I'm not a traveler. I've not been to many places.
I did go to Canada. Twice.
Once by car in the '50s with my parents, brothers and grandfather. My dad ran a tall stop sign he never noticed. We were in Trois-Rivieres, Quebec.
One minute I was looking out the window at the Saint Lawrence River. The next, I was thrown sideways into my younger brother.
We'd been broadsided.
No one was seriously hurt.
But, I did think something was wrong with my hearing. I couldn't understand a blessed word the local driver was shouting as he got out of his banged up car. A crowd gathered. No one in the entire town spoke English.
It was a bit scary.
Finally, a bilingual insurance agent appeared. My older brother and grandfather stayed in Trois-Rivieres while the car was repaired. The rest of us took a long Greyhound ride back home.
I went again in the mid '70s. This time by motorcycle with my father-in-law and friend, Jimmy D. After a weary trek through five states, we arrived in Canada at sunset in deeply wooded country.
We stopped at the only motel we saw. It was beautiful and quiet there. We were weary to the bone.
I was back in Quebec.
This time, I was ready. I'd studied French for four years in high school.
I had no clue what anyone at that motel and adjoining restaurant said. I could barely read the menu. Foreign language was not my best subject.
Aside from going to Florida when my parents lived there, and the Blue Ridge Mountains by motorcycle with a bunch of guys, I did spend a week in Ireland.
It was three months after I'd retired from public education. Together with my wife, older brother, and sister-in-law, we were going to tour Western Ireland by car and then take my dad's ashes to Ballyhaunis in County Mayo, his grandparents' birthplace.
No worries here. Aside from road signs in English and Irish and a tiny portion of some locals speaking Irish, this would be an absolute piece of cake.
Only, the steering wheel of the rented car was on the right side. The right of way was on the left side. The local roads were barely wide enough for two cars, with stone walls inches from the left door handles. The GPS was always loony and approaching roundabouts with my sister-in-law shouting, "GO LEFT, LEFT!" gave me grey hairs.
It was a bit scary.
My daughter and her family have travelled near and far. As I write this, one of my granddaughters is in Central America for a month. The other spent a month in Norway a couple of summers back.
My brothers have logged serious miles on the water, in the air and cars, exploring, tasting, enjoying what the wide world has to offer.
Me?
A lack of confidence, I suppose, to venture elsewhere. For the longest time, those of us in public education had little to spare on travel. We were too busy holding two jobs.
But also, a lack of desire.
Talented folks like Anthony Bourdain and Phil Rosenthal have given me a peek and vicarious taste of foreign places and fare. No airport transfer madness. No jet lag. No foreign coin exchange. No Covid testing before and after travel.
More importantly, for me, novels have been my mode of travel. They've taken me places, real and imagined, that satisfy my wanderlust. I agree with fellow homebody, Emily Dickinson: "To travel far, there is no better ship than a book."
Copyright (c) 2022 by James Hugh Comey
