I’m preparing for a trip, trying to hold onto the why of going. Staring at our dogs like I’ll never see them again. Creating a watering schedule for friends I’ve tricked into keeping our tomato plants alive. Stress full. So, I momentarily withdraw, to appreciate the privilege of being able to go where I want, when I want, with whom I want. Instead of dwelling on preparation, I focus on motivation.
Travel, for me, has always been about hunger. Taste something new. Go somewhere fresh. Make the world a little bigger. You don’t have to leave home to travel. Let’s be honest, most people’s only visit to the Alps will come from The Sound of Music.
I’ve yet to be trapped in outer space, but I went to see Sandra Bullock in Gravity. Never had a flying car, but I loved going to fictional Vulgaria in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.
Travel, regardless of form, makes the world more exotic. I grew up in Wisconsin, so exotic isn’t all that hard to come by. Illinois was revelatory. South Dakota, sublime. I don’t mean to brag, but I’ve been to Nebraska and my Omaha adventures left me hungry for more.
I once agreed to meet up with a man with whom I’d been flirting via posted letters. Snail mail Grindr. A courtship like Aunt Nancy and Uncle Philip had during WWII. Running to the mailbox in anticipation of his next letter, written on linen paper, with a fountain pen. Going somewhere cozy to hang on his every word.
Let’s protect his anonymity and call him Astaire.
We arranged to rendezvous at the wedding of the friend who introduced us. After the, “I do’s” we headed up the PCH on our way to San Francisco. One of those wonderful trips where the journey matters as much as the destination.
We drove up a steep hill in his silver two-seater convertible. The road crested and I saw the Pacific Ocean for the first time. In that nearly perfect moment, I had a familiar thought.
Right place. Wrong guy.
Astaire was handsome and bright. Talented. Stylish, beyond reason. Truly. He lived in a house designed to showcase portraits of Depression Era starlets. Everything in his home was black & white, including his opinions.
He wouldn’t even play music recorded after WWII.
Astaire, passing as a charming eccentric when in truth he was a walking, talking, obsessive-compulsive disorder, on the severe side of the range.
Astaire, passing as a charming eccentric when in truth he was a walking, talking, obsessive-compulsive disorder, on the severe side of the range.
If he’s bothered to think of me in the last 25 years, he surely has his own version of why we weren’t a match.
“Greg Triggs? A bullet successfully dodged. One day he wore an orange t-shirt. Orange! That’s for juice, not fabric! It was madness I tell you. Madness! Now, what’s say we turn on the wireless? The Jack Benny Program is on.”
During our trip I innocently suggested we go to the Castro. Astaire rolled his eyes, and, in a self-loathing, voice said, “Don’t you think that’s a little stereotypically gay?” I stared back in silence. He was sitting under a portrait of Joan Crawford. He was wearing white silk pajamas and what I’m fairly certain was a velvet smoking jacket.
Yep. The Castro was the stereotype.
So, alas Astaire and I were not meant to be. Now married, with a new life, when I think of him, the first thing I remember is surprisingly not his presidency of the Bay Area Jean Harlow Fan Club.
I remember the generous fellow who showed me the Pacific Ocean.
By dwelling on what is not, we often miss seeing what is. Astaire in Paris, or the guy of your dreams in Ottumwa, Iowa; either way, either scenario, you’re better having made the trip.
Travel isn’t easy. Airport security is annoying. Flights are delayed. You’re not in control. You might end up flying coach in a middle seat between a linebacker and a teething baby with rabies. There’s no choice. Pop a Valium, put on blinders and get where you’re going. As Astaire’s favorite song, circa 1944 tells us, “You’ve got to accentuate the positive.”
Travel can leave you with wonderful snapshots that linger and teach you something unexpected. Memories return, but the context will be different because you learned something from the journey. The foggy Delaware River fades away and suddenly you’re on the shore of Bodega Bay, where Alfred Hitchcock filmed The Birds. You’re with a guy who has never seen The Birds because it was filmed in the 1960s. No matter. You’re together, for that moment, staring out at the beautiful and perfect Pacific Ocean.
One of you sees color. The other black and white. Despite that difference, both know the best choice is to stay in the moment and enjoy the view.
Greg Triggs’ first novel, The Next Happiest Place on Earth, was published in 2016. His latest novel, That Which Makes Us Stronger (Redhawk Publications), is out now. He lives in Narrowsburg, NY.
