Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
When I went down, she was gone, checked out. I still don't get it. I can't. The curse finally
lifted in Tel Aviv with a girl who wouldn't shut up till she did, who kept rattling about the
heritage of Zion and our continuing struggle. Wasn't it great? Being there in the Holy Land at
that significant moment in history was . . . significant. And historical.
Our physical exchange was neither, ending in four to six seconds in a more prodigious
mess than taking the top off the blender halfway through a smoothie. We thought that was
normal.
Not to worry; only two months later the most beautiful campus female in Middle America
plucked my heartstrings as deftly as Betty Boop had done when I was merely a lad. Engaged
to be married in Boston, she asked if she could come over for a study date. I shrugged. Why
not? Betty was smart and a better student than I. We studied all night, mostly physiology and
sociology, including the great goodwill and public service that make the world a better place
with special relief all around. But, I get ahead of myself.
John and Jane were on again, though she asked him to please keep his fucking mouth shut
on the age thing. So we all hung out for a few days in Florence, visiting the original David
and the huge flea market, where you could buy a Nazi SS uniform in mint condition for about
twenty bucks, maybe from the original owner. I scanned the crowd for old Nazis. They weren't
so hard to spot.
Rayanne was a triumph of the spirit but wasn't enough. Primed for all of her, I got only
wet tit and a cold shoulder. So it soon came time again to hit the road alone.
The last time I set out solo was parting company with David out of Paris, with loneliness
in waves. This next solitary departure felt like cleansing, and growth, like letting go for endless
miles. On the far side of the mountain, my motorcycle and I could meet the wide world in
anonymity and faith as everyone must, sooner or later.
A sign of the times was that the lyric of the times could adjust to any occasion of the times.
Maybe Jackson Browne was camping in Florence that summer, composing
Fountain of
Sorrow
. My solitary departure had been forlorn and confused out of Paris, yet it would repeat
itself in confidence. I would be all right. The Florence campground filled with arrivals from
Pamplona and Marrakech. It felt like a repeat scene. John seemed keen on settling in one more
time, smoking dope, relaxing and having sex with Jane as often as possible. Jane went shop-
ping every day.
I rolled out of the Florence campground to the backdrop of John and Jane squabbling over
limited space in the VW van and all this crap stacking up so you couldn't even lay down any-
more, but whose crap is it anyway?
Whose fucking van do think it is anyway?
Fade to the soothing syncopation of pistons gaining rpm on the way out of the camp-
ground. Maybe they worked things out. Rianne glanced up from a chore to wave goodbye at
my rearview mirror. And so on out of town.
