51. Cruising, Italian Style

I was surprised when I saw Antonio, our Italian tour leader, slip out of Anita's cabin. I was on my way to the ship's coffee set up for those of us early risers who couldn't wait for the breakfast buffet. Was Anita sick, did she need help? It had been clear from the first day of our trip that friendly, outgoing Antonio did not like Anita. What on earth was he doing in her room?

I ducked back into my own cabin and shook my husband's shoulder until he woke.

“Jim, there's something going on.” I sat down on his side of the bed.

“Unnn, there's always something going on. Let me sleep.” He rolled over and burrowed his head into his pillow.

“What do you think of Anita?” I demanded.

“Anita who?” he muttered.

“You know, the pretty blond girl who's traveling alone. I thought it odd she didn't have a boyfriend or even just a friend to travel with. But Antonio...”

“You're not going to let me sleep, are you, unless I play this guessing game with you?”

“Oh, go back to sleep. Barbara will be up getting coffee. I'll go talk to her.”

My best friend Barbara and her husband Dennis were with us on this two week small ship cruise down the western coast of Italy. We enjoyed blue skies with marshmallow fluff clouds during the day as we visited ancient, picturesque villages and in the evenings dined on too much pasta, pizza, and tiramisu. The trip was like a travel brochure. Except for the hostility between Antonio and Anita.

Jim and I had been on other cruises and the tour leaders were always friendly, knowledgeable, and helpful, no matter how difficult a traveler might be. And Anita was nice. But they avoided each other as if they were in a school yard and afraid of getting 'cooties' from each other.

Carefully holding my fragrant cup of coffee, I plopped on a green and white deck chair next to Barbara. I brought her up to date on what I'd seen.

“That is odd. Yesterday he yelled at her for being the last person to arrive for the day's outing. And she wasn't even late. There was still two minutes before departure time.” She took a sip of her coffee and sighed. “Well, it's not our problem, is it?”

I shook my head. “Nooo. But if he dislikes her what was he doing in her cabin? Could he have been looking through her stuff while she was up here with a wake up coffee?”

“I haven't seen her yet this morning, and I can't imagine that nice young man would go through her things. Why he'd certainly be fired, if he was caught.”

“I'm sure you're right, so again I ask what was he doing in her room?”

Barbara looked at me over her reading glasses, “Well if you really need to know why don't you just ask him.”

Of course I couldn't do that. My curiosity wasn't that rampant, but I vowed I would keep an eye on him to see if he did anything else that seemed odd.

Every night after dinner there was dancing in the little bar lounge. And every night Antonio took turns dancing with each woman who either didn't have a partner or whose husband didn't want to dance. Except I realized he never danced with Anita. But she didn't seem interested in dancing with him either. She always turned her back to him when he approached her table to see if anyone wanted to dance.

I pointed this out to Jim and being a man, he said, “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, you never notice anything.”

The next morning I was quiet as I left our cabin for my early morning caffeine jolt, in case I'd see Antonio again.  The hallway was clear. I hate to admit it but I did slow as I passed Anita's door. She must have had the TV on for I could heard low voices murmuring. At least Antonio wouldn't be sneaking around her cabin if she was there.

Our excursion that morning was the seaside village of La Spezia. We were climbing about 100 uneven stone steps up to the heavily carved doors of a Baroque church. Anita, like a young colt, hair streaming behind her, was scampering up ahead of the rest of us, probably trying to avoid Antonio again. She yelped as she stumbled and fell to her knees. Antonio, his face pale, scrambled to her side and gently examined her ankle.

At last he was acting like a responsible tour guide even if he didn't like Anita. But as we gathered around to see if she was OK, he dropped her foot like it burned his hands.

Anita's brown eyes glistened with tears. “I'm so sorry to cause trouble.” She looked at him and then down at her rapidly swelling ankle.

“Can you stand?” Antonio demanded. He helped her up. “Can you walk?”

“I'll help her back to the ship.” I offered. “You need to stay here to continue the tour for the group.”

Jim and I helped her make her way down the hill to the dock, across the gangplank and to her cabin. He went to get ice while I put a pillow under her ankle.

After assuring myself that she was all right I couldn't stand it any longer. “What is wrong with Antonio? I've never seen a tour guide be so mean to a client.”

She looked at me stricken. “No, no, you mustn't blame him.”

“Well, then what's going on between you two?”

“Please, if I tell you, do not repeat this.” I promised to keep her story confidential.

"Antonio and I were married the day before the tour started.”

I almost fell on her bed. I was not expecting that story.

“We were supposed to leave on our honeymoon but the original guide for this tour got seriously ill and couldn't continue. Since Antonio had lead this tour many times, the company begged him to do it and offered to let me come on the tour free of charge. We agreed because we thought we could save the money we would have spent on a wedding trip, but of course, we couldn't let people know we were honeymooners. It would have been unprofessional.”

“So instead you acted as if you disliked each other.” I thought of that old saying, 'Oh, what webs we weave when first we practice to deceive.' But then I thought of how much I was going to enjoy telling Barbara this story. After we got home, of course. I didn't want to let the cat out of the bag just yet.

 

                                                                   The End

 

50. Cruising in France

I looked around the small cheerful cabin. The perky blue and yellow Provence print on the bedspreads, curtains, and desk chair echoed the style of the French countryside we'd soon be sailing through. Outside the wide window I could see steps leading up from the concrete dock to the road which ran alongside the Rhone river. I sat down on one of the two twin beds and considered my options. I could unpack, or go to the sun deck to watch the crew cast off, or I could go right to the bar and order a stiff drink, or just curl up in a ball and wait to meet the stranger I would be living with for seven days.

 

Emma, the oldest of my four children, who made the arrangements, urged me to ask for a travel partner. Not because a double was cheaper than the single supplement, but because she thought I needed someone to talk to. Although I didn't really want a room mate, I knew it would be less expense for my children who were paying for this French river cruise. Even if the person was difficult I only had to be in the cabin to shower, dress and sleep.

My husband Carl and I had always dreamed of traveling once the children were through school. I mused on how life has a way of changing the best laid plans. It had been three years since a fatal car accident had interrupted ours. He was only 53 and with our last child out of college we had been looking forward to life without tuition bills. I didn't want to go on this cruise, but my children wanted to give me a special gift for my 55^th birthday and thought it would be good for me to get away from my memories. But your memories travel with you.

A bustling out in the hall interrupted my day dreams. The door opened and a man carrying a huge overnight case stumbled in. He looked at me. “I'm sorry. I must be in the wrong room.”

I looked up at him. “This is cabin 224.”

He looked down at the sheets of paper in his hand. “That's where I'm supposed to be.” He stared at me. “You aren't Robin are you?”

“Yes, I am. Are you Frances?”

“This happens to me, all the time. Yes, my name is Francis, but spelled with the male i not the female e. The tour company's computer made a typo.” He gave me a shy smile, “And I thought Robin was a British nickname for Robert.”

“I'm not British.”

“And you're not a Robert either.”

The tour company must have thought we were both females when they matched us up. Well, I wasn't going to spend a week in the same cabin with a male stranger--no matter how nice or even how good looking. Oh, my friend Jenny would love to hear about this. She was always reading romantic novels.

He dumped his suitcase and said, “Come on, let's see the purser or whoever and get this straightened out.”

Fortunately, there was a gentleman traveling alone who was willing to share his cabin for a substantial reduction in price. Francis moved his bag from the room saying, “It's a small boat, I'm sure we'll see each other again.”

That evening I changed into fresh black pants with a black and white silk blouse. And since I was in France, I tied a red scarf around my neck. When I walked into the small bar that evening for a pre dinner drink to calm my nerves, Francis waved me over to his table. I went over but hoped he wasn't going to assume we were now joined in some special way.

He explained he was supposed to be with his brother, but his brother got sick at the last minute. Nothing serious just a flare up of shingles. So the tour company, thinking Francis was female, put him with the first available passenger, who happened to be me. We laughed and both said, “Small world,” when we discovered we lived in St. Louis, including his brother, but had never met until this cruise.

Francis taught French and history at a Catholic high school, which is one of the reasons he was on the trip. Jenny would have been disappointed, as no romance kindled as the result of the name mix-up. Francis was friendly to everyone on the trip and translated when we needed help bargaining with the merchants along the river. It was a wonderful trip and everyone shared interesting travel stories. My children would be happy when I reported that I had enjoyed myself.

The next to last day on the ship was a Sunday and the daily bulletin announced there would be a Catholic Mass celebrated on the sundeck. When I got up there I found out why there had been no romantic overtures from Francis, not that I wanted or expected any. He was the priest presiding at the service.

At lunch, he apologized to those of us at his table, “I'm sorry I didn't tell all of you I was a priest but I've found that people are usually more comfortable not knowing.”

“You certainly looked like a different man in your vestments. I almost didn't recognize you. Is your brother a priest, too?” I asked.

“No. He was a happily married man until his wife died a few years ago after a long fight with cancer. I was hoping he would have some fun on this trip. I think stress made the shingles pop out. But I do have good news.”

“Great, I love good news.”

“Paul sent me an email saying he had recovered from the shingles and would meet me in Paris so we could continue our driving trip to Belgium.”

“That is wonderful news.” I was happy for the brothers.

“Robin, I know you'll be in Paris for the few days included at the end of the tour. I hope you'll be open to meeting Paul and maybe having dinner with us one night.”

“If he's as good a talker as you are, I'll sure it will be a fun evening.” Hmmm. Maybe I'll have something interesting to tell Jenny after all.

                                                                        The End

32. I Never Kissed the Blarney Stone

In Honor of St. Patrick's Day, which happens to be my husband's birthday, I wrote this 'completely fictional' story.  I'm not Irish and the only resemblance to truth is that I never kissed the Blarney stone, either.  The day I was at Blarney Castle the cold, damp weather had me too sick to leave the bus.

All my life I was told our family had the Irish gift of gab. My friends and the friends of my two older brothers and younger sister loved to come to our house and laugh. They said it was such a relief after the gloom and doom found in their Scandinavian homes. When a new friend came to the house, my father would ask him, “Are you a friend or a best friend?” The poor kid would stammer out, “I don't know.” And my Dad would explain, “Well a friend is someone you can call to help you move. A best friend is someone you can call to help you move a body.”

      Rollicking good humor was not a surprise as both sets of my grandparents, the O'Malleys and the Branagans, came from Ireland. Their genes must have been strong. Both my parents and all my siblings were experts at turning frowns upside down. I was the black sheep of the family. I was 'the quiet one'. At family parties, my aunts and uncles and cousins would tease me and try to get me to laugh. They would tell me that I somehow missed 'kissing the Blarney Stone.' This is a slab at the top of a tower in County Cork. You have to bend over backwards with someone hanging onto your feet to smack it with your lips. Everyone who did this is guaranteed to 'never again be at a loss for words.' I was always at a loss for words.
      My older brother, Dennis, liked to warn everyone that “ahh, still waters run deep, you know. One day Mary Margaret's goin' to open her mouth and then watch out.” I had a lot of thoughts surging through my brain but I had no reason to talk as the air was already filled with everyone else's. I was happy. Who wouldn't be happy surrounded by people who loved you.
      This was back in the days when grandparents, their married children and grandchildren all lived within walking distance of each other in an Irish parish. All the O'Malleys and the Branagans lived in St. Ita's, parish on Chicago's far north side. We had a lot of family get togethers.
      A typical joke told at these gatherings was “Did you hear that Old Man Finnegan's dog died? Poor man he was so upset he asked Father Mike if he could have a funeral for his best friend, Jack. The priest asked, “Are you talking about your dog?” Finnegan replied, “Yesur aund he wus the bestes' friend aught cud 'ave.” The priest smiled and shook his head. “I don't think I could do that. But there's a new church just starting up that might be willing to do it.” Riley thought a while and asked, “Do ya ken a donation of $50,000 wud be enuf at sich a church?” Father Mike stared at him in amazement, “But sure and you didn't tell me the little fellow was Catholic.”
      Like everyone we knew, our family didn't have a lot of money. But we weren't starving and we knew we'd all get a good education, come what may. And, if we knew what was good for us, we'd better get good grades to warrant the family money used to nourish our minds, as well as our stomachs. Of course, it went without saying that our souls would be nourished every Sunday at the 9 a.m. Mass.
      To save money I commuted to the local Catholic women's college, Mundelein. The boys at near by Loyola University called us Mundle Bundles. A term that would be politically incorrect or sexist today. We didn't care. We ignored them. We were more interested in the guys who went to Notre Dame. Although I didn't go away for college, I had a wonderful opportunity to tour Ireland between my junior and senior years. The pastor of our church, Father Malcom was going to lead a tour of Irish Catholic shrines and he needed someone along who could help getting the old people on and off the bus, and generally make sure they weren't left behind. He knew I helped take care of Granny Maeve when she had her hip replaced the previous summer, so he offered me the job. No pay but I got my room, board and traveling expenses.
      At the farewell party the family threw for me, Uncle Tim said, “Now you be sure to kiss the Blarney Stone this time.” It was the first time I'd have the opportunity so I didn't have a clue what he meant, but neither did anyone else.
      The tour was lots of fun. Although some of the group were physically challenged, they all laughed their troubles away. A few were crabby, but I could usually jolly them along. The day we were to visit Blarney Castle and the famous Stone turned out misty and cold. That was something they never tell you about Ireland. The reason it's so green is that it's always 'wet'. I had been looking forward to seeing if kissing the slab would free up my tongue a little.
      Alas, it was not to be. There was no way some of the members would be able to climb up the Tower. I volunteered to keep them occupied in the 'teahouse and shop' while the others tried their luck. Father Malcom consoled me. “Mary Margaret, you've no need to kiss the Blarney stone. With all the talkers already in the family, what they really need is a good listener and God has given you that special gift.”
      I guess I am a good listener. I went on to graduate school and became a psychologist. I spend a lot of time listening.
      When I got my doctorate the family gave me a party. Dennis yelled, “Now that Mary Margaret's a certified psychologist, can you tell her what you call an Irishman who's bouncing off the walls.” Everyone yelled back, “Rick O'Shea.”
                                                             The End

30. Praying in Paris for Perfume

One of the fun things to do in Paris is shop for perfume. Since the most exquisite and expensive fragrances in the world are produced in France, they must cost less there, right? I don't know if that's true or not but as an American female tourist in Paris I had to buy at least one bottle to legitimize my trip. Of course, if you add in the cost of trans Atlantic transportation, hotel, and food the chic glass bottle containing the elixir of thousands of dead blossoms will costs thousands of dollars more than if you bought it at home.

      My favorite perfume all my life has been Chanel No. 5. Except for a few youthful years, when I spent my allowance on “Evening in Paris” a dime store perfume I gave my mother for any gift giving occasion. Many children I knew thought their mothers loved this strong scent. Now I know mothers didn't love that scent, they loved their children.

      Paris has hundreds of perfumeries, stores that sell only perfume. Ok, they also sell toilet water, cologne and creams with perfume scents. There must be one shop on every commercial block. Jane, my traveling companion, and I asked each other, “Where do we find the best bargain in the perfumes we want?” We couldn't answer. We turned to our every ready tourist guide and looked up perfumeries. We decided we would just concentrate on those in our arrondissement, the sixth, also known as the Latin Quarter. That way we could walk to all of them and not worry about buses or the underground.

        We were staying on the Left Bank near the Sorbonne University and not too far from the Seine River, Notre Dame Cathedral, and Avenue Saint Germaine with lots of cafes and French book stores. The famous English book store, Shakespeare & Co., was also nearby.

       Walking along in the cold April weather, we stopped at 5 perfumeries, mainly to get warm. No one warned us the song “April in Paris,” was false advertising. All the shops carried the same products at similar prices. I have since learned you can't judge more than 3 different perfumes at a time, because of olfactory fatigue. Your scent sensors got tired. As usual, we were naïve and just kept smelling everything we were offered. After four shops, with aching feet and red, frozen noses, we decided to buy at the next shop.

      The fifth store was beautiful. Its front window held beveled glass panes, crisscrossed with slender metal inserts. The ancient looking carved wooden door was painted a deep green and the walls inside were pale green, A saleswoman, black hair sleeked back into a smooth bun, approached wearing a precisely fitted black sheath dress and beautiful black leather pumps. She smiled. Which was a shock. Not many French people were kind enough to smile at two young women, dressed in drip dry plaid dresses. Although some may have laughed at our gaucherie behind our backs.
      She spoke English with a delightful accent. We fell under her charm and bought more than we would have otherwise. Yes, it might have been a smart marketing ploy, but we had found elsewhere that many French didn't care enough about making money to be pleasant (at least to young American tourists).
      The sparkling glass shelves and show cases were filled with hundreds of glass bottles, all shapes and sizes. I had already decided I would buy Chanel No. 5. In 1920 Coco Chanel wanted to develop a modern fragrance for women she had taken out of the constricting corset. Her chemist presented her with small glass vials of scent numbered 1-5 and 20-24. Coco chose vial 5 and decided to keep that number as its name as it had special meaning to her from childhood. She also thought the name suited her perfume because five was thought to signify the pure embodiment of a thing, its spirit, its mystic meaning. Perhaps I liked it so much because it was the first modern fragrance to use aldehyes which, according to those who know, have a champagne-like, sparkly, fizzy odor that makes the fragrance fly off the skin. Of course I didn't know this until much later.
      For my second bottle, I chose one I had liked on a friend back home, Replique by Raphael. It was younger than No. 5, not coming on the market until 1944. Its advertising said it's top scent notes included bergamot, lemon, cardamom, coriander, sage and neroli oil (from the bitter orange tree). This description sounds like ingredients for a stuffing recipe. Perhaps they make the wearer think subconsciously of food. To me it was a sweet yet sophisticated, woodsy fragrance.
     My third and final choice was a newer creation, Cabochard, created in 1958 by Gres, an important French fashion house. Its advertising made it sound like a men's club: a mix of citrus, leather and tobacco. Again, that's not what it smelled like to me, but maybe its aim was to subconsciously be attractive to men, who in many cases would be paying for their lover's scent. I loved its spicy, flowery scent.
      Jane also bought several bottles which she kept safely sealed in their original wrappings during the rest of our cross-Europe trip.

      I decided Cabochard would be my signature scent of Paris. So I opened and used it for the rest of our stay. However, I realized that as we continued around Europe in our bouncy little car, the opened bottle of Cabochard might leak. What could I do?

     The answer came while we were visiting one of the beautiful, old French churches. At that time Catholic churches still had tiers of lighted candles, holding the prayers of the faithful. Many contemporary churches use electronic candles. But in this church you could purchase a candle by dropping coins down a slot, then light and place the burning candle in a holder where it would stay until it burned itself out.
      I discussed my perfume problem with Jane and asked, “Do you think one of these candles might help?”
      She gave me a strange look. “You want to light a candle, say a prayer that your perfume won't leak and then leave the candle to keep burning as a reminder about your perfume?”

      “Good grief, no! I just want to buy a candle to take back to our hotel. I don't know where else to get one. I'll light it and let the wax drip around the top of my perfume bottle to keep it sealed.”

                                                            The  End

24. The Magic of Old Books

“Books, Books and More Books”.  The beat up sign lured me in as flashing Las Vegas lights lure in the gamblers.  Perhaps I was a gambler, too; always hoping to find a precious, old book to add to my collection.  I pushed open the grimy glass door, smelled the familiar musty odor as a tinny bell rang overhead. 

            A balding man at a paper filled table near the door glanced up over his reading glasses..  “Can I help you find something?” he asked.

            “No, thanks.  I won’t know what I’m looking for until I find it.”  I smiled and stepped into the maze of bookcases filling the room.  Although narrow, the room seemed to continue a long way into the back.

            He looked down at the book he was reading.  “Just let me know if you need anything.”

            The cases and shelves had yellowing labels.  I kept going further into the land of books until I found a case of  “traveling narratives.”  My favorite bedtime reading.  I couldn’t afford to travel, but I could at least do so in my imagination.

            My Friday evening reward for getting through another frustrating work week was book store browsing.  I read and wrote technical journals all week.  I needed adventure in my week end reading.

            I stood, slightly hunched over to read the titles on the lower shelves. The books were tightly packed and one must have been squeezed in a little too much.  It popped out and fell at my feet.  I picked it up, “The Magic of Travel.”  Hmm, I thought, maybe it knows something I don’t.  It was only $1, probably because it was in bad shape and published according to the inside page in 1948.  After WWII when Europe was recovering and American women were being urged to stay home to give returning GIs a job.  It was written by Henry Rutherford, a former soldier.  He looked grumpy in his picture on the torn back cover.  I wondered if the title was meant sarcastically given he had been sent on his travels to fight a war.

            None of the other books I perused that afternoon struck my fancy.  I went home with just the one book.  The man at the door said, “It looks like you picked a good one.”  He probably said that to everyone to encourage them to return. 

            “I think this book wanted a good home, it landed at my feet.” But he just took my $1 and went back to his reading. 

             The book and I snuggled in for a good read that night.  The first chapter was about the country I had always dreamed of visiting, Italy.  It had everything--beautiful scenery, ancient history, friendly people, terrific food, famous art, and flirty, good looking men.  Of course the book was from the 40s so I wasn’t expecting too much relevancy today.  The first words I read opened my eyes and my heart.  The author was a romantic after all he had been through.

“If you dream tonight of Italy, you will start your journey tomorrow.”  I stopped reading to consider those words.  Could it possibly be true?  Was the book really magic?  I allowed myself to think about what a trip to Italy would be like.  I fell asleep with these thoughts on my mind and so of course did dream of Italy.

I usually slept in on Saturday mornings, but my cell’s ring tones woke me up

            “Matty, are you up?”  My best friend’s voice hit my ear loudly.

“Uh, yeah.”  I was now.

“This is Hannah. I’ve got great news.”  As if I didn’t know her voice. “I’ve entered us both in a terrific travel contest.”

“Yeaaah.”  She was always telling me about terrific contests.

“No this is for a Fantastic around the World Trip.”

“And what do we, or more likely I, have to do to win it?”  I asked warily.  I would not participate in any of those televised 'look like a fool’ contests.

“All you have to do is write an essay on why you want to win.  You’re a great writer.  You can win it.  And it’s for two.”

“I’ll think about it.” I started to put the phone on the bed table.

“You can’t think about it.  The essay is due first thing Monday morning.”

We spent about 15 minutes arguing about why I would or would not do it.  I agreed to do it so I could go back to sleep.

When I woke up a second time, I groaned and knew I would have to write something or Hannah would never let me forget that I had blown a trip around the world.  I didn’t have time to write a really good argument to win such a contest   Even if I wrote a terrific essay I knew I wouldn’t win.  I had never won anything in my life.

I started to get out of bed when my newly purchased book fell off the table.  It seemed to do a lot of accidental falling.  Could it really be magic?  I laughed at myself and then….

I looked down at it.  And thought a while.  Hmm.  Why not?  The author’s probably dead and nobody is ever going to read my entry, anyway.  It will make Hannah happy that at least I tried.  I rewrote the first chapter on Italy a little bit, a very little bit and e-mailed it off with the on-line form before the deadline.

Two months later, I panicked when I learned my entry had been chosen as a semi-finalist in the contest.  Hannah was joyful.  We were to be present at the naming of the winner at a Writer’s Guild Dinner at the Old Delmonico Restaurant.

I did not want to go to this event.  Someone was sure to recognize that I was a plagiarist and arrest me or something terrible.  This proved that no one ever read contest entries.  They were just pulled from a barrel. But Hannah insisted we go.  Perhaps I could withdraw my entry. 

Hannah and I were seated at the front table with the other semi-finalists, I felt my feet shaking.  I could not stand up.  The judges for the contest were announced and filed out on a small stage.  One of the three was a white haired gentleman, with a perpetual scowl.  I squinted my eyes.  It was an older version of Henry Rutherford.  OMG!  What now?

I barely breathed until another contestant won the grand prize of the Around the World Trip.  I was left in my obscurity.  But wait.  This year they had a special second prize.  And I was named.  Oh, no, this was worse than my worst nightmare.

I stumbled up on stage to win my all expenses paid trip for two to, where else, Italy.  Henry Rutherford glared at me as he presented it to me.  I relaxed.  He’s senile.  He doesn’t remember what he wrote.  I was safe after all.

He leaned over and whispered in my ear.  “I was tempted, very tempted to vote you the grand prize.  But, in fairness, I just couldn’t do that.  However, it's gratifying to know that someone still reads my old books.”

                                                     The End

20. To Lunch or Not to Lunch

[Marriage is always a matter of give and take. This is especially true when traveling. Always remember-- Would you rather be right, or would you rather be happy? Sometimes when you choose one, you also get the other.]

"I swear Janice, if I hear one more word out of you, I will stop this car and one of us will have to leave.”

Charles and Janice had driven thousands of miles in their trusty VW van, from Chicago to southern Mexico, all around the province of Oaxca looking for interesting pottery and then back to Illinois.  Although they usually got along, on the last stretch home they were arguing about where to stop for lunch.

            Charles wanted to keep going to get home before dark.  He thought they had enough peanuts and other snacks to stave off starvation.  Janice was tired and knew he was too.  She thought it would be safer to take a break.       

            “If you’re that tired, climb into the back and sleep,” he snorted. “I’m not tired.  I’ve got plenty of get up and go left.”

            Janice held her tongue and climbed into the back of the van.  Although her mind raced with thoughts of what she should say to Charlie, she decided to keep the peace.  That old question played in her mind, “Do you want to be right, or do you want to be happy?”  Happy she decided and slowly fell asleep.

            Two hours later, Charlie noticed they were getting low on gas.  A billboard advertised a cheap price and he decided to pull in to the service station.   He got out, filled the tank, and went inside to pay.             

            Coming back to the car, he thought, Boy, Janice must be tired, usually she hops out at every rest stop.  Well, I can manage the driving until she wakes up.

            He continued cruising down the interstate under the speed limit, not wanting a ticket to ruin this last day.  Checking his rear view, he was surprised to see a state trooper coming up behind him.  As the trooper turned on his flashing lights, Charlie was astounded and called back to Janice, “Hey, there’s a state trooper wanting to pull me over.  I don’t know why.  I’m not going over the speed limit.”

            He carefully pulled over to the shoulder, rolled down his window, and started to pull out his wallet for his driver’s license.

            The trooper leaned into the window, smiled and asked, “Are you Charles Jordan?”

            Eyes bugging out, Charlie admitted that he was.

            “Did you forget something?”

            “I…I…don’t think so.”

            “Where’s your wife?” 

            “She’s…she’s …just in back, taking a nap.”  And Charlie turned around and took a good look in the back of the van.  “Oh, my gosh, she’s not there.  What happened?  Where is she?”

            “You left her back at the gas station.  She got out to use the restroom while you were inside paying.  I guess you didn’t see her, unless you did it on purpose?”  The trooper looked at Charlie with a question in his eyes.

            “Oh my gosh, no, no.  I got to go get her.  Oh my gosh.  How mad is she?”

            “Well, let’s just say, you’d better get back there as soon as possible.  There’s an interstate crossing you can use up ahead.  I’ll follow you to make sure you don’t get lost.”

            Meanwhile back at the gas station, Janice was sitting at the lunch counter, enjoying a hamburger and fries.  It had been a shock not to see the van when she came out.  And she did have a few bad moments when she thought Charlie had left her deliberately.  But she knew he would never really do that.  Everyone had been so nice.  The station manager had called the state police to track Charlie down and then had offered Janice a free lunch to sooth her frazzled nerves.

            Poor Charlie, Janice thought.  Nothing turned out the way he thought it would.

                                                               The End