At the time Carol and I took off for our first European trip together, I had completed two solo journeys of my own during my year of widowhood. I had not traveled solo since my vagabonding days of the early 1970s, and I immediately experienced the true “freedom of the road” again that traveling alone […]
Yesterday was the first anniversary of the first trip Carol and I took together. We went to France, which had been the scene of my first solo train trip the year before. Without really thinking it through (which is generally my method of thinking things through), this second France trip was a test of how well I stack up as a solo versus a companion traveler. In retrospect, it was probably more of a test of how well Carol stacked up as a companion to a solo traveler.
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.
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?”