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