Rewards

I meant to write a bit about Troy. Tom and Clare were standing at the edge of the marina in Positano, waiting for the ferry to take us to Salerno (best thing we ever did for ourselves: avoid going back through Naples by going even further south out of our way to get a direct train to Roma.) I was sitting on our luggage and taking last minute pictures when all of the sudden right in front of my two loves arose a man out of the sea like a Triton and shook himself off, flinging a great spray of salt water in a halo. From where I sat, there was no apparent way he could have gotten there other than magic, and I sat bolt upright. Of course Tom saw him pull himself up the seawall below and introduced himself immediately. (Turns out he was taking a cooling dip after trudging with his heavy trekking backpack downhill) He was an Aussie, about 30ish, very tan, with ice blue eyes, and a great hank of sun-streaked hair that flopped over his eyebrows. Tom and Clare exchanged pleasantries and I walked over to introduce myself.

He was a sweet guy and we chatted aimiably until the ferry came. We parted ways, not knowing that he was actually on the same ferry and he arrived in Salerno at the train station at the same time we did. We spent the better part of two hours talking to him while waiting for our respective busses and trains. He is a carpenter by trade, and is taking a “little” 8 month holiday to see the world. I lamented the short vacations of the Americans and he laughed. I guess he sees some corrolation between how freakin’ uptight we are and our lack of play time. I certainly see it. The remarkable thing about our meeting was the ease with which we picked up and carried conversation, much as old friends who wer just getting reacquainted. By the time we parted ways he had our phone number and address in his hand and Clare blew kisses.

That’s what travel’s all about: meeting people you never would have bumped into if you shut yourself up in your little enclave of home. If you didn’t have to struggle with the language, how would you appreciate the sweet satisfaction of finally procuring that choice table by the window, of that wedge of brilliant cheese. The struggle of travel is what makes it travel. Of course, we have had a bit too much struggle this time with italy-accom failing us twice so horribly, but the rest of it is lovely. Really lovely. Seeing the waiters fall all over Clare is wonderful. She’s never been so manhandled in all her life, and I’m a kissaholic mom. Seeing the waitresses fumble shyly with English and blush when Tom fumbles Italian right back in sweet tones is a lesson in personal risk. We all risk looking stupid when we travel. We might wear the wrong clothes, say the wrong word (Tom’s famous for asking to “Take the door away” instead of asking for “food to go”), or look like an idiot when we can’t for the life of us figure out how to turn on the stove (hold down these three buttons and flip that switch while praying to the patron saint of natural gas). We might miss our train, piss someone off when we bump into their Vespa, or make a cultural taboo happen, like giving an OK sign with your thumb and forefinger at the fruit market (your mother would not approve of me writing here what that means, trust me).

Risk is scary, and the little thrill that follows when you finally get is right is the rich reward of travel.