning me--a woman traveling alone; maybe I was a lady of the night--and all along I was smiling and accepting of his proposition. I blamed myself. I didn't mean to but I must have led him on.

The train stopped in Frankfort and a lot of people got on. I'm thinking they were going to Amsterdam to celebrate Easter weekend.

A young black American soldier and a German doctor got on the train and shared my cabin. It was a delightful five hours with these guys. Albert, the doctor, pointed at places of interest as we rode up the Rhine. There must have been eight to ten castles sitting on cliffs over-looking the vineyards, villages and river. It was beautiful.

Bruce, the GI from Frankfort, and I became fast friends. He said he was on a weekend pass and he was excited to be going to Amsterdam for the first time. By the time the train pulled into the station, it was assumed that we would be seeing this city together. We had talked so much that it felt like we'd known each other for more than a short train ride.

Without Willem as my tour guide, I was at a loss for what to do and where to go. Bruce had no clue either, so we just walked. We walked with no maps, no direction of any kind. We were the blind leading the blind. Bruce said he didn't care at all because he was just happy to be here.

There was this one street we walked down that first confused, then shocked me. I've never seen anything like it. It was a normal street like you would find in any big American city (Chicago or New York City) with retail shops with large plate glass windows that displayed the shops' merchandise. Except this merchandise for sale in the windows was ladies. It was unbelievable. Store front after store front after store front for blocks had scantily-clothed women in different room settings trying to get our attention. They were acting sexy and motioning for the people walking by to come in. My mouth wouldn't shut. I was stunned by what we were walking by but Bruce was loving it. Big smiles. He didn't seem surprised at all.

It is Easter weekend in Amsterdam and there were no rooms available at all, or at least that I could afford. I did find one room but it was $50.00 and I don't have $50.00. So Bruce and I got back on the train. Destination for me was the next closest town to Amsterdam (Leiden) that had a room for the night. I felt so bad; I needed a warm place to lay down my ailing body.

Looking for Quaint in Germany

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.")

Friday morning, April 16, 1976 (waiting on train to Amsterdam)

Yesterday Mrs. Burton walked with me to the train station in Salzburg, gave me a sack of bread, cheese, soup and crackers, and then she tapped the lady standing in front of me in line on the shoulder and asked her to watch out for me. "She is precious cargo," she said. She hugged and kissed me goodbye and then stood back and waited for me to board the train. I can't believe all of the good luck I've had on this trip.

I decided to bypass Frankfort and Munich because I thought the cities would be too big, intimidating, and expensive. I chose a smaller quaint village town of Wurzburg. Maybe it was because I was feeling bad, but it didn't look like a village and it wasn't quaint. There must be an American military base close because there were hordes of unimpressive, loud-mouthed American boys running around trying to put the make on any female in sight. I'm sure Würzburg is a nice town once you weed out the unattractive Americanism that seems to have a hold on the area I'm in.

I stayed in a pension last night for $7.00. Not impressed and more money than I'm used to paying. I looked for a German restaurant (good ole wholesome German food) but I was too sick to look very far. I settled for a McDonalds. Ugh!

My watch has been failing me lately. It just stops and it usually happens in the middle of the night. Knowing that I can't rely on my watch, I kept waking up last night to check it, but as soon as I fell asleep, it stopped. I woke up to find my watch had stopped at 1:00. Thinking it was an overcast day and I was about to miss the train, I hurriedly put on my clothes and raced here to the train station. The clock here read 5:50; it's still dark outside, not overcast.  I was an hour and twenty minutes early for my train. I hate my watch.

Dirty Jeans and All

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, April 13, 1976, Salzburg, Austria

Yesterday was a bad day.  I don't know what happened but by the end of it, I was really sick. I met an older couple from Chicago, Mr. and Mrs. Burton, on the train and they took an instant liking to me. I reminded her of her daughter, she said. No way would she condone her daughter traveling around Europe alone. What was I thinking? Didn't I know about the dangers?

When we arrived at the train station, they said they wanted to take me to lunch. They must be rich because I have never eaten in a place that nice. The tables were covered with white linen table clothes and fine China and the waiters hovered over us in case we needed anything. I was self-conscious because I was wearing jeans--the same ones since I'd left home. I followed their movements to see which fork to use and when, and I kept reminding myself to keep my elbows off the table. If I messed up, they didn't notice. They accepted me, dirty jeans and all.

During the meal, Mrs. Burton said my cough did not sound good to her, so she dug some pills out of her purse and gave them to me with instructions to drink them with plenty of water.

The Burtons paid $15 for a taxi to take us around the city so we could see the sights (extravagant), but as the day went on, I kept feeling worse, so I came back to my room at the hotel and just went to bed. They came by to bring me food, along with more lectures about the dangers of traveling alone.  She gave me a small container with a thick lotion in it--it smells terrible--and told me to rub it all over my chest to break up the congestion. She's so worried about me.

Today I am spending the day in bed.

The Burtons came by again and brought me more food. She left me more pills and made me promise I would take them.

Thursday I'm leaving for a quaint village in Germany: Wurzburg. The Burtons want to take me out to eat and see me off at the train station.

Going Our Separate Ways

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.")

Monday, April 12, 1976,  (On train from Vienna to Salzburg)

I'm on the train to Salzburg, Austria. Willem and Charles are not with me. We are going our separate ways, and here is why.

When we arrived in Vienna yesterday, Willem's brother picked us up at the train station and drove us back to his apartment. It's a small apartment and he told us we were going to have to sleep on the floor. He didn't say it with any apology attached. It was just pointblank, "You're sleeping on the floor." I think if it were me and I had a small apartment and I had guests coming to stay with me, I might have been a wee bit apologetic, "I am so sorry, but all I can offer you is the floor." Something like that.

Willem and his brother--I'll call him Dick--had some catching up to do so Charles and I took a walk around the neighborhood and when we came back, Dick was upset that we were gone so long. He asked if we had given any thought to the fact that there might have been plans for us to leave for dinner 30 minutes before. Since we hadn't given any thought to that, we would now have to change restaurants, which meant driving farther away. I was just happy that we were driving because after weeks of walking everywhere, sitting while moving--no matter how far--was a luxury. As Charles and I were bickering playfully about which side of the backseat each of us preferred to sit, Dick lost patience and made the decision for us. "SHUT UP! AND GET IN THE CAR NOW!"

I have never met anyone like Willem's brother in my life. And I thought Willem was way too serious. During dinner, Dick and Willem did most of the talking, which was fine with me. God forbid I say something to get myself in trouble. OFF WITH HER HEAD!  As usual, Charles ate his meal, but not all of it. He pushed his plate toward me and I began to eat what he had left. That was a huge mistake. My eating out of Charles' plate was so appalling to Dick that he yelled, "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?" And from that moment on, I went numb and mute. He said more but I can't tell you what. I was somewhere else. The world continued on around me but I was gone.

I told Willem last night after dinner that I was leaving. No way could I ever allow someone to treat with such disrespect, I told him. This morning as I was leaving the apartment, Dick said, "Was it something I said?" And he wasn't joking. He really was surprised that he had offended me.

Willem walked me to the station and several times he made attempts to change my mind: His brother is not so bad once you get to know him; could I hold on for just a few more days so all three of us could continue to travel together? and I shouldn't be traveling alone. It's just not safe. When nothing changed my mind, he finally just said, "Please don't go."

When someone gives me an insincere, halfhearted hug, I sometimes say, "Hug me like you mean it." When it was time for me to get on board, Willem hugged me like he meant it, but I didn't reciprocate. All I could think about was getting on that train. The thought of spending one more day with his brother made me pull away from his hug and run. When I reached the steps, and I knew the train wasn't leaving without me, I turned around to wave goodbye, but he was gone.

Saturday in Innsbruck, Austria

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.")

Saturday, April 10,  1976, Innsbruck, Austria

The days are clicking by. We are in Innsbruck, Austria. It's chilly so I'm layered up in an effort to keep warm. This is where the winter Olympics were held this year. That's pretty cool. It's a beautiful town with enormous mountains all around. The three of us took a cable car up 7,000 feet to the top of one mountain and watched as hang gliders jumped into the blue and flew like birds. The town looked so small below us. Because of the cold I'm staying close to the hotel while Willem and Charles check out the local castles and museums.

My chest feels really tight. It's kind of hard to breathe, but that's probably because we are so high up and the air is thinner.

Tomorrow we are going to Vienna to see Willem's brother.

View from our hotel room in Innsbruck

Observations so far:

Parisian men tend to be more feminine, although it is not frowned upon. As a matter of fact, it denotes sophistication and class. They dress impeccably. Parisians are in their own fast-moving world. They seem disinterested in anything other than themselves. The waiters were not eager to serve us because we slowed them down by the language barrier.

The Spanish are generally friendly, at least the people working at the hotel were. They come in all colors, sizes, and shapes. They are not necessarily dark haired and dark skinned. Some have blonde hair with blue eyes. The style is extremely tight pants on the women with flair bottoms that cover their high platform shoes. The men wear pants that accentuate their behinds. They flair at the bottom with no back pockets. Men walk erect and proud. The image you might have of a bullfighter is an accurate one.

Overall, people in France, Spain, Italy and now Austria appear to be closer to each other than back in the states. They aren't afraid to touch, to hold hands, to kiss. I'm talking about men to men and women to women. It's not uncommon to see two women walking down the street arm in arm, or two men greeting each other by kissing on the cheek. It's quite nice to see and I wish it were that way back home.

The little girls in Europe all wear dresses. They are so feminine and proper. In Venice, especially, I saw so many little ladies being minded by their daddies. They all had scarves on their heads, knee-length skirts and knee socks with pretty, dainty shoes.

The prettiest women so far were in Spain, but that could be mostly due to the Ramblas--the main tourist street in Barcelona--drawing the tourists and tourists were what I saw.

Bring Me a Unicorn (Venice, Italy)

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.")

Friday, April 9, 1976, Venice, Italy

At 11:30a.m. this morning we took the train to Venice, a floating city built by man. Stood in the St. Marks Square and fed the pigeons. Went on a gondola ride; While Charles rested in the room, Willem and I walked the streets taking in this amazing city on water. We got lost, acted silly, laughed a lot. Other than that, the day was low key, which is fine with me. I don't feel well.

We ate lunch today at a place that reminded me of an old English pub, not that I know what an English pub looks like.

I'm so enjoying my friends. Willem is more relaxed around me. He's not so strict anymore with the sight-seeing agenda; he's opening up and showing me the real Willem (he even laughed today). For the first time, I noticed that he is a nice-looking man, but it's hard to tell behind those glasses and that serious expression. When he smiles--which he's doing more and more--I would even say he's handsome. Charles is a joy to have around. So easy going. Always happy. Self-effacing. I don't mean this in a bad way, but sometimes I think of him like a court jester. Whatever pleases the king, he will do even if he looks like a fool. He's not embarrassed; he just wants to please. Charles and I have a routine now whenever we go out to eat. He leaves some food behind and then pushes his plate toward me, saying "I'm full. Would you like the rest of this?" I know he's not full; he's only thinking of me because he knows I don't have enough money to last a month in Europe.

The guys have gone out and I'm alone, which gives me time to think. During the day, so much is going on that I can forget--sort of--about the mess I've made of my life: The reality that he is gone, that I've lost him, that I can't have him--that horrible reality is always lurking, lurking, lurking just below the surface ready to reach up and grab hold of me, devour me, but the guys and the distractions are keeping me in motion and out of harm's way. It's when I'm alone that I'm vulnerable. I'm trapped in that dangerous place. I hate myself. I'm an idiot. I did an awful thing and now I'm suffering the consequences. If only I could turn back the clock. If only, if only, if only.

Jack is right. I am selfish; I am self-centered. I think only of myself.

I wish I were more like Anne Morrow Lindbergh. When I read her book, Bring Me a Unicorn, a few months ago, I wrote her a letter to express how much I loved her book. By her example--kind and humble and thoughtful and grateful and genuine and introspective and inquisitive and above reproach--she has inspired me to be a better person. I don't want to think only of myself, but with this all-consuming fog of impending doom, I can think of little else. I lost the only man I could ever love; I lost my future children; I lost my happy-ever-after. No one will ever love me like he did. I'm going to end up old and alone. By my own doing, I have ruined my life.

When Anne wrote the letters to her family and the diary entries (in the 1920's) that are in her book, she was in her teens and early twenties. At that time, she was a prolific writer, dissecting her world (tangible and intangible) in minute detail, missing very little, and expressing it beautifully. She doesn't skim across the surface of everyday life. What's imperceptible to most is not overlooked by Anne. She moves beyond the obvious, the mundane (what most people would think as mundane so therefore not interesting) and finds so, so much more to discover. A flower sticking out of a vase is not just a flower in a vase. It's fragile, perfectly poised, self-sufficient, complete, a world in itself; it's perfect. She wrote about waking up in the mornings on her family's front porch and listening to the treetops brush against the side of their house. She so eloquently describes the scene and then connects it to childhood memories of outdoor games, the clothesline, burning leaves and the falling seeds from those brushing-against-the-porch trees, the immense love and devotion she and her family shared with each other. I was on that front porch with Anne. I felt the love. I was her closest friend, her confident. The sounds, the smells, the sights, the connection, the love--everything I wanted, but didn't have. Melancholy fell over me when I read that passage in her book. I wanted to bury my head in a pillow and cry until I had no tears left. As I'm writing about it now, I feel like crying all over again. I am not worthy of love; I have been discarded, thrown away, forgotten.

Anne writes in one of her diary entries that she longs to write, she must write, but she can't. She doesn't think she is any good; she doesn't have the vision or the ability, she said, but the longing to write never goes away. Why she would feel that way when it's so obvious that she is an incredibly talented and gifted writer is inconceivable to me. I have the same longing to write and the same doubts, but in my case--when I compare myself to her--I know I am not a good writer, yet I have to write. I must write.

Postcard perfect gondola ride in Venice

Feeding the pigeons

St. Marks

Thursday in Florence, Italy

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.")

Thursday, April 8, 1976, Florence, Italy

Today in Firenze (Florence) we saw the following: The Fountain of Neptune, Pitti Palace, Medici Chapel, Uffizi Museum (has twenty-five of the world's most famous paintings: Michelangelo, DeVinci, Botocelli, Rembrandt, twenty-one more), Loggia dei Lanzi, Piazza del Duomo, Michelangelo's David, a cathedral, and a synagogue. We also saw the Battistero which has a magnificent door made of brass that took over 28 years to make. Willem and I walked up to an observation point in the city, and he took some pictures of me with the view of Florence in the background. Then we walked along the river on the way back to our hotel. We stopped at an outdoor market, and I found a purse I liked (mine is falling apart), but I didn't buy it because it was too expensive. When we got back to the hotel, Willem pulled it out of his backpack and laid it on my bed. He said I could pay him back later.

Florence in the background

Willem and me by the river.

Charles told me today that Willem is falling in love with me.

From Rome to Florence

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 26th, "I'll Never Find Love Again.")

Wednesday, April 7, 1976 (On train from Rome to Florence, Italy)

As of Monday night I am now sharing hotel rooms with Willem and Charles. (In Rome Forti Pension.) It was their idea. When I told them how much money I brought with me, they were surprised. I had prepaid the airline tickets and Eurail pass, but I had underestimated the costs for the rooms, food, and miscellaneous. My plan to eat one meal a day didn't even last one day. I think when you know you can not have something--like food--the desire to have it gets stronger and stronger and, at times, all consuming.

All day yesterday taking in Rome. What a busy, busy place this is. People and cars moving like in the old time movies: so fast. The people are very vocal, demonstrative, and animated, and the men are not shy about approaching women. Maybe it was like this in Barcelona; if so, I didn't notice. But, then again, part of the time I was in a daze.

Here is what we saw Tuesday (not in this order): Colosseum, St. Peters Church, Pantheon, Spanish Steps, Trevi Fountain, and the Sistine Chapel--Amazing! Grandiose! Grandiose! Each room is big enough to hold one very large house. We also saw where the Senate Forum was before Christ and we walked across the oldest bridge in Rome. And, of course, the Vatican. I did not know that the Vatican is a separate country or entity....not part of Rome.

Postcard perfect picture of Colosseum

Vatican

Oldest Bridge in Rome

Today we rented scooters (I rode on the back with Willem) and went to Tivoli, a town twenty-five miles away that sits on the side of a mountain (large hill). On the way out of town Charles' bike had a flat tire and there was a lot of waiting around to get it fixed. I sat with one bike while the guys were dealing with the flat tire.

Rome--waiting on flat tire to get repaired.

(Note: Had this picture mistakingly in the Barcelona pictures)

There's  a villa (castle) in Tivoli with a magnificent garden and fountains. Seeing this town was Willem's idea, but I didn't enjoy the ride there and back. Half of the time, my butt was on the back fender because the seat was too small for Willem and me. Besides the flat tire, Charles' bike was agonizing slow, and it was so cold. Even though Willem gave me his coat, I was freezing. Not my favorite part of visiting Rome.

Willem is different now. Can't put my finger on it. Before we were separated in Barcelona, he had always been polite and respectful but distant; he had a parental or big brother attitude toward me, but without the closeness and intimacy that family members share. Charles, on the other hand, has always treated me like an equal. We joke, we laugh; we are good pals. Willem is starting to relax, to soften. He's smiling more, and I feel he is beginning to see that I am a woman--not a little girl. I am smart; I am capable. I don't need someone to take care of me. Or, maybe it's my imagination and he doesn't think that at all.

My throat still hurts but it's getting better.

What Happened Next

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.")

Monday, April 5, 1976,  Rome, Italy

The trip yesterday to the castle in Monaco where Grace Kelly lives with her prince didn't happen. The timing didn't work because I was taking the train to Rome and I didn't want to take a chance on missing it. Plus I was feeling a little under the weather after exploring Nice in the rain Saturday.

Jim and Randy went with me to the train station to make sure I got on my way safely. What nice people I'm meeting on this trip.

Luckily for me, I found an empty cabin. That was good fortune because I didn't feel like being sociable. Even though the seats are designed to accommodate sleep, I tried but didn't succeed. I changed positions a hundred times, but still no luck in the slumber department. Finally nodded off into a semi-conscious state.

The train jolted to a stop and I jumped out of my seat. The sudden stop confused me because I didn't think we should be stopping so soon. I got up, straightened my wrinkled mess of clothes, wiped the sleep (even though I didn't get any) out of my eyes and walked out into the aisle.

I could not believe what happened next.

I saw familiar. In a place where everything is foreign and different and unfamiliar, I saw familiar. Standing in the aisle just one train car away, looking out the window was Willem. I couldn't believe it. I thought I had lost my friends, yet in all of the trains in all of Europe, in all of the possibilities of dates and times and places...here stood Willem, thirty feet away. He had stepped out of his cabin at the exact same moment I had.

Willem saw me almost immediately and for a second he stood frozen, not believing his eyes. Then, just like in the movies, we ran toward each other. He grabbed and hugged me and lifted me off the floor, laughing and yelling for Charles to come see what he'd found on the next train car over. Charles came out of the cabin and when he saw me, his jaw dropped. He kept saying,"What? What? I can't believe it!" The odds were against it, but there we all were, back together again.  I cried. I am so happy to be back in the fold with my friends.

So happy to be back with Willem and Charles

On the train to Rome

Where Grace Kelly Lives with Her Prince

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, April 4, 1976, Nice, France

By the time the train arrived in Nice yesterday, I had become friendly with Jim and Randy, the couple from California who shared my cabin on the train. They, like me, had bought a Eurail pass, and even though their agenda is different than mine, they are traveling by train throughout Europe for a month. From Nice they are going to Paris; I am heading to Rome.

When we were saying our goodbyes at the train station, Randy asked that since I was traveling alone, would I like some company while exploring Nice. At first, I almost said no--that's my tendency; go it alone--but I'm glad I said yes, instead. When we got off the train we walked with baggage (whew!) to a cafe where we searched through our books for the cheapest place to stay with the best accommodations. The Central Hotel, 10 rue de Suisse got our business. My room is $7.50. No bath but a sink and bidet. Also a double bed.

Spending yesterday with Jim and Randy was wonderful. They laugh a lot and laughter was just what I needed. We walked everywhere. We walked up a big hill to an old castle overlooking the city and then headed north to see Roman ruins. I didn't know that there were Roman ruins in Nice, but, then again, there's a lot I don't know. Later in the day it rained--we tried to hitchhike with no luck--but it didn't stop us at all. Jim found an umbrella and all three of us tried to crowd under it. I put a bandana on my head and we all carried on as if we weren't getting drenched.

This afternoon we are going to see the castle where Grace Kelly lives with her Prince. I have a bit of a sore throat; I hope that doesn't mean I'm getting sick.

Jim, Randy and me on the French Riviera

Nice, France

On the Train to Nice

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.")

Saturday, April 3, 1976  (On a train to Nice, France)

I'm on a train to Nice. There is a couple from California (Jim and Randy) sitting across from me. They seem pleasant enough, but I don't feel like being social.

Yesterday Willem and Charles managed to catch the train to Nice; I didn't. I missed it. But I'm on my way now, just one day later than planned. The hotel clerk--I'll call him "E"--let me stay at the hotel one more night for no charge. He also gave me access to a second floor empty bar area with a view of the boulevard below. I wanted a place with ambiance because I thought it would inspire my writing; it didn't. I watched the people below, each one walking with purpose in their steps. Couples strolled by holding hands, sharing intimate conversations.  Everyone around me is happy, except me. I've ruined my life. I had someone who loved me, someone who wanted to take care of me, but I blew it.

I need to mention a few things about E, the hotel clerk. He walked me to the train station this morning and gave me a basket of French bread and fruit for my trip. But it was what happened last night that is worth mentioning. I will need to sort through it later before I understand exactly what did and did not happen. But, for the first time since leaving the love of my life back in Indiana, I wanted to be in someone else's arms.

From the time I first arrived at the hotel on Wednesday, E has been especially attentive to me. He's handsome but I don't think he knows just how good looking he is because he has a humbleness about him. He wants all of the guests to be comfortable and have what they need. To serve others is his nature; I can just tell. I find that characteristic to be endearing, so when he asked me if he could take me to dinner last night, I said yes. He was concerned because I had missed my train and my friends left without me.

We finished dinner around eleven, but we walked for several miles around the city until midnight. The streets were crowded with people just getting started to celebrate the night. Barcelona stays up late, very late, but I had an early train to catch so I told E I needed to get back to my room. About a block from the hotel, he took my hand and put it to his cheek. That's when I saw the ring. I couldn't believe that I hadn't noticed it before.  So I came right out and asked him if he was married, but he told me that just that morning he and his wife had separated and he forgot to take off the ring. Talk about coincidence and timing.

Like a gentleman, E walked me to my room, took my hands in his and said he would walk me to the train station the next morning. Then he said the sweetest thing. I will miss you.

I was in bed but still not asleep when I heard a light tapping noise. I covered up with a sheet and cracked opened to door. It was E. He was sad, he said. I noticed that his wedding ring was gone. He asked if he could just come in for a little while. He wanted to spend the little time that was left with me. So I opened the door and let him in.

E

Barcelona, Left Behind

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.")

Friday, April 2, 1976, Barcelona, Spain

They're gone! We were running late to catch our train to Nice, France; we didn't know which track it was on, so we split up and the first one to find it would yell to the others. There was pure chaos and panic and then nothing. The trains were gone and I was standing all alone staring at an empty train track. They left me behind. I can't believe it.

I walked back to the hotel in a daze. The hotel clerk is so nice; he said I can stay one more day for no charge. He walked me up to my room--it's the same one I had--and said if there is anything he can do for me, to just let him know. I'm not doing any sightseeing today. I'm in a funk. I still can't believe they left me. I'm just going to stay close to the hotel and try to write. I'm just not inspired.

Later

I'm in a room on the second floor that has big windows that overlook the street below. I'm looking for ambiance, motivation, inspiration to write. So far nothing is coming to me. I'm hoping that by writing about what happened, I can sort through all the confusion and find clear direction. I'm so tired of feeling this way. What is wrong with me? I want to be happy again.

The hotel clerk brought me lunch. He's concerned for me because the guys left without me.

Barcelona, Day Two

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.")

Thursday, April 1, 1976, Barcelona, Spain

I know I said that I wanted to make this journey through Europe by myself, but I think I made the right decision to travel with Willem and Charles. Charles is so pleasant and easy going. He never gets upset about anything and he treats me so well. He laughs at my silly antics and stupid jokes, and he agrees with everything I say. Willem acts like my protective big brother and seems offended whenever any man approaches me for any reason. He's so quick to jump between me and what he perceives as danger. How fortunate for me that I met them at the airport. I do feel safer with them and I can't imagine what all I would have missed in Paris and here without Willem's tour guiding and encyclopedic brain.  With these guys, this trip is better than I could have imagined, and I get to eat more than once a day--that was a bad idea from the beginning--because they share their food with me. How wonderful is that?

Right decision to travel with Willem and Charles.

This trip is better than I could have imagined.

Willem took this picture of me at the fortress.

But today I do want to go it alone. I need some time by myself. I want to stay close to the hotel, close to my room and think about him, about us, about the mess I've made of things, about the future, our future, if there is one...if it's not too late.

The view from my room, Barcelona