It suddenly occurred to me, as I carried the last of the empty cardboard boxes out to the recycling bin that the end of our moving in meant the beginning of our travel planning. Planning. The word hung in the air like humidity. Although I was approaching my third train trip to Europe, this was the first where I would be bound by the realities of companionship. In other words, I would need an answer to that fundamental question of companion travel: “So, what are we doing today?”

In 1976 the newly minted Tampa Bay Buccaneers made their NFL debut and dismally lost their first twenty-six games over their first two seasons. Here in 2018, by the end of the third day of Carol and I moving into our new abode, I was rapidly approaching the Buccaneers’ record for futility.

(What Have I Gotten Myself Into)

Part two

   This one’s about me this time. This past Saturday night, Carol fell into bed and sighed, “I need a day to do nothing.” I was thrilled for two reasons. First, I never thought I’d hear those words coming from The Little Engine That Could. Ayn Rand may claim the Virtue of Selfishness, but I own the Virtue of Idleness. Second, well, it was a wish to spend a day doing nothing, an offer I couldn’t refuse.

While our compatibility and companionship have proven to be admirable (if not nauseatingly so in public), some of Carol and my verbal exchanges have been the stuff of either high or low comedy, depending on the latitude of your brow. It would appear that Carolyn’s legendary literalness has rubbed off on me. The range can ascend (or descend) from Stiller and Meara acerbic to Laurel and Hardy vaudeville. And back again.

  Though born and raised in Yonkers, NY, Carol is a true laidback southern Californian. Even her rules tend to be expressed more as suggestions. I think that in my case, though, she’s learning her suggestions should be stated more as rules. I respond better to rules. In day to day life and behavior, I’m more golden retriever than actual human being.

   Take neatness. Evidently, my definition of the term is somewhat more expansive than Carol’s. Unpacking in the Big Bear Lake cabin for our first true road trip together, Carol softly suggested to me, “I don’t like clutter.” I agreeably replied, “Neither do I.” But I picked up on her discerning gaze around the room that struck me as more of a security camera’s attention to detail, and I straightened up to the best of my ability. Carol sighed and managed a wan smile of approval for my efforts.

   Carol has described beach sand as “walking on velvet.” I’ve walked on velvet. (Like George Costanza, I would ensconce myself in velvet if it were socially acceptable). Velvet does not feel like beach sand. Sandpaper feels like beach sand. Exfoliants feel like beach sand. Dandruff feels like beach sand. Metamucil tastes like it.

Our first extended road trip together was a week’s stay in the resort village of Big Bear Lake, in the high country of the San Bernardino National Forest, north of Los Angeles. Primarily, a winter resort, we were going in June. This then carried the promise of there being little to do, which appealed to me greatly, as sitting in a lounge chair amidst mountains and lakes is my ideal of the strenuous life.

   I forget the specific circumstances, but Carolyn once emphatically chastised me for not having any interests. I actually don’t in the conventional sense of DIY,  woodworking, fixing up cars, feeding the poor or anything to do with yard work.

   The photo that did it for me was of her kneeling over the memorial brick of her deceased husband Mike that had been placed at Angels Stadium, home of his favorite team. Carol’s smile as she pointed to Mike’s brick was one of genuineness, resilience and ever-radiating optimism. In the narrative of her 44-year marriage that she’s written for my blog, Carol  described Mike as her best friend. And here she was smiling over his memorial brick as if she’d happened upon his living self by surprise. I thought: she’s in the same place as I am with Carolyn.

   The certain someone was sitting across from me at the spindly cafe overlooking a softly gray rolling Pacific Ocean. “So what do you do when you travel alone?” she asked.

   “I wander,” I answered, a trifle timidly, aware she was wandering herself into territory I had only sketchily examined myself.

   “You wander. So what are you looking for?”