Because we were separated so much for book tours, Pat wanted us to travel together when we could. He was appalled that I’d traveled so little and was determined to remedy that. In between books, Pat did some writing for Gourmet magazine (for which he’d earn a coveted James Beard award), and he’d accepted an assignment from them to write about Umbria. He’d never been to Umbria, and I’d been nowhere except England. Even though we’d been married a couple of years, we decided the trip would be our honeymoon. The magazine required us to stay in a new hotel for a week before it opened and try out the food. Talk about a dream assignment! It was every bit as fabulous as it sounds, especially for me. Pat had to do the work while all I had to do was tag along and eat. When the week came to an end, I didn’t want to leave. I had gained a few pounds and a rekindled yearning to travel.
Finding a time when the two of us could travel together, however, presented a problem, since our schedules were filled with either writing books or blabbering about them once they came out. Another concern nagged at me as well, the cost of travels abroad. To my surprise, Pat admitted to feeling the pinch too. From time to time his grasshopper lifestyle and extravagant generosity caught up with him, and our accountant would frantically tug on the rein. Although we’d talked a lot about living abroad, it just wasn’t doable. Then Pat came up with a solution that neither the ant nor the accountant could argue with. A couple of times in the past, he’d been a guest lecturer on a fancy cruise ship, a gig that paid all expenses for two, first class all the way. But he’d turned down other offers because he’d been unable to write on the trips and couldn’t afford to get further behind with his latest book. “But I think I could write this time,” he told me earnestly, “because you don’t need to be entertained. You’ll be perfectly happy doing your own thing while I’m working, won’t you?”
I readily agreed while hiding a smile. Thanks to family gossip, I knew that Pat had taken his former girlfriends on the previous cruises. The message was clear: girlfriends had to be paid attention to, but wives were on their own. Sounded right to me. So far, neither of us could complain about too much togetherness.
Although I was thrilled with the first trip Pat signed up for, a Mediterranean cruise, I couldn’t help but fret about life on the ship. Taking a cruise had never interested me—actually, had appalled me—because I had a misguided idea of what they were like. I thought of cruise ships as floating adult camps with strictly scheduled activities, mealtimes, and parties: an introvert’s nightmare. Pat’s response made me realize how silly I’d been. “Can you see my fat ass doing all that shuffleboard shit?” he scoffed.
Then I had another worry. (As a charter member of the worriers’ guild, I can always find something.) To prepare myself, I watched Titanic, admittedly not the smartest idea I ever had. Although I knew how the story ended, I told myself that Hollywood surely wouldn’t show that part. Nobody would ever board a ship again if they did! Pat hadn’t seen the movie either, so a few nights before we set sail, we cuddled up in front of the TV with a bowl of popcorn. “You sure you want to watch this?” Pat asked me with a smirk. I shushed him, eyes glued to the opening scene. When the movie ended with all those frozen bodies floating around to the mournful strains of “My Heart Will Go On,” I hurried out before Pat could make fun of my unwise movie choice. His howls of laughter followed me down the hallway.
* * *
I would learn a lot on our first trip abroad and the others to follow, but one thing stood out: grasshoppers live better than ants. I’d never flown first class. I didn’t even know enough to envy first-class travelers, reading their New York Times and looking world-weary as the poor suckers in economy passed them by. I assumed they just got free drinks and more legroom. So when we boarded our flight to Europe, I was blissfully oblivious to the way first class would forever change my attitude toward flying.
The flight attendant welcomed us aboard with champagne then settled us into seats roughly the size of king-sized beds. Pat buried himself in a newspaper as I sipped champagne and people-watched. What I saw was not exactly comforting. Elegant in cashmere cardigans and slim trousers, with Hermès purses and low-heeled sandals, the women of first class had obviously been there before. In my comfortable jeans, oversized T-shirt, and Birkenstocks, I looked like Little Orphan Redneck Annie. Until the plane actually took off, I kept expecting the Imposter Police to burst on board and haul me off to the economy section.
Although I could’ve slept easily in the comfort of the fully reclined seat, I was too excited. I kept watching the map on the screen, our little plane a mere dot over the Atlantic. To board the good ship Rotterdam, we flew Swiss Air to Zurich, then to Cairo, where we would sightsee for a couple of days. Because my paternal grandmother’s parents emigrated from Switzerland, I was disappointed not to see anything of the countryside except the Zurich airport. Many years later I’d come back to see the family home in St. Gallen, but sadly, it would be without Pat. Although he and I always planned to go together, he never made it.
In Cairo, the sheer chaos of the airport appalled Pat as much as it delighted me. Hawkers swarmed us to sell their wares, everything from washers, dryers, fridges, and stoves to souvenirs. (“How would you get a fridge into a taxi?” Pat wondered.) You literally had to fight your way through them. I had a new experience at the loo, which wouldn’t be the last I’d have during our journey. Outside each stall stood a stern woman draped in black, hijab revealing only her face. She held a single roll of toilet paper. Thankfully I saw the woman in front of me hand over some money in exchange for a few sheets, so I forked out two dollars. The woman gave me two sheets.
Our driver was a colorful character named Ahab (I swear), a bearded giant of a man. He plowed through the vendors, swatting or even kicking at the most persistent of them. To my horror, he boomed, “Get out of my way, infidels!” Somehow we escaped unharmed, and Ahab drove us helter-skelter to a swank Swissôtel at the end of a long, hidden driveway. I was taken aback to find a barricaded fortress, protected by machine-gun-toting guards. It was hard not to feel a tad nervous.
Our guide in Cairo was a lovely and extremely pleasant woman named Halla, who led us out into the khamsin, a hot, dusty desert wind. She was a university professor dressed in Western clothes: dark skirt, classic long-sleeved blouse, heels, and a patterned scarf wrapped around her head rather than the hijab. The desert she drove us to was barren and windswept, with a blizzard of dust obstructing our first view of the pyramids. Suddenly, there they were, massive and awesome and so very ancient, with nothing remotely Disney about them. Colorfully costumed camel riders urged tourists to hop on for a ride, but Pat and I resisted. The camels scared me.
We went inside a pyramid that held what Halla called a solar ship (I have no idea what it was), centuries old and about the size of an eighteen-wheeler. The oars were so large they could’ve only been worked by a chain gang of slaves. Inside another tomb it felt so closed in and airless that I couldn’t get out fast enough. Even a raging dust storm was preferable to the claustrophobia of the deeply buried tombs. Pat was a bit more game but not much. Problem was, there was no poking your head in the opening to look around. If you wanted to see anything, you either went in deep, or not at all.
A visit to the main Egyptian museum the following day was another surprise and not exactly a pleasant one. I expected something like the British Museum in London, but the Cairo museum wasn’t particularly grand. The Egyptian artifacts in both London and New York are much more impressive, the rooms more spacious and elaborate. It made me sad for the Egyptian people that so few of their treasures remained in their country. The highlight was the King Tut exhibit, held in a cold and darkened room, the perfect ambiance for such a monumental display. Impressive as the exhibit was, I took care not to reveal my shock at its simplicity and spareness. Even though they had Ramses II, there were only eight mummies in all. I longed to ask Halla to tell me more about the history of the acquisitions, but I dared not, for fear of an implied insult.
> Our lunch stop was on a quaint, slightly swaying café-boat on the Nile River. I’m having lunch on the freaking Nile, I kept thinking in amazement. I could even forgive their uninspired food, though Pat eyed his plate in dismay. There was no menu; our guide had apparently ordered ahead. When they proudly served us plates of hard-fried fish pieces, limp greasy french fries, and a serving of rice, we decided they’d set out to honor us with their version of common American dishes.
Egyptian drivers were worse than New Yorkers, and Cairo was insane. No traffic lights, and everyone ignored the painted lines separating the lanes or indicating turns. The streets were sectioned off into three lanes but the drivers formed at least five lanes of cars, trucks, taxis, buses, and donkey carts, all jammed together. Horns blasted and donkeys brayed. Pat grimaced and put his hands over his ears, but I enjoyed every wild minute.
Pat perked up for a trip through the City of the Dead, his favorite part of our visit. Those cemeteries were more like burial cities that stretched as far as the eye could see. The bodies were buried underground, but there were elaborate “garden” homes—more often huts of stone—built over the graves. We assumed they were monuments, but entire families lived in the huts atop the burial grounds of their loved ones. They were very poor, Halla explained, and were looked down on by others because of their poverty and place of residence. It was in this setting that I heard my very first call to prayer, late that afternoon. Eerily beautiful, the call stayed with me long after the sound floated away over the haunting City of the Dead.
One of my most cherished memories from our time in Egypt was the two-hour drive to Alexandria, where we would board the ship. “Get ready to see the real Egypt,” Pat told me. We were both ready for it. The fortresslike hotel that the cruise line had put us in had shielded us from the exotic street life. On the ride out, I studied the housing that had previously only passed in a blur as we careened through the crowded city. Everywhere I looked was row after row of many-storied, stark apartment buildings made of brick or cement. Most of the windows were merely square cutouts with no visible panes or screens.
On the rest of our ride to Alexandria Pat and I craned our necks to take in the unfamiliar sights. Farmers worked the dusty land by hand, with strange, old-fashioned-looking tools, and used water buffalo or donkeys as beasts of burden. Despite sparse traffic, the farmers—or mostly their children—sold their harvest beside the road. One young man stood with a bunch of live turkeys (or something that looked like a turkey). When we passed by, the young man twirled one of the fowls around by its feet, holding the poor bird high over his head. “Now that’s what I call a sales pitch,” Pat quipped. Along the way we met sunbaked, white-robed men riding donkeys. Rather than saddles or blankets, the men sat atop huge bundles of straw that the donkeys carried on their backs. It was like seeing a page from a National Geographic magazine spring to life.
Once we boarded the Rotterdam and headed out to sea, Pat and I studied the itinerary for our upcoming stops along the Mediterranean. “There’s a helluva lot to see,” Pat noted as he peered over his reading glasses. “Turkey, Greece, Sicily, Venice, Spain, Croatia. Since I’ve been to most of those places, I’ll stay on the ship and work while you’re sightseeing. Sure you’ll be okay with that?”
I responded that somehow I’d manage to explore on my own, then added with a sly smile, “The family will be disappointed, though.” At his puzzled look, I explained. “I’m sure they’re hoping the grasshopper would buy their gifts.”
Pat sighed in exasperation. “Promise me you won’t buy them a bunch of cheap shit, okay?” At my amused expression, he threw his hands up in defeat. “Okay, okay. I’ll come along for a couple of hours.”
“Whatever you say, Babezee.” (Embarrassingly, “Baby” had become my favored nickname for him; even more embarrassing, the way I cooed it made it “Babe-zee” over time.)
“What are you planning on doing besides sightseeing and shopping?” Pat demanded.
“Eating.”
Pat mulled that over. “Then I’ll have to come. Without me to show you where to get the best food, no telling where the tour guides will take you.”
* * *
Istanbul was a kaleidoscope of sensual images—beautiful people, lush landscapes, dazzling architecture, fragrant gardens, exotic dishes. Pat was so taken with it that he gave up his writing time to explore with me. Our guide was a sweet young man named Jem who declared he wanted to be a writer. We were touched that so many of the Turks asked what we did, then told us they wanted to be writers too. Always the cynic, Pat claimed they would’ve said pig farmers if that’d been our occupation, but I didn’t agree. I found the Turkish people warm and lovely, and never felt a moment’s fear during our stay.
Before lunch, Jem took us to the Topkapi Palace where we wandered through mosaic hallways and were followed by peacocks trailing their tail feathers. In the flamboyant gardens were sights I never could’ve imagined. Marble gazebos, with embroidered cushions on the floor and silk hangings fluttering in the warm breeze, looked like something out of an erotic dream. “The perfect place for a forbidden tryst,” I whispered to Pat. Jem said we could go in the harem for an extra seven dollars, and Pat eagerly grabbed for his wallet. “No kidding? The harem’s here now?”
Jem shook his head. “No, no. No one is there.” Then his face brightened. “But you get to see the room.”
Pat put his wallet back. “Forget it. What’s the point of a harem room without a harem?”
We went to lunch instead. Pat instructed Jem to take us to a place where only the locals go. The outdoor café was everything we hoped for, except we were disappointed that Jem wouldn’t join us. He had to go to his mosque to pray but would be back soon, he promised. Without his guidance, we played it safe and traditional with our orders. I already admired the Turks, but when I heard that every meal included sweets, they earned my undying devotion as well. Members of the sweet-tooth tribe always appreciate one another. I ordered by simply pointing to a luscious-looking dessert en route to a nearby table.
After lunch Jem took us to the Blue Mosque, his place of worship, then to the Grand Bazaar, which he said was a must-see in Istanbul. The beauty of the fabled Blue Mosque stunned me, and Pat and I tiptoed through it in reverent silence. Being in the Blue Mosque with so many devout followers prostrate in prayer was a holy experience for me. Because I make an effort to honor cultural differences regardless of my personal feelings, I tried not to get my feminist feathers ruffled at the sight of the women praying around the walls because they weren’t allowed to enter the main area where the men prayed. All prayer rugs face Mecca, I reminded myself.
The Grand Bazaar was a welcome respite after the solemnity of the Blue Mosque. Rather than the lovely apple tea we’d had in other places, the bazaar shopkeepers greeted us with delicate glasses of a slightly sweet white wine. Jem warned us that refusing to drink it was considered an insult to the hospitality of the Turkish people. Since any self-respecting southerner would get shit-faced rather than insult a host, I gamely raised my glass time and time again.
Pat took me aside when we first entered the Grand Bazaar, and Jem looked away discreetly. “Listen to me, Alabama girl,” Pat said in a low voice. “These folks are masters at selling, and we can only use one more rug. Keep your mouth shut and let me handle this. They know a rube when they see one, and you’ll be putty in their hands. It’s not about the money, it’s about getting what we want instead of being swayed by their sales pitch. Okay?”
“Whatever you say, dear,” I replied with a straight face, and he groaned. “Just leave it up to me is all I’m asking,” he whispered conspiratorially, and I nodded. We were lured into the very first shop. Immediately an elegant, smooth-talking salesman presented us with crystal glasses of wine in a Park Avenue–worthy showroom. The patriarch came out and seated us in a place of honor under photos of his family with “Papa” Bush and the rugs he and the First Lady bought during his presidency. There were photos of South Carolina’
s Senator Hollings and other notables with their purchases. Although I hid a knowing smile, I knew Pat was a goner. Sure enough, he and the patriarch ended up grinning into the camera in front of two exquisitely expensive rugs that the patriarch had declared perfect for the nice American writers.
“Don’t you dare say a word,” Pat hissed as we left after an hour of prolonged, heartfelt goodbyes.
“Not a word,” I agreed. We walked in silence for a few minutes, oblivious to the hawkers. I imagine they were put off by Pat’s shamefaced grimness and my self-righteous smirk. Finally Pat stopped and faced me. “Why don’t we go to the jewelry stores now?” he said. “We can get some pieces for my girls. And your sisters would like jewelry too. Twenty-four-karat gold?”
I pretended to think on it before saying, “Sounds perfect. I’ll stay quietly in the background. I’m sure you’ll pick them out something pretty.”
He wouldn’t meet my eye. “Oh, you know more what they like than I do.”
I couldn’t help but grin. “You think we can find a store that waits on rubes?”
“Aw, shit,” he groaned. “You’ll never let me live that one down, will you?”
* * *
Our final day on the cruise, before our departure in Lisbon, was on Easter Sunday, which seemed oddly fitting to me. I’d set the alarm for dawn to keep from sleeping through my very favorite thing about cruising, entering a new port of call. A few days before, we had sailed into Venice at sunrise, a sight I’ll remember till my dying day. I can only hope heaven is half as beautiful. Most mornings Pat asked me to wake him, then he’d turn over and keep snoring. But when I pulled back the curtains on our final morning, I had to wake him.
Tell Me a Story Page 20
