The Hitchhike E-Book

Mark Paul Smith

• Herausgeber: BQB Publishing
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2020

Beschreibung

Mark Paul Smith graduated college on an Air Force scholarship with dreams of becoming a pilot. He had some downtime after graduation and before reporting for duty so he decided to hitchhike the world. A decision that would change his life forever.

As he traveled, his approach to life and his future decisions changed. He hitchhiked through the Iron Curtain and worked on a collective farm in Hungary only to find that communism wasn't our real enemy. He met people from North Vietnam who showed him the real enemy was the U.S. war machine. Being an American was not popular in those days, but the people of the world showed Smith kindness and kept him alive when he ran out of money. The long road to decision showed him that people everywhere want peace, not war.

Mark Paul Smith's hitchhike from Indiana to India in 1972 changed him from being an Air Force Officer into a conscientious objector. His faith in the United States of America was restored when he sued the government and won his case in federal court.

His journey is one of faith, contemplation, and awakening, mixed with the freedom and abandonment of the 70s.

Leseprobe

The Hitchhike © 2020 Mark Paul Smith. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, digital, mechanical or photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except for inclusion in a review as permitted under Sections 107 and 108 of the United States Copyright Act, without either prior written permission from the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee to the Copyright Clearance Center.

This story is told from the author’s experience and perspective.

First published in 2013 by Christopher Matthews Publishing, Bozeman, Montana under ISBN 9781938985089

Republished in 2020 by BQB Publishing (an imprint of Boutique of Quality Books Publishing Company, Inc.)

Christiansburg, Virginia

Printed in the United States of America

978-1-945448-76-8 (p)

978-1-945448-77-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number 2020938564

Book design by Robin Krauss, www.bookformatters.com

Cover design by Rebecca Lown, www.rebeccalowndesign.com

Editor: Caleb Guard

Dedication

To the women in my life:

My wife, Jo Ellen Hemphill Smith

My mother, Vaunceil Hulda Tiarks Smith

My sisters, Terri Vaun Lindvall, Amy Maxwell Szwabowicz, and Laura Lynn Eckstein

Special thanks to

My publisher, Terri Leidich of BQB and WriteLife Publishing, editor, Caleb Guard and beta reader, Brenda Fishbaugh.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Chapter One: Danny

Chapter Two: Malaga to Vienna

Chapter Three: The Iron Curtain

Chapter Four: Hanna

Chapter Five: The Fountain

Chapter Six: The Torch

Chapter Seven: The Cabin

Chapter Eight: Mykonos

Chapter Nine: Turkey

Chapter Ten: Adriana

Chapter Eleven: Iran

Chapter Twelve: Afghanistan

Chapter Thirteen: Pakistan

Chapter Fourteen: India

Chapter Fifteen: Smith vs. the USA

The Hitchhike

1. Monterey, CA

2. Golden, CO.

3. Fort Wayne, IN

4. Montreal, Canada

5. Lisbon, Portugal

6. Malaga, Spain

7. Milan, Italy

8. Vienna, Austria

9. Debrecen, Hungary

10. Innsbruck, Austria

11. Venice, Italy

12. Athens, Greece

13. Mykonos, Greece

14. Izmir, Turkey

15. Ankara, Turkey

16. Silifke, Turkey

17. Van, Turkey

18. Tabriz, Iran

19. Tehran, Iran

20. Mashad, Iran

21. Herat, Afghanistan

22. Kabul, Afghanistan

23. Lahore, Pakistan

24. New Delhi, India

25. Agra, India

26. Bombay, India

Preface

There was a time, not long ago, when you could walk to the highway, stick out your thumb, and catch a ride with a total stranger. Those were the days when sex was safe, and rock and roll was the rhythm of the revolution. Young people from all walks of life hit the road with nothing but packs on their backs to find enlightenment and somehow end the war in Vietnam.

When I left on my journey, I wasn’t sure if I was an intrepid explorer or just another fugitive from justice. I had no idea I would end up meeting John Lennon, hitchhiking through the Iron Curtain, working on a collective farm in Hungary, living on a nude beach in Greece, nearly perishing in a storm at sea, smoking opium in Iran, finding my soul in the music of Afghanistan, smuggling turquoise over the Khyber Pass into Pakistan, and nearly dying from dysentery and the fury of my Argentinian lover in India.

I also had no idea that the women I would fall in love with along the way would completely change the direction of my life.

Peace and love,

Mark Paul Smith

CHAPTER ONE

Danny

SHE WAS LONG-LEGGED AND LEAN in her faded jeans and stylish sport jacket as she walked down the aisle of the jumbo jet airliner. Our eyes met and we smiled at each other. It was our second visual contact within an hour. Before boarding we’d shared a moment when she noticed we were each carrying a copy of the same book, The Drifters, by James Michener.

Now, I had to look down at my open book to keep from staring as she headed towards me. I saw her legs stop walking as I felt her hand on my shoulder. She whispered in my ear, “If you’d like a joint, come to the back of the plane.”

She was on the move by the time I lifted my head to say, “I’ll be there.”

Rational thought gave way to confusion as I realized the potential for good fortune that had just fallen into my life. I hadn’t felt a woman’s touch since California. The two-week hitchhike from the West Coast to Montreal had been a long, lonely adventure. Now, it was hard to keep from jumping out of my seat to follow her. Don’t be too eager kept coming to mind, followed closely by Don’t make her wait too long.

This was an interesting woman. Her English was perfect, but she had a soothing French accent. She didn’t wear much makeup, not that she needed it. She was a natural—high cheekbones, full lips, and an aristocratic nose. Her face seemed tired, but her eyes flashed like neon reflections on a rainy street at night.

The plane took off in a massive rush of gravity force and jet scream. I felt excited and apprehensive at the same time, and not just about the miracle of flight or the woman I had just met. As I closed my eyes, it occurred to me I was taking off on a journey from which I might never return. I breathed deeply to settle the butterflies in my stomach.

We reached cruising altitude and the captain turned off the seatbelt and no-smoking lights. My thoughts collected from worrying about the future to focusing on the present opportunity. Is she really waiting in the back with a joint?

I waited, impatiently, and then waited some more. After what seemed like a long time but was probably less than twenty minutes, I took a few more deep breaths, unbuckled, and headed for the back of the plane.

She was all the way back by the lavatories. I could see her watching me closely as I walked down the aisle toward her. At six three, 185, with a bushy white boy Afro and leather-patched jeans, I was hard to miss.

“Hello again.” I tried to sound casual. “Mind if I join you?”

She acted surprised but said, “Please do.” She slid from the aisle seat to the window, leaving an empty seat between us as I collapsed awkwardly into her previous space.

“Whew,” I exhaled and turned to stretch my hand in greeting. “I’m Mark.”

She was already shaking a cigarette out of its pack, but took my hand briefly and said, “Nice to meet you, Mark.” She began searching for her lighter like she had no intention of continuing the conversation. For an instant it felt like I’d made a terrible miscalculation. Was she just kidding?

“I’m Danny.” She smiled as she lit up and took a drag. “Danny Trudeau to be complete.” She blew out a huge plume of smoke over the seat in front of us. “What’s your last name?”

“It’s Smith. Mark Smith. Mark Paul Smith to be exact.”

She laughed a little. “It sounds less like an alias when you put the ‘Paul’ in the middle.” Then she looked suspicious. “Is it really Smith?”

“Swear to God.” I held up my hands. “I know it sounds phony, but it’s really my name. I’ve been a Smith all my life. My friends call me Smitty.”

Danny chuckled, beginning to loosen up. “Well, I won’t call you that, I promise.”

“Thank you very much.”

“So where are you headed, Mr. Mark Paul Smith?”

I didn’t answer until it became obvious she was waiting for a response. “I have no idea, actually,” I finally confessed. “How about you?”

“Oh, no, no, no.” She turned slightly toward me. “You’re not getting off that easy. Everybody’s going somewhere and you’re part of everybody; so, come on, where are you going?”

“Trudeau, let’s see, that’s French isn’t it? How do you spell it?”

“Trudeau,” she deadpanned, “T-R-U-D-E-A-U. It’s French Canadian. Now don’t try to change the topic.” She blew out another plume of cigarette smoke for emphasis. Nobody but me paid any attention. The no-smoking light was off.

“Well,” I started slowly, “if you must know, I’m going to Lisbon. That’s as far as I’m flying. Then I’m going to bum around Europe.”

“How long do you have off?” she asked as she realized I might not have a job. The woman was sizing me up. What a great role reversal. I played it coy.

“Off what?”

“Off work.” She laughed. “You know what I mean.”

“The best answer I can give is that I am currently unemployed, and I have no plans to actively seek gainful employment.”

Danny looked at me carefully, took a drag, leaned back in her seat and observed, “So you’re one of those hippies everybody’s writing about. One of those spoiled Americans off to backpack through Europe on five dollars a day.” She was teasing. “Staying in youth hostels and having free love and sit-ins to end the war.” We both laughed. Then she straightened slightly and asked, “How old are you?”

I thought about lying, considering the downturn in the conversation, but answered honestly, “Twenty-two. How about yourself?”

“Damn, I knew it,” she sputtered, stubbing out the butt of her smoke in the armrest ashtray. “You’re too young.” She sounded so desperately disappointed. It felt like the whole thing was falling apart before we had time to get started.

“Too young for what?” I laughed, trying to relax her. “Too young for you? You look younger than me.”

She smiled appreciatively, acknowledging that I had at least enough sense to use well the only line capable of assuaging her doubt and salvaging the situation. “How old do you think I am?”

Clearly back in the game, I had to be careful. Guessing over thirty was not an option. Nor was guessing under twenty-two. “I’m going to say,” making her wait for it, “I’m going to say twenty-six.”

“Yes, yes.” She chuckled. “You are very good. Actually, I’m twenty-seven. You can see I’m much too old for you.” She searched my eyes. I was swimming in hers. They were sparkling hazel. For the first time since we’d met in the airport, we looked into each other.

“I’d say you’re perfect for me.” It unintentionally came out as a whisper.

She looked at me searchingly. My self-consciousness gradually morphed into a chuckle that turned into a heartfelt laugh, mostly at myself but also at the serendipity of our situation. Danny couldn’t help but join in. Her smile erased the worry from her face.

“So, what about you?” I asked as our mutual sighs diminished. “Where are you headed?”

“I’m headed on to Madrid,” she answered after a thoughtful pause. “This plane stops in Lisbon and then continues to Madrid.”

“What’s going on in Madrid?” I avoided the obvious fact that her itinerary would shortchange our encounter.

“Nothing really,” she said sadly. “I’ve got two weeks off.”

“Two weeks off what?”

“Two weeks off from a very terrible situation I’m sure you don’t want to hear about.”

“Try me,” I encouraged her.

“No, no. It’s too much too soon.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure you really want to get to know me. I’m actually running away from a very bad scene. My work has been too much, mostly eighty hours a week, and I’ve had a horrible time with a man and …. it’s just too much. I can’t talk about it all right now. I barely know you.” She fumbled in her purse for another cigarette.

“Hey, hey,” I soothed, waiting for her to look at me. “It’s all right. We don’t have to be in a big hurry here. It’s a long flight. We can save the heavy stuff for later.” She looked grateful as she pulled out her lighter.

“Hold that light,” I suggested. “I’ve got a better idea. How about we smoke that joint you were talking about?”

Danny’s smile came back, this time with a conspiratorial twinkle. “Do you think these overhead fans can handle the smoke?”

I looked up as if to carefully assess the ventilation system, knowing full well the little air blowers wouldn’t do a thing to mask the heavy aroma of marijuana smoke. “I’m sure they can handle it quite well,” I lied. “Besides, lots of people are smoking cigarettes back here in the smoking section.”

She furrowed her brow and pursed her lips as she dug out of her stuffed black purse a quarter-ounce bag of what looked to be some pretty good reefer. I opened the plastic baggie and took a long sniff. “Ah, smells like the real deal here. I haven’t smoked in days.”

“Days? Has it been that long? Poor baby!” She produced a pack of Zig Zag rolling papers. “Can you roll?”

“Can I roll?” I grinned. “With one hand on the back of a Harley at sixty miles an hour. Yes, I can roll. How do you get Zig Zags in Canada?”

“We’ve got everything you do,” she said indignantly as she watched me roll up two one-paper joints in quick succession. “Can you really do that one-handed on a motorcycle?”

“Actually, no,” I said. “But as you can see, I’ve done this before. May I borrow your flame?”

Legal consequences never crossed my mind as I fired up that joint. I was already high on the real thing, chasing a woman. I took a big hit and passed it to Danny. She looked at the fans as if to question my earlier assessment. I nodded reassuringly and she took a tentative toke. We exhaled at the same time. It was good pot, the kind that takes you away, right away. Danny closed her eyes and started to relax. We didn’t say much as we kept smoking, passing the joint back and forth.

Marijuana smoke was rolling up the passenger compartment of the plane like an inflatable parade balloon. Passengers couldn’t help but notice the distinctive, pungent aroma. Some older folks became mildly alarmed at the unfamiliar smell, but no one hit the overhead call button. Some longhairs up about seven rows looked over their seats and motioned for us to pass it up. I just flashed them the peace sign. By now, Danny was laughing at nothing in particular. Her eyes were getting softer as she got farther and farther away from reality. “This is so great,” she gushed. “I can’t remember getting this relaxed or this high so fast.”

I leaned back into the seat and closed my eyes. “We were high and going fast when we started.”

Danny thought that hysterically funny. In fact, anything we said to each other led to more contagious laughter. We were stoned. Danny surprised me by lighting the second joint. “What do you think?” she asked as she passed it over.

I took a long drag and held it in until I choked up trying to exhale and speak at the same time. “I think two joints will get you higher than one.”

We laughed so hard we were putting on a show that couldn’t be ignored by our neighbors. People were craning their necks to see what all the commotion was about. We didn’t notice. Our little get-acquainted party was turning into a smashing success. The high turned the plane into a dimly lit New Orleans jazz club. Saxophone solos somersaulting through my brain, and I half expected dancing hookers to come slinking down the aisle. The plane was rockin’ like “Take the A-Train” in my brain. Danny slid into the seat next to me and took my hand. Her touch was warm and soft and inviting.

Meanwhile, the distinctive odor of marijuana had engulfed the first-class section and was easing through the door to the cockpit. A voice in the back of my head kept saying something was about to go wrong. Sure enough, our dazed reverie was shattered like a needle screeching across a vinyl record when I noticed somebody burst back through the first-class curtain. It was trouble headed our way; a man in a uniform who was in a hurry and obviously not happy as he waved his arms through the smoke.

Danny saw him too and snubbed out the half joint. Suddenly, nothing was funny anymore. No doubt, we were on our way to being arrested and thrown into some Spanish hellhole jail. Or worse. Oh man, this is it. I’m busted. What was I thinking? This trip is over. Life as I know it is over. How could I have been such a fool? My blood pressure rose, and my stomach clenched. My heart was racing. I glanced at Danny. She seemed strangely calm in the face of impending doom. I looked around. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide.

The steward looked plenty angry as he kept coming back, looking for the source of the problem. Finally, he spotted us. I didn’t know how he knew it was us until he pointed his right index finger. “Danny, I figured it was you. Jesus Christ! The whole plane is getting stoned, including the captain. He knows the smell. You know he knows. He sent me back here to put an immediate stop to it. You’ve got to cut it out. You’re going to get us all fired!”

In a stunning reversal of expectations, the man was not threatening to cuff us, but pleading with this roguish girl. Danny maintained composure and spoke to him like a boss speaks to an employee. “Oh, Scott. Stop being so dramatic. We’re just having fun. Nobody else seems terribly bothered.”

Scott looked at me as if to say, “Could you please tell her to stop?” I shrugged and deferred to my obviously well-connected partner.

“Okay, Scotty,” Danny said sternly. “I’ll let you have your way. Even though you’ll be spoiling all our fun. We’ll stop smoking pot. But only on one condition.” He waited with a knowing smirk until she continued. “And that one condition is you keep us in scotch for the rest of the flight.” She winked at me and then at the steward.

“That I can do.” He sounded immensely relieved.

Then it felt like Danny was pushing her luck when she added, “In fact, I think we’re both ready for a double. That wouldn’t be too much trouble would it? Would you be a dear and help us here?”

“Yes, I would be a dear,” he said sarcastically and went off to get our cocktails. “I’m always a dear.”

I watched him walk back to the food and beverage station, totally amazed at what had just transpired. I slowly turned to look at Danny, who was chuckling to herself, and said, “I am blown away. Who are you and what are you doing in the seat next to me?”

“We go way back” was all she said.

It was a good thing the steward had used the name Danny, because I had been in the process of forgetting it. After a short pause of breathtaking silence, I put the name to use. “Danny, what just happened here? Do you own the airline or what?”

She laughed, obviously pleased to have saved the day, and said, “I’ve been with Canadian Pacific Airlines since college. Scott and I started out together but now I’m in the main office. I tell people what to do and they get mad at me and the customers get mad at me and my bosses get mad at me. They pay me a lot but it’s not worth the stress. They work you to death, sometimes ninety hours a week and it’s still not enough. That’s why this is so good for me, getting away and meeting crazy people like you.”

Her eyes softened to let me in. I put my hand on her right thigh. She was soft to touch even as she tightened up, took a sudden breath, and put her hand on mine. A look of alarm in her eyes slipped into relief as I squeezed her and slid both our hands down to her knee. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” she said, referring to my sexual advance. I removed my hand as Scott returned with our drinks and a can of air freshener to spray the entire area with a sickly sweet drizzle.

“Enough.” She laughed him off. “You’re drowning us in that toilet water of yours.” He left, shaking his head good-naturedly. Danny called out after him, “Bring us one every half hour ’til we pass out and then bring us one every hour.”

The whole rear section of the plane loved that line and shared a communal laugh. Everyone was ready to join the party. Scott and the rest of the flight crew kept the drinks and snacks coming. People were in the aisle chatting each other up and having impromptu conversations over the tops of the seats, feeling strangely warm and free. Danny and I joined the banter from our seats but remained within the confines of our new, rosy little world.

“Who are you?” she asked as the flight began to quiet. “Can I trust you?” I could tell she was already thinking about getting off with me in Lisbon.

“I was wondering the same thing about you.”

That seemed to assure her somehow. She started talking about herself. “My life is pretty much a mess. I’m stressed to the point of breakdown and not just from the job. My ex-boyfriend was much older. He was so cruel. You wouldn’t believe it. He used to lock me in the closet! Our sex life was horrible. He only cared about himself. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.” She rested her head gently against my shoulder.

Her touch was meltingly soft, and despite all the smoke and booze, her hair smelled fresh as a tropical garden, thanks to the miracle of modern shampoo.

We floated along together in contented silence for a lovely while. I thought about kissing her, then decided against it. Best not to rush things. Or is time running out?

Eventually, it seemed the only thing to do. I shifted her off my shoulder, took her head in my hands gently, and kissed her softly and slowly. She didn’t fight the feeling or the moment. We both knew it was right. Her lips parted and we tasted each other. She was deliciously smoky and scotchy. Deep desires were rising within me.

“Goodness,” she whispered as we paused. “You took my breath away.”

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t help myself.”

Danny put her head back on my shoulder, this time putting her arm around mine. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she purred.

“If it feels good, do it,” I said.

She stiffened momentarily. “I hate that saying.”

I knew it was a stupid thing to say even as I spoke the words. “Yeah, me too. It’s too selfish. What it should say is, ‘If it feels right, do it.’”

She squeezed my arm. “Yes, yes, yes. That’s what it should say. And that’s what this is. It’s just right. It feels just right.”

We floated on into the night. The drone of the plane became hypnotic. Our fellow passengers had settled down for the duration. We waved off Scott. No more drinks needed. Our bliss was complete. We were on cloud nineteen. We were weightless and everything was pink and purple. This is too good to end in a few hours. She’s seriously considering jumping off her flight in Lisbon. Should I try to talk her into it?

“Have you ever been to Europe?” she asked.

Realizing her need for more information, I opened up a bit. “Yes, I spent my junior year in Vienna and Budapest. It was a foreign studies program through DePauw University. All the classes were in English, but I tried to learn as much German as possible. By the end of the program I still wasn’t very fluent.”

“You say you were in Budapest? Isn’t that behind the Iron Curtain?”

“Yeah, I guess our group was one of the first to do it. I don’t know how they did it, but they got us in. It was some kind of big deal. Everywhere we went we were received like visiting dignitaries. I mean, we went to the Parliament and they sat us at these long, green, felt-covered tables with water and vodka at every setting and told us how important our program was to improving foreign relations. They took us to collective farms, the whole bit. The Hungarian students were eager to talk.”

“What did you talk about?”

“Oh, a little bit about communism versus capitalism but mostly about rock and roll and the whole hippie movement. What they really wanted was our blue jeans. Talk about a hot commodity. Blue jeans were forbidden fruit in that country.”

“I’ll bet they loved yours with all those leather patches and embroidered names. By the way, who’s Chucha?”

Ah yes, this woman is definitely screening me. In fact, she was turning the tables on me. As a hitchhiker, I had become practiced in the art of getting someone, anyone, to talk about his favorite topic, invariably, himself. Now, I was doing the talking and she was doing the interviewing.

I understood her need to know more about me, so I played along. “Actually, the jeans were pretty new in Hungary. I started sewing patches on them myself the next summer back in the States when I took a motorcycle trip around the West.” I pointed to the leather patch above my right knee. “I remember sewing this one on myself in a campground beside Jenny Lake in Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming. As you can see, this was one of my first attempts with needle and thread.”

Danny ran her fingertips over my stitches. “What made you take a motorcycle trip? Were you on your own?”

“I saw the movie Easy Rider. Ever see that movie?”

She looked up and into my eyes. “No, but I know it’s about some drug dealers on motorcycles that get killed by some bad guys.”

“They’re not drug dealers. They’re free spirits off to see the world and they get murdered by rednecks who don’t like hippies.”

“What’s a redneck?”

“It’s somebody who gets so mad his neck turns red.”

“Mad about what?”

“Mad about all the social change of the sixties. They don’t like women and blacks trying to be equal. And they don’t like men growing their hair long and burning their draft cards.”

Danny thought about the explanation for a moment. “So, you wanted to be a free spirit on your motorcycle?”

“Exactly, and I wanted to see the USA. When I was in Austria people asked me about places in America that I realized I had never seen.”

Danny seemed satisfied with my rationale and returned her attention to my jeans. “I’ll bet Chucha is a girlfriend and she sewed her name on herself. She looks like quite a seamstress.” We laughed, but I didn’t like the direction this line of inquiry was taking as she continued. “Oh and look. Linda has her own unique style. Stand up so I can see your other conquests.”

“No, no, no,” I protested. “It’s not like that at all. These women are friends, not conquests. I’ve had men work on these jeans as well. And anyway, you’re not getting in my pants that easily. I will put up a fight, you know.”

“Oh, all right,” she relented, amused by my conversational deflection. “I don’t need to pry. It sounds like you’ve been quite the traveler, though.”

Our good natured and intoxicated banter went on smoothly as we began feeling quite comfortable in each other’s company. The unspoken question was whether she would get off the plane in Lisbon with me or fly on to Madrid. I learned enough about her work and love life to know she was in serious emotional trouble, perhaps on the edge of a breakdown. By that point it didn’t matter. Danny had me on the hook like the smell of hamburger transported Wimpy in the Popeye cartoons.

She looked so peaceful when she closed her eyes. Even her breathing was sensual. I was fool enough to think that all she really needed was a little time with me.

Before it seemed possible, the rising sun began shooting golden rays through the clouds and into the plane. At first, this seemed confusing but then it dawned on me … we were speeding east, back into six hours of time zone change. It would be morning when we touched down in Lisbon.

The light intensified and began blasting orange and red into an electric armada of giant, cumulus nimbus clouds. The plane began its long descent. I took Danny’s hand. She squeezed back gently. Suddenly, the thought of facing the Portuguese morning without her seemed unthinkable. The muscles in my lower back began to tense up.

How did six hours fly by so quickly? How had the world turned so much in such a short flight? Why am I so afraid to lose her?

The plane touched down and taxied to a stop on the tarmac. The seatbelt lights blinked off and the crew lowered a metal stairway to the ground. Danny got up with me and held my hand as we walked toward the door. Is she going to say goodbye?

Scott the steward grinned knowingly as Danny grabbed her two mid-sized suitcases from a crew closet and handed them to me. She was getting off the plane! I hadn’t known until that instant whether she was coming with me or not.

“Have fun, you two,” Scott called after us as we walked carefully down the steps. We turned around at the bottom and posed for his imaginary camera. In that moment we were ambassadors of love, lightheaded and tender to the touch.

We turned and headed off for customs, arm in arm, walking at least a foot off the tarmac. “You’re sure I can trust you?” she asked with mock seriousness.

“I’ll let you call my mother, if you want.”

“That won’t be necessary.” She giggled, threw her arms around me, and kissed me hard on the lips. We were both caught up in the joyous prospect of a journey together. “Good morning, Portugal!” I shouted in triumph. “Bring on the bearded sailors in wooden sailing ships with soldiers in shining breastplates with long lances so we can conquer the natives.” Danny squealed in delight at the bravado.

Customs quickly brought us down to earth. Danny was impressed and I was relieved when my backpack arrived on the baggage cart. The red, waterproof pack was loaded with four changes of clothes, a sleeping bag, cook kit, hatchet, flashlight, canteen, a zip-leather Bible, writing materials, and a black leather jacket. A two-man mountain tent was strapped to the top along with a nineteen-inch machete my father had brought me from Costa Rica.

“Wow,” Danny observed, “you are ready for anything. Is that a machete I see?”

“You never know when you might need a little protection,” I assured her.

“Oh my God,” she said, “I’m going to end up in little pieces in some olive orchard.”

Thankfully, neither my gear nor the weapon seriously concerned her. Even more thankfully, customs officials didn’t search her purse as we glided through the checkpoint and got our passports stamped. My baggage didn’t generate any interest or concern. They’d seen plenty of backpacks come through. They didn’t even search me. Huge blade? No problem. Keep moving.

Danny did a quick money exchange and hailed a cab like the seasoned traveler she was. Before I knew what was going on, we were careening into Lisbon at a high rate of speed down cobblestone streets lined with palm trees and white stucco houses with dull-orange tile roofs. My head was spinning with new smells and the cacophony of a coastal city waking up. Danny rolled down her window and let her hair blow in the breeze. My skin tingled with appreciation and anticipation. The woman knows how to live.

Our driver was hairy and wiry and drove like a wild man. He darted in and out of dense traffic, narrowly missing little cars and leaning, canvas-topped lorries making their morning deliveries.

“I hope we make it to the hotel alive,” Danny joked. “We want to go to the Paris Hotel,” she told the driver. “Do you understand? The Paris Hotel?” He nodded happily and continued trying to win whatever race he thought he was running.

“The Paris Hotel.” She spoke excitedly to me. “It’s right on the ocean, but not too expensive. It’s on a perfect beach in Estoril, a suburb west of Lisbon. The man at the money exchange told me all about it.” I started to tell her I didn’t have money for a hotel, but she waved me off as if money would be no concern.

The driver kept taking insane risks, bombing through intersections, his eyes as wide as the rearview mirror. We actually covered our eyes on several occasions, convinced a collision was inevitable. The driver cackled with glee and mumbled something reassuring in Portuguese. We were too high and tired and shaken up to do anything but give him the international thumbs-up sign.

Eventually, he screeched to a proud halt in front of a tall, eighteenth-century building with two-story marble pillars at the entry and men in white tuxedos helping us with our luggage. Danny paid for the cab and the room and a silver tray of meat and cheeses with two bottles of wine, which were delivered soon after we entered the room. “Don’t worry about money,” she said, sensing my unease. “This is too much fun. I’ve got money for both of us.”

The fourth-story room had a small balcony with a magnificent view of a rocky bay on the Atlantic Ocean. Fishing boats bobbed on the sun-sparkled waves that rolled in with a low roar. Only a few blue umbrellas dotted the white sand beach. A gentle breeze blew back the silk curtains from the open glass doors to the balcony.

The room itself seemed a hundred years old: Persian rugs on wooden floors, a carved-wood antique dresser with glass handles, and a four-foot mirror on a swivel. The four-post bed piled high with pillows and comforters dominated the space. The bathroom had a claw-foot tub, a bidet, and a blue and white tiled floor.

“I feel like I’ve died and gone to heaven,” I said as I exhaled a triumphant breath of salty air and took a seat on the balcony.

“We have,” Danny purred into my ear as she sat on my lap. We kissed slowly and passionately. Our heads were spinning with the dizzying combination of lust and no sleep. I unbuttoned her top and began slowly kissing my way down her neck to her breasts. Amazingly, I hadn’t noticed until that moment how full they were. She moaned her approval and arched her back. When I came up for air, she grabbed my head with both hands, then pulled me up to kiss her on the lips again. “I liked it when you kissed me like that on the plane,” she whispered. “Do you like it too?”

As I was nodding my glazed approval she jumped up and ran into the room. I heard a commotion around the bed and wondered what she was up to. Then the front end of the mattress came tumbling out the doorway. She had me help her wrestle it out to stuff it flat on the balcony. Then she disappeared again, calling back, “Open up a bottle of wine.”

I was pouring the wine when she came bouncing back out onto the balcony in nothing but flesh-colored panties to flop down on the mattress with a wonderful groan, rolling over on her back and holding up outstretched arms to the world. “Oh, God, I need some sun!”

Her nearly naked body was perfectly feminine. Her ankles were thin, her hips full but not broad, her breasts round and buoyant, her shoulders square but not muscular and her neck long and graceful. I took off all my clothes quickly and lowered myself lightly, so the full length of our skins barely touched. Every hair on our bodies instantly electrified. Her skin felt hot.

She was relieved to feel a gentle touch and pleased when I lay down beside her to say, “You are absolutely beautiful.” She could feel my excitement.

“I hope we’re not putting on too much of a show,” she wondered aloud. “Not that I care at this point.” I sensed this was a rare moment of expansion for Danny, something about this marvelous adventure made her feel so free, so confessional—she had opened several layers of emotional curtains to reveal herself to me.

“Don’t worry.” I kissed her ear. “No one can see us up here. This is the perfect love nest.”

She was ready for everything, but I backed off, careful not to go too fast, and poured two glasses of wine. “I propose a toast to Portugal and all its promise of love and adventure.”

“Here, here,” she toasted, drinking nearly half her glass in one long pull. “This is so crazy. I love it. You make me feel happy. But what am I doing? I don’t even know you.”

“Yes, you do. We’ve known each other forever. I knew that the first time I saw you.” She waited for more. “We probably know everything there is to know about a person when we first make contact. It’s an intuitive thing. Our energy connects and we feel everything there is to feel without even knowing it. You know what I mean?”

Danny answered with an amazed smile. She was lost in the moment. “This place is so peaceful,” she murmured. “It makes me feel like I’m taking a bath in the morning with nothing to do all day. And the sun. Feel how perfect? Look how it sparkles the wine.” She held up her glass. “It’s like liquid ruby.” She looked deeply into my eyes. Without a blink, we were inside each other, looking through ourselves into infinite reflections of facing mirrors.

She rolled over on her stomach and I straddled her to rub her back. Her skin was soft. I stroked it lightly for a moment then let my fingers work their way into her muscles. “You’re a little tight,” I observed.

“Ooh, loosen me up,” she cooed. “I need a deep massage.”

“Portugal loves you,” I said as I worked her entire body.

“Portugal loves us both,” she said as she rolled onto her back and pulled me down to kiss her.

We made love to the rhythm of the ocean.

Once we came up for air, we turned cheek-to-cheek to gaze at the endless vista, each of us amazed at how quickly we had fallen for the other. The water was immensely calming and reassuring. Everything was right with the world. Danny bit my ear gently. We collapsed back on the balcony mattress. She felt like forever.

The sun beat down on our heaving bodies and beating hearts and lubricated skins. We felt like Bonnie and Clyde after a successful bank heist. Against all odds, we had gotten away with all the joy life has to offer.

Love is the perfect crime.

We passed out into a deep, exhausted sleep. Fortunately, the massive overhang on the hotel roof shaded us from the sun or we would have been burned to a crisp in the hours that we slept.

I woke up as the sun dropped lower on the horizon. It took a few moments to remember where I was. I heard Danny in the bathroom. What an amazing turn of events. Twenty-four hours earlier, I had been totally alone and on standby in the Montreal airport, wondering if I’d even make the plane. Now, here I was with a commanding view of the Atlantic Ocean, in partnership with a gorgeous and intelligent French-Canadian woman. Is this just luck or is the world opening up its secret treasures?

I put on my jeans and stood up to survey the harbor. It was now filled with boats of all sizes. A deep breath brought about an “I wish my friends could see me now” moment. The ocean air was intoxicating and revitalizing. I was hungry and thirsty and only slightly hung over. Danny saw me reflecting and called out to me. “Let’s go eat, I’m famished.”

We showered and smoked a joint and watched the sun sizzle fabulously into the ocean, painting the horizon shades of red. Lights on the boats and on the shore were beginning to twinkle.

The walk to dinner was a twilight kaleidoscope of color and sound. Tile roofs glowed their last orange as the Portuguese moon rose like an eerie cartoon. Bicycles clattered on streets of stone, small cars with loud mufflers honked their horns, children squealed, and transistor radios blew tinny noises through red and green woven curtains and open windows of working-class apartments. We walked hand in hand for half an hour, away from the beach and into the night. It was fun to be together and off on such a romantic adventure. Fun until it was dark, and we were lost.

Danny was becoming uneasy on the dark side streets of Estoril. Poverty was a short walk from the high-priced, tourist side of town. We picked up the pace and set a course for the umbrella of light in the distance that illuminated the beach area. It didn’t take long to return to the main drag. We decided to bypass the larger restaurants to avoid the tourist trap and chose one on a side street with the best music coming out.

We ducked under an awning and opened a tall wooden door to discover what was obviously a popular hangout. The locals stared at us curiously but seemed friendly enough. The waiter was welcoming and showed us to a table for two in the corner with a candle. No sooner did we sit down than we were engulfed in Fado music, Portuguese for “fate,” folk songs about sailors and the sea and their wives left at home. The roiling melodies smacked us in the face like waves bursting over the bow, even though we couldn’t understand the words. Two male musicians were singing, one playing a classical guitar, the other a large, round mandolin. They had the place jumping. The crowd sang along on the choruses and, every now and then, one of the patrons would jump up and sing lead. One song got the whole place dancing in a circle. Danny and I got up and did our best. She was beaming.

“I never would be here without you,” she shouted over the celebration.

“Nor I without you,” I yelled as I hugged her close enough to hear me. Our hearts were pounding for each other as we became one with the circle of dancers.

The band took a break and we sat down to try to order from a Portuguese menu. “How many escudos in a dollar?” I wondered, obviously concerned about prices.

“I think twenty-six,” Danny answered. “But look, these prices aren’t that bad. We can get a good meal for five dollars. A very good meal, as a matter of fact. Double that for the wine we’re going to be drinking and we can get out of here for ten dollars each.”

“Danny,” I began slowly, “we’re going to have to talk about money. As in, I don’t have much and it’s got to last me for a long time.”

“I told you at the hotel not to worry about money. I’ve got enough for both of us and I don’t have a lot of time to spend it. Besides, you’re my tour guide and my sexual guru.” She saw me stiffen and quickly continued, “No, no. I’m not saying you’re my gigolo. I’m just saying I happen to have enough money for both of us. And I like the way you touch me.”

Just then the waiter was serving a huge platter of shrimp to the table next to us. “Doesn’t that look good?” She was obviously changing the topic and I didn’t mind. She got the waiter’s attention and managed to communicate to him in French that we wanted what he had just served. He nodded and left to put our order in.

When dinner arrived, I was horrified. My plate was overlapped with monsters from the deep. They still had heads on with long antennae and black, beady eyes and claws and tails. They were prawns, not shrimp. Up until that point, the only shrimp I’d ever eaten came curled up in cute little embryos without so much as a tail, served in a neat little row at the country club buffet. I’d never had to perform a full autopsy to get at my seafood. In fact, I had no idea where or how to begin.

Danny laughed playfully at my dilemma as she took charge of my plate like a fisherman and turned the creatures into something I could eat. The food was spicy and Mediterranean, crusty breads, and vegetables in olive oil. We ate heartily as the wine kept coming. We didn’t get a chance to talk much once the string duo came back and got the crowd involved again with their performance. The music was melancholy and smoothly Mediterranean.

After several spirited songs, a woman the crowd seemed to know well got up to sing a solo. Everybody at the tables around us stood up as she draped a black shawl around her shoulders and began singing a beautiful song of lovelorn tragedy. Danny and I were spellbound by the woman’s command of the emotional ballad, as were our fellow diners. I took Danny’s hand as the singer wove her melodic web of a sad tale. Even the waiters remained motionless as she ended the song on her knees with her head on the floor. I looked at Danny. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. I felt my own tears welling. The sadness of the world was personalized by the woman’s performance. The singer stood up to take a bow, and the room erupted from silence into a standing ovation. Once we’d finished dinner and the musicians took another break, Danny paid the bill with her credit card and waved off my offer to contribute. I couldn’t remember a more perfect dining experience. Walking back to the hotel along the beach, she slipped into a pensive mood. The moon was bright, and the waves were white capped as they pounded out a deep rhythm on the shore. “You’re lucky to be so free,” she offered almost absentmindedly. “I wonder what it would be like to not have any responsibilities. Or even to just be happy. What a freedom that would be.”

I didn’t respond. She needed to complete her thought. “That woman had me all the way when she was singing. She made sadness sound so beautiful. I cried with her on that song. Everybody did. It felt good to cry. But I’ve been crying too much lately. It hasn’t felt good. I’ve been feeling trapped and empty and wondering what’s the point. Then I meet you and, suddenly, it feels like life might be worth living. It makes me think I need to break free from my life like you have.”

I took her hand. We kept walking. I wanted to tell her the truth about myself, but I couldn’t do it. Besides, I didn’t know what the truth about me was going to turn out to be. I was anything but free.

“You know,” I said, “Ever since I started out on this trip the most amazing stuff has been happening. Things that never would have happened if I hadn’t hit the road.”

“Things like what?”

“Like a couple weeks after graduation from college I was in a bookstore in Monterey, California, when I met John Lennon.”

Danny stopped us both in our tracks. “Oh, come on.”

“No, really. Swear to God. I was thumbing through a book of Raphael prints in a bookstore. He was squatting down, looking at books on a low shelf. The profile was unmistakable. It was John Lennon. I couldn’t believe it. I had to turn back to the art book, not knowing what to do. I knew I’d never get another chance like this. There was no one else in the store.”

“Oh my God,” Danny squealed. “This really happened! What did you do?”

“I took a deep breath and turned around and walked over to introduce myself. I said, ‘Excuse me, are you John Lennon?’ He looked up at me a little warily, so I quickly followed with, ‘I just wanted to say I’ve really admired your work all these years.’”

“And then?” Danny was wide-eyed.

“That’s when it happened.”

“What happened?”

“He stood up.”

“And?”

I held my right hand up a little below my shoulder. “And he was short. He was maybe five foot ten tops. I’m six three and the top of his head barely made it to my shoulders. My hero was shorter and smaller than me. He seemed almost frail.”

She began walking down the beach again. “Oh, so this is some kind of guy thing.”

“No, it was more than that. Once he stood up, he was nice, even friendly. He said, ‘Well, if that’s how you feel, then I’m definitely John Lennon.’ He held out his hand. His handshake was firm. He said he was looking for books on radical politics, particularly on the history of communism. Well, that stuff is right down my alley. I majored in political science and studied socialism and communism in Hungary. So, there I was, advising John Lennon on leftist literature. I advised him to bear down on the Marx and hold the Mao.”

“No, you didn’t say that,” Danny laughed.

“Okay, no, I didn’t say that,” I confessed. “I wished later on that I’d said something witty like that, but I didn’t. Then Yoko came up and wanted to know what happened to all her cigarettes. Lennon looked at me like any henpecked husband and grinned.”

“Was she just a total bitch?”

“No, not really. She was being good-natured about the whole thing. They were probably tired from traveling but they were still having fun. The interesting thing was Lennon was hungry for knowledge. It made me realize that nobody really knows what’s going on. Not even John Lennon. Meeting him was strangely liberating.”

“What do you mean?”

I slowed slightly to formulate my thoughts. “I mean when you meet your hero and he’s just another human being, it makes you realize you’ve got to be your own hero. You’ve got to write your own script. You can’t rely on anyone but yourself. You start making the most of your life and paying attention to the people you meet because you know they have something to teach you or you wouldn’t be meeting them.”

“Hmm,” Danny mused. “What do you think I have to teach you?”

She had been mostly quiet for the walk along the beach, letting me do the talking. Now, it was time to reassure her. I took both her hands in mine and pulled her close to kiss her softly on the lips, then the cheek, then the forehead. “You’re teaching me that love is all around us and all we have to do is tap into it and the world is a wonderful place.” I hugged her and lifted her feet off the sand. “You’re reminding me that all you need is love, as John Lennon would say.”

We laughed and walked back to the hotel where we stripped each other naked and slipped beneath crisp linens that smelled like the ocean. The waves pounded rhythmically on the rocks below.

“Just hold me,” Danny sighed.

The next thing we knew, a brilliant coastal morning was blasting light through the balcony doors. Danny had awakened before me. Her eyes were shining in the sun as her head rested on the pillow. “Yesterday was perfect for me. I slept like a lamb. Your arm was around me and I could feel your skin all over me. It’s been a long time since someone held me. I mean, held me gently. Do I feel good to hold?”

I kissed her on the nose. “You feel like velvet. We fit together perfectly. I don’t think we rolled over once. Of course, the four bottles of wine might have something to do with that.”

“Why are men so awful?” she asked suddenly.

“I don’t think all of us are.”

“I don’t mean you.” She squirmed. “I mean most men. They don’t seem to understand women. All they care about is themselves … and being in control.”

“Don’t you think you’re over generalizing?”

Danny sat up and adjusted the pillow behind her back so she could lean against the headboard of the bed. “No, it’s not just me. Most of the women I know feel the same way. The men in their lives are like chores that need to be done. My friend, Janice, tells me that men are a necessary evil. Women need them for protection and money. Their men treat them like prostitutes, or slaves, depending on what they need at the moment.” Her tone was low and bitter. She was glowering.

“Danny, what’s this frustration I see on your forehead?” I rubbed the furrow in her brow. “How can you be sad on a morning like this? You haven’t had time to get up on the wrong side of the bed.”

She lightened up a bit. “At least I didn’t have the nightmares last night.”

“Nightmares? What kind of nightmares?” I waited a long time for an answer. The embroidered curtains on the balcony doors were gently waving their see-through reflections in the mirror. They billowed like nightgown sails on a ghost-pirate ship. Their motion was seductive. They made me think I might be dreaming. My mind wandered in the breeze until Danny broke the silence.

“I can’t talk about my dreams. They are too terrible. The men in them are always chasing me or doing mean things to me or forcing me into cold, dark places. It all started when Arnold was hurting me and locking me in the closet.”

I sat straight up in bed. “Locked you in the closet? That’s criminal. And the dreams. I mean the nightmares. You know you can get help for this sort of thing.”

“Oh, right. That’s the American answer for everything. Pay somebody to listen to your problems and they’re supposed to go away. What a joke. Besides, I’ve tried that, and it doesn’t work. I’m just hoping that getting away from him will make the dreams go away. He never thought I could leave him. He laughed when I moved out. He said I’d be back. Then he started harassing me at work and at my new apartment. I called the police so many times they started not believing me. One night he tried to run me over with his car. Thank God somebody saw that and told the police and they arrested him. That’s why I’m here.”

She got out of bed and went to the bathroom. I braced myself for a rocky return. Instead, she emerged in a purple string bikini and said, “Let’s hit the beach.” She looked like a famous model, ready for a photo shoot.

We left Estoril after two blissful days. Danny rented a two-door Renault and we headed south for Torremolinos, Spain, a city romanticized in The Drifters.

It didn’t take long for the glow of our new romance to wear thin in the cramped quarters of the little car. The two-lane, cracked blacktop road was winding down the windswept, mountainous coast of Portugal through orchards of red, elephant-skinned cork trees and vast, rolling grape and olive vineyards. The scenery was breathtakingly beautiful, but the driving was difficult. The road was a roller coaster.

Danny insisted on doing all the driving since she had paid for the car and listed herself as the only driver for insurance purposes. Money was obviously going to be an issue for her, no matter what she said initially.

For my part, I hated not being able to contribute any more than the occasional meal, having been taught how important it is in life to pay your own way. It also drove me crazy not being able to drive. I’d been king of the road since turning sixteen. Danny was not a very smooth driver, and I wasn’t very good at keeping my mouth shut about it.

After our first day on the road we camped in a remote area among rows of small trees in an attempt to avoid being kicked off the land for trespassing. I set up the tent and made a fire from olive branches, hoping to make peace between us. Danny was impressed when I whipped out my cook kit and fried up a campfire stew of sausage, onions, and beans I’d purchased that afternoon in a wooden-floored grocery store filled with scales and bags of foodstuffs. It tasted better than the restaurant food she’d been paying for recently.

“I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch today,” she said quietly. Indeed, she’d been complaining about her back and her stomach most of the day, and she’d been getting inordinately upset every time my knee got in the way of the stick shift. Even so, her tired apology melted me.

“No need to apologize,” I said. “It’s tough driving a four speed all day when you’re used to an automatic. And I guess I’m a pretty bad back seat driver even when I’m in the front seat.”

She smiled weakly. “I remember when I was a little girl, the darkness frightened me so. I guess it still does. It’s kind of mysterious out here. I mean, the stars are brilliant and bright, but you never know when somebody’s going to come out of those trees with a gun and …”

“Hey, hey,” I put my arm around her. “There’s nobody out there. We’re in the middle of nowhere. The last fishing village we passed was twenty kilometers ago. There’s not even a farmhouse anywhere near here.”

“What about the fire?”

“Don’t worry. We’re in a valley. Believe me, I know how to pick a secret campsite.”

“What about the smoke?”

“Well, look at the smoke. See how peaceful it is? There’s no wind. It rises up slowly to disappear into the stars. Watch the fire and the smoke and the stars and, before you know it, you won’t be afraid anymore.”

“That’s some good advice.” She used a twig from the fire to light another cigarette. She’d smoked nearly two packs that day as she went on and on about how stressful her job had become. She was having trouble unwinding but the fire seemed to be doing the trick at last. “I don’t feel afraid when I’m with you. You amaze me. Here you are with no money and no job and no place to go and not one thing in the world seems to bother you. I envy that so much.”

I put a few sticks onto the fire. “Well, actually, I do have some place to go.”

Her head snapped to face me. “I knew it. I knew you weren’t telling me everything. Hah! I thought so. Everybody has some place to go. So where is it you have to be?”

I played with the fire before answering, not pleased with having to give myself away. I finally answered with a sigh, “I’ve got to be in Debrecen, Hungary, by July 22nd.”

“July 22nd? That’s what, twenty days from today? How are you going to get there? That’s a long way from here. And Hungary? That’s behind the Iron Curtain. What do you think you’re going to do? Just walk through the Berlin Wall? People get shot for that!”

“I’ve got a visa already and I won’t be going through Berlin.”

“I don’t care what kind of paperwork you’ve got.” She sounded seriously concerned. “The only way into the Soviet Bloc is to fly and even then, it’s almost impossible. I know lots of people who get detained at the airport and then sent home. Important people who own companies. Unbelievable! It’s 1972, the Cold War is still going strong, and you think you’re going to thumb a ride into Communist Hungary, and everything will be fine. What are you doing in Hungary anyway?”

I looked up at the stars. “I’m the United States representative at an international youth work-study camp.”

Danny was dumbfounded. “A what?”

“An international youth work-study.” Her mouth fell open and her eyes were wide with astonishment, so I explained. “It’s about forty students from all over the world who live at the dorms in the university in Debrecen for about a month and work on a collective farm. It’s a program to promote international understanding.”

“How did you possibly get into this thing?”

“When I was in Hungary during college, I made some friends in Budapest and they told me about the camp, and I applied and got appointed.

“I’m the only American going. There are people from Poland and Ecuador and Italy and all over. It should be a blast.”

“If you ever get there.”

“Oh, I’ll get there all right. You know me.”

“Well, apparently I don’t know you as well as I thought I did. Now I know you’re absolutely crazy.” She pushed me down on the tarp I’d spread between the fire and the tent. “You’re a spy, aren’t you? Go ahead, you can tell me. You’re a secret agent. Kind of a James Bond type without the car or the gun.”

We laughed and smoked a joint and made love slowly and passionately. The night was warm. The fire danced on the trees and the tent. The stars grew brighter as the fire faded. We fell asleep on our backs looking up, only to be awakened by the chill as the fire burned down to embers. I put the tarp in the tent and threw the sleeping bag over us. We used our jackets for pillows.

The next morning Danny woke up in a wretched mood. Her back hurt from sleeping on the ground. Her stomach hurt from too much sausage and wine and bottled water. Worst of all, she had to take a crap and there wasn’t a toilet within ten kilometers. Somehow, she hadn’t looked far enough down the camping trail to realize this moment was bound to come. I handed her a couple paper napkins from my short supply.

Danny started cursing in French and stomped off to disappear into the orchard. Many minutes later she reappeared, looking immensely relieved but with a new sense of resolve.