—From EF—

I’m about to embark on a 5-day solo trip, the second one this summer, and probably the last for quite a while. This time it’s to Italy to see our daughter, her wonderful man, and spend time in their 14th-century stone mill house while it’s still their abode. It’s beautiful, and they put their hearts and souls into giving it better plumbing, heating, and electrics. (We think differently now from those millers of long ago.) But the time has come for them to say farewell to the twisty twenty-five minutes of driving narrow mountain roads it takes to buy an aspirin or go to work. I need to be there one more time—to hug Fra, celebrate Jo’s magnificent cooking, and put my bare feet on a flagstone floor that was crafted before Columbus sailed.

And I’m going alone. CB and I have traveled to Europe together more than a few times, but it’s not his favorite thing to do any more, and he’s happy to stay home and console the cats. I’ve prepared and frozen a large array of delicious dinners, things I know he loves, so I’ll still have a daily presence.

When Johanna relocated to Italy in 1998 I began what is by now a 26-year chain of transatlantic journeying, most of it solo. I love it. All of it, even the wild things like finding myself on the streets of Rennes at midnight without anywhere to go—Air France went on strike and my flight to SF was canceled. I’d thought I could hang out in the train station, but nope. By luck and grace I found a businessman’s hostel that was full up but they were just kicking somebody out for misbehaviour. They didn’t seem to care that I wasn’t a businessman.

There’s a beautiful little island off the northwest coast of France, Belle-Isle-en-Mer, and it has called me back for many many visits. Ten miles long and five miles wide, with sandy beaches on the east and wild rocks on the west, and over five successive years I managed to hike the entire perimeter, fjords and all, plus the north-south line and the east-west one. Alone. Well, not really. The earth there speaks to me.

I love the trains, and the old-style coaches best of all, the ones that don’t exist any more. My favorite train was the night train from Amsterdam to Paris. Each car had a series of small six-person compartments, three seats facing three, with a corridor that ran the length of the car. It was always a crap-shoot whether there was a jerk or two there, but over the years I learned enough tricks to have a good chance at having a compartment to myself, which meant being able to lie down flat to sleep.

I had a good friend in Amsterdam, theatre colleagues in Zurich, Johanna in Italy, and the stones in Brittany. For many years a rail pass was affordable and easy to use, and the idea of just being able to jump on a train at whim was a lot of fun. Once it got me into trouble, though.

In Amsterdam the day before my return, I had time to kill and hopped a northbound train to ride to the end of the line and back. At the northmost station I had urgent need of a restroom and made it in the nick of time. However, I had all my travel stuff with me and didn’t do due diligence in reassembling myself in the dark little cubicle. What I missed was, of course, the smallest and most essential bag, the one with my passport, money, and plane ticket. I ran back to the station, but it was already gone. I made a police report, and a sympathetic conductor let me back on the return train.

The next morning Theo took me to the Consulate, where I was told by a curt front-desk lady that I’d need fifty dollars and it would take three weeks for a new passport. She wasn’t impressed by my dilemma: “My plane leaves in five hours, and you really don’t want me hanging around your country with no money.” I sat down in a corner of the waiting room and prevented myself from crying. A kindly lady sitting nearby came over. “I heard your problem. Take this thirty Euros, it’s what I can spare. Good luck.” Just then the head consular official showed up for work, and listened to my story. He gave me five Euros to take to a place down the street that would make a passport photo, then manufactured a temporary passport right there in his office. I still have it. The face on that photo is a perfect blend of stress and joy, a fitting emblem for solo travel.

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