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