No Time Like the Present

Before further adventures, perhaps a little history is in order.  We'll start along the lines of "how did a girl from Hametown in bug-eyed glasses manage to slog to a point where she's solo-tripping to Rome?"  Or perhaps, "Why has it taken 61 years for this smart but apparently non-intrepid traveler to get to Rome?"  Fair questions.  If you didn't ask either of them, you can stop reading right now.

Fast backward to the 1970's.  Coming out of college, I'd been to Florida (when I was 5), to Niagara Falls (when I was 5), and to Ocean City, Maryland many times.  We have muddy black-and-white photos of me with my then-smiling dad, and I have a vivid memory of seeing neon-colored fish through a glass-bottom boat. 

In college, I had dreams of travel to 'faraway places with strange-sounding names, far away over the sea".  I can sing the song, if you like.  I'll spare you.  I had dreams of back-packing across Europe and living in hostels.  And there was also that dream of joining a commune in Arizona, living in a big house with 20 other unscrubbed, barefoot utopians, and eating my own chickens.  The reality of student loans and no income had the predictable effect of smacking me upside the face and tattooing "get a job" on my little dream bubble.

Following came the wonderful accouterments of middle age: The Mister, 3 kids, a couple of slurpy dogs, a lazy cat, career, house.  Travel rumbled in a conversion van with the kids and The Mister.  We explored mountains, rivers, beaches, canyons, monuments, and endured 3000 videotaped episodes of "Curious George, the Curious Little Monkey" blaring from the in-van TV.  I could also sing that song for you.  Again, I'll spare you.

Fast forward to the present.  Kids are gone, as well as the dogs, cat, career, house.  In fact, what is left of that scenario, besides the memories, is The Mister.  His travel taste tends to van travel where he can kill what he eats.  He did voluntarily fly to Africa, where he killed what he ate.  He endured trips to Nicaragua and to South Korea, reuniting with the dangling carrot of our daughter, Julia.  But these were in the category of "forced march" rather than pleasure trip.

Three years ago, I retired from teaching.  Happy career and an even happier post-career.  London was my first stop, with my precious friend Paulette.  Well-travelled herself, she indulged me as I hugged the Roman Wall, and gamboled for hours at the Tower of London.   Pressing my hands into the ancient fingerprints of those who mortared the walls, I felt the zing of connection to peoples and cultures long dead, yet alive in this place.  Queen Anne Boleyn (her head unfortunately disconnected from her body) appeared ghostlike by the guillotine at the Tower of London.  Hadrian's Roman soldiers in their puny boats were pissing in and drinking from the River Thames.  Dickens toasted me from his usual booth in the pub, and I was delighted to return the favor.  Ghosts were everywhere, haunting the DNA of the city, the water, the sky, and me.

Trips to Nicaragua and South Korea were instructive, interesting, and memorable.  In Nicaragua, the ghosts of Incans were snuffed by the arrogance of Spanish conquistadors who took the gold and left dust and churches.  Lots and lots of churches.   South Korea's ghosts were exploded in the detritus of war, then buried under square miles of forgettable skyscrapers.  In both places, a few monuments remain, but the ghosts did not whisper to me.

A year ago, the blunt hammer of my own mortality took a swing at me.  There's no self-pity here, just recovery from having a metal/metal hip removed, and the slow drain of metal poisoning that temporarily robbed me of energy, physical skills, and ability to enjoy life's treasures.   The downside of this (okay, a little self-pity could be inserted here) is that these heavy metals permanently embedded.  Even now, they may be plotting pesky little cancers that will shorten my life, or leave me unable to remember what is left of it.

There is no time like the present, and there is no guarantee that there will be any other time THAN the present.

I leave for Rome in five days.  Just me, my camera, my Euros, and my bravado.  I hear the ghosts whispering as I practice my phrases.  "Posso farle una foto?" (may I take your picture?)  Perhaps Hadrian will answer me.  Stay tuned.