Beyond the fence I see bones still joined up along a spine—ribs and a pelvis.  I look around to see who might own this bit of treasure. Someone must have already claimed it. But no. In a Georgia-O’Keefe-moment it becomes mine. It looks safe: there’s no meat on these bones; there’s nothing gross left. It’s too light and fine to be a cow; maybe it’s a deer or an antelope. A dog probably dragged it in from the endless mesa.

What a mirror for my own skeleton. I probably owe my skeleton one of those letters Alice would send to her body parts when she was growing and shrinking in wonderland. “Dear Skeleton, thanks for your articulation and support. With love and plenty of Advil, Me.”

I have to walk about a mile with the skeleton. I try to hang it casually from the end of my hand, as if it were just my arm swinging with my step. I have to be careful not to scrape the ground with it. I should try to tuck it a little closer into my body. There now, there’s nothing so odd about carrying a large mammalian skeleton through the nice residential part of town. Not until a car comes in the opposite direction, that is.

Actually, just the act of walking on these pleasant streets is a little odd. This is oil country—the Permian basin. Car lovers; when they drive by they honk or call-out and wave. They’re Texans; they’re West Texans.

“Hey Roy, who’s the girl with the dead animal. D’ya know?”

Thank goodness I have the keys to my rental car with me. I can just drop the skeleton into the trunk on my way into the house. That way I don’t have to explain it to my elderly host and hostess.  And I forget all about the thing until I’m almost ready to return the rental, several days later, three hundred miles up the road.

I ask my next hostess: “Amanda, could I bother you for a large garbage bag?” She needs an explanation.

“I picked up this skeleton walking around Stockton. Do you want to see it? It’s pretty cool.”

Amanda and her husband are retired scientists. A skeleton’s not so weird, is it? She was curious; her husband was slightly mortified. He wanted no part of it, at least not until we were admiring the bones with the neighbors in the cul-de-sac. Then he finally had to have a gander.

“Be sure to wash your hands really well”  he reminded.

“Thanks, bye….”

I’ve got a bag. But how am I going to get this thing home? The TSA doesn’t ask about skeletons or bones.  They must be okay. What am I going to do with it when I get home?

I’ll hang it on the deck, I guess. It’s a trophy.

When I decided to thumb through Ireland, I got busy putting all the fear-laced warnings about hitch-hiking out of my head. I hadn’t contemplated the also-fearful-and-more-likely reality that I’d be expected to converse with perfect strangers for hours. Before I could get too nervous, the view, the comfort and the repetition of the road helped open up my travel-mind and loosen my ear and shy-tongue.

In Swansea I filled my few days easily. I traipsed the castle, shopped for old watches, and sat still for a lengthy rant on the crown and the dole from an articulate resident squatter. The next day I played in the surf, getting horribly muddy in my new travel sandals. It didn’t occur to me to give them more than a cursory wipe and leave them outside. My elderly hostess scrubbed them to a clean and broken–in state, to my embarrassment. Over my cold beans, cold toast, cold egg and fabulous marmalade the next morning, she informed me that she and her husband strongly disapproved of my travel plans—the ferry to Ireland. “Why just last week several of our Welsh boys were killed”—soldiers serving in Northern Ireland. I knew tensions were high, but I was shocked at the hostility for the land and people across the small channel of water. I listened politely, promised not to go to Northern Ireland and set out for the ferry terminal.

We sailed overnight. I woke early stretched out in the ferry’s public lounge with the TV blaring the state funeral for Éamon de Valera, the former prime minister and partial architect of modern Ireland, whom I had never heard of. My heart sank a bit as I glimpsed something of my ignorance. Why was I traveling to Ireland? I certainly didn’t know anything much about the place. I wasn’t seeking my heritage, as so many Americans do. I read John Osborne and Brendan Behan. I loved the language. I liked the Guinness and the whiskey. So now I walked into a country somewhat in mourning, with it’s inconsistencies and controversies freshly stirred, as if that weren’t always the case in the mid-70s.

Customs gave me pause, unexpectedly. They searched me ever so thoroughly, not for the guns and bombs the London police had been checking for in my purse in theatre lobbies, but rather, for condoms. Clean on all fronts, I entered the City of Cork, thumb aloft.

My first ride, gave me the bit of political history I needed. I understood parts of each of his sentences about the devotion and infamy of de Valera. Mostly, I secured a little grounding in the dialect and the ways of the road. Those hours of ear-training were essential and the luncheon pint a nice surprise.

This middle aged man who stopped for me in his tiny well-worn car with no radio would be typical of my rides over the week. Our gab was entertainment for a long drive. In this green and friendly place a long drive was any distance between towns.

One driver left me in a pub while he made a business call in a small town. He came back for me and toured me all over the county. We wandered around small stone huts, stone circles and stone fences. A truck driver on holiday and his passenger, a young runaway, took me to the cliffs of Moher, where we crawled along our bellies to the edge. I was probably just an oddity in the day’s drive for these folks. They became a part of my trip, my travel ethic and my thirty plus years of memory.

No driver ever asked my name and I was too green in the art of conversation to properly introduce myself. But before I quite sat down in any car the driver asked my religion—Catholic or Protestant. I was taken aback at first. The ride didn’t seem to be conditioned on a particular answer. After the second time, I came to relax. I wouldn’t be scorned as a Jew. Quite the contrary, my exotic pedigree gave the driver license to deliver his views most candidly.

I didn’t realize how odd it was to spend the day with someone still nameless until, awaiting the next lift, I had rejoined the ubiquitous sheep at the side of the road . Although we hadn’t gotten to names, each driver spoke fearlessly about all the important things, especially politics, religion and sex. I followed suit, of course. It was all talk, for the most part. And there were wonderful twists of gab that roamed through history, family, the crystalline logic against reuniting with the Northern counties and the inexorable heart that craved it, all delivered with a kind-hearted glum sense of fate, wear and tear, as befitted the year and the dismal economy.

I barely touched Ireland but I learned maybe her greatest lesson, talking to people. My meanderings along her fuschia-lined roads trained my ears and my traveler’s quest for serendipity. I still love Osbourne, Behan, the whiskey and stout.

“See this is just about an hour out of town. We could check out first thing and go there.”

“Ok, We’ll check the bags at the hotel. One last float in the Atlantic, pick up our stuff, change in the bathroom, drop the rental and fly home.”

We’ve spent over an hour bouncing and bobbing in the warm surf. It’s the last-possible-minute to leave paradise and we’re toweled off, relaxed, damp-bottomed and ready to pedal our economy car to the mainland, sticky and sandy as the weather, and loving it.

The bridge is open. The little bridge to this island beach has swung open for a sailboat with a tall mast.

Slow boat, hunh? You know, I didn’t think there’d be any delay to a midday trip through town. I’m getting hotter and itchier. It feels like we’re sitting here a long time. I wish I’d allowed a little more time for the return. Some people allow cushions of time. They allow for bridge openings. I should have seen the bridge coming out here. I’ll just check our itinerary and reconfirm our timing.

What?!! We get into Chicago at 3? I planned this for take-off from Charleston at 3. We leave Charleston at 1:40. It’s noon now. We’re at least an hour from our hotel. This bridge is sure going nowhere. Only my pulse is picking up speed.

I’m going to have to announce my error. I’ve just totally blown it; I deserve whatever is coming to me.

Luckily for me, our mutual panic is so great there’s really no time for a full-blown attack. Sure a little shock, disbelief, the usual screaming and yelling to help let off steam. But we’re both gearing up for the mad dash. We’ve been late to airports before. But never quite like this. He’ll drive, I’ll navigate, and we’ll ditch bits of the plan as we can—just as soon as this damn bridge closes.

Ok, we’re finally moving. Once we get to the freeway, traffic moves along pretty well. I’m a squeamish passenger at best, so I keep my eyes off the road—I don’t need to see us weaving in and out of traffic. This would all be so much easier if we didn’t have to go back to the hotel. Never separate from the stuff. What was I thinking? His fear of car break-ins. We have to go back into that tight little tourist district. And park, and be civil to the bellhop and tip and….

Hey, we can forget changing. I’ll pull some clothes out of the bags and we can try to change in the car on the race to the airport. Yeah—then we don’t even need to find legal parking.

Ok—you stay with the car, I’ll claim the stuff and tip the guy. “Hi, yeah, we’re in a bit of a hurry. You can just throw them in there. Great—this is for you. Yeah we had a great time, very relaxing.“

That went pretty well. We might make it.

We’re screaming down the freeway again. Where are we going to drop this rental car? My temples are pounding so hard I can’t find the rental return on this little map. It’s an off-airport cheapie. Hey, let’s just drive to the airport and leave the car somewhere, call them and let them know. They might charge a fee, but it’s better than missing the flight.

More scary driving. I try to be encouraging and not to look at the road. Ok, we’re off the freeway and on the airport drive now. This airport is built just like home! Familiar. I’ll leave you and the luggage at curb check, I’ll get rid of the car and meet you in the airport. I’m the resourceful one.

I dump him in his swim trunks, flip flops and sandiness, amidst a sea of boxes and bags at the curb. The porter is coming out to rescue him. Note to file—next time do not buy chairs on vacation, even portable chairs. Oh! Good news. The porter says the plane is delayed. “Great—gotta go.”

I’m screaming around the circular airport drive to find a spot to get rid of this car. I’m almost back to the first building. I’ll just follow this guy into the employee parking lot. I make it on his card swipe. I lead a charmed life.

I race into the building behind another employee with a card key and I’m surrounded by the rental-car desks. This is perfect. I approach a friendly looking woman at the not-busy desk and explain: “I have to leave this key with you—the car is in the employee lot next to the building. Perfectly safe. I’m gonna to miss my flight so I don’t have time to go to their off-site return.” She’s willing to take the key, if I call my company and let them know the details. So I dive into the pay phones.

Here I encounter my first resistance in the guise of southern hospitality. The nice, slow-talkin’ lady at Alamo wants to assure me that they are more than happy to drop me at the airport after I bring the car back to their off-airport location. “It’s real easy to find. We’ll have you back in no time. “

“No, no time is just what I have. I simply can’t do that.” And after awhile I can’t explain it to her anymore. I drop the key off with my first lady and run upstairs.

Breathless and sweating, I run into my husband who almost looks sane by now. The bags are checked, the plane is thankfully delayed, and there’s another ½ hour to go before we can takeoff. What a relief. Oh to breathe again. And go to the bathroom. And get some more sand out of the creases before flying cross country.
We each make our ablutions. Then we saunter up to a little ice cream stand and treat ourselves to double dip waffle cones of fresh peach ice cream. It’s June in South Carolina; nothing has ever tasted better.

We amble to the gate. Clearly, we’re the lost passengers, but we’ve made it. The plane has been loaded for over half an hour and it’s quietly baking in the sun, power off, waiting for the thunderstorms to clear Chicago. There’re two empty seats, no longer together, but maybe that’s good.

The other passengers are grumpy, sweaty and red-faced. They hate us. We walk down the aisle air conditioned, with fresh peach ice cream dripping down our arms. Relaxed.

We gathered our stuff about us and entered a steamy Budapest. I let a taxi driver adopt us as soon as our feet touched the platform. He grabbed our bags and claimed to speak English. Actually, we didn’t do so badly between his few phrases of English, occasional bits of German and much hand-waving. The will to communicate is everything and Hungarians have plenty of that.

I sailed through lesson two of Language in Hungary when we met our hostess, an elderly woman who rented her bedroom very reasonably. We chatted about her arthritis, the doctor, the shot she got this morning, her late husband, her children, their education and languages, and best of all—the grandchildren—all those things two women can talk about for half an hour with only about ten common words between them.

After a shower and a nap, two great friends of the traveler, we set out to find dinner in our neighborhood, a local business area with few foreigners. This was perfect for our style of travel. Now, what can I suggest to a ten year old with a travel-lagged stomach? As we come to the busy street, I can see a bright blue and white border around the large doorway of a building a few blocks down. mm—perhaps a Greek restaurant?

“You like Greek food, Honey. Remember the lemon soup with little round noodles, moussaka, circles of squid?” I talk it up, the way one does when trying to keep a ten year old motoring forward instead of complaining. “Only another couple of blocks.”

Greek food sounds good. Now, just one more block. The blue and white tiles continue their promise of good familiar food. And we’re both ready now; we can almost smell it. The sign doesn’t help or hurt; it’s in Hungarian, an impermeable language.

A deep breath says… perchloroethylene, not olive oil. People stream out with pants and skirts on hangars. Oh no! It’s a dry cleaner. How could this be? What a disappointment!

“I’m so sorry, Honey. I’m hungry too. How about pizza?”

Language in Hungary is a bit of mystery. The pizza was great.

John Adams was off by two days—he thought the holiday ought to be July 2, the date the Second Continental Congress actually voted for independence, but we’ve always celebrated the 4th, the date on the Declaration, as a tribute to this country, summer, hot dogs, balloon buns, bands, fireworks and retail sales. I marched in the Evanston Independence Day parade and I still have the small plastic flag I carried (it’s so hard to march with a cello—not fair.)

But my generation was soon robbed of public notions of patriotism. Songs, parades and the tear-in-the-eye during the National Anthem were taken over by the purveyors of war, guns, flag pins, my-country-right-or-wrong, lies and fear. I had to discover the brilliance of our founding fathers, along with so many things about this country, by traveling outside of it.

I sat with my daughter on the stairs surrounding the statue of Jan Hus in Prague’s Old town square, less than a decade after the Velvet Revolution. In the sea of young German travelers, I opened to my chief source for European history, The Michelin Green Guide, and read aloud. We were looking for painted
buildings along the square to attach to the tales of de-fenestrations.

Suddenly, I could taste the first Amendment. Madison was not just my best-friend’s home street. John Adams was alive in my head, not just my favorite character in the film of 1776. I was so thankful for their courage and craft, their insight and insistence. I tried to impress on my ten year old how amazing and important the foundation of this country is, with tears in my eyes.

Recently, my choral director assigned us God Bless America. There was too much God and too many memories of this number being trotted out as the symbol of the love-it-or-leave-it brigade. It stuck in my throat. So I traveled to the lower east side of my mind and roamed the tenements that grew an Israel Beilin, or Irving Berlin, as he came to be known. I saw my family, both sides, craving this soil and planting their feet and spirits in it, relieved to be free of the persecution and turmoil they faced in Europe. They became Americans with every fiber, pouring sweat, blood and children into her.

When I returned to the risers and opened my mouth to sing, I could hear my Grandmothers refrains—only in America. I could reclaim the song and fill the lyric with the language of my heart—justice and opportunity.

We barely knew each other, but it was time to celebrate his birthday. So I suggested a trip to the coast? What location held more promise, energy, escape?

I hadn’t checked into a hotel with a man other than my ex in over 20 years. The atmosphere was so charged I could barely sign. There was a king sized bed, a hot tub, and the two of us for hours and hours.

Just after midnight we finally dragged ourselves out of bed and down to the beach. I’d heard something about the Leonid meteor shower. No one would count on a clear sky at Cannon Beach, but there it was, black velvet sparkled with stars everywhere–and then they started to fly. They shot from the foreground to the background, across the sky in wild arcs, low to high and back again. They fired at Haystack Rock in the Pacific. The trusty monument was surprised to hand over its glory to the coastal sky, finally free of her shroud and busy staging the best light-show in the world.

The half-dozen of us strung across the wide beach bonded in ecstatic exclamations. We spun around dizzily to catch the action. The sky wasn’t still for a moment. My birthday boy knew all the constellations by name, distance, and location. He was a fabulous guide to our sparkled travels that evening: twisting, turning and gasping in the excitement of it all. Some hours later, we finally gave it up, although the show went on and on.

I learned since that nature does not speak in signs, metaphors, allegories or favorites. That brilliant display had nothing to do with our brilliance, suitability, or the destiny of our love, however much I wanted to believe it. Romance, like everything else, looks for confirmation. And what could be better than this amazing night with my star stud. It was fantastic and for awhile, it sparkled our shiniest points.

Geography offered me five choices. I picked canopy. Apples, dust and guano challenged my arrival, but skin leathered and I rose. I passed familiar robins and crows. Shy new neighbors hopped away, surprised to see skin.It’s such a loud neighborhood, especially in the mornings. As dirt caked, broke and caked again, I fit in. Steamy winds pushed my rags away and left me sparrow-suited. Grabbers, flappers and buzzers friended me—arboreal facebook.

Capuchins laugh, squirrels nag and macaws complain loudly—the usual. My towering shade-home transports me—climbing, clawing and hanging around.

A Trip to the Zoo

Mike the polar bear loved his crowds as much as the marshmallows and nuts they pelted at him. High atop his haunches he was stronger than all and a master showman. My little peanuts didn’t make it across the moat.

On the way to the cat house, Daddy showed me again how to crack the peanut, rub the red husk away and toss both nuts into my mouth, all with one hand.

I loved the warm salty nuts, his thick red fingers, his bulging eyes. He was just like Mike—larger than life and a little intimidating.