When Facebook alerted me, in an obnoxious and nagging manner, that Friends of mine used the Trip Advisor app., I finally cried Uncle! and took a peek. Certainly nobody I know has been to more places than I. Lo and behold, it showed three Friends with somewhat extensive travel histories: two of them being my brothers-in-law. Further research and snooping exposed they had each been to some nineteen or twenty-some countries and hundreds upon hundreds of cities. "That's crap!" I hissed to myself. "I've been to waaay more places than those two. Plus," I said with a slight, Only Child sneer, "they probably only went because they were in the Navy."
(Note: these two know who they are and know I adore them both and know all too well what a little snot I can be. No hard feelings amongst us, to be sure, fair reader.)
As Daffy and Bugs would say, "Of course you know, this means war." The gloves were off and it was time to plot my travel history.
In a nutshell, some seven hours later and with a wrist that was leaden to the touch and a complete Black Hole that left my real task of book-editing as untended as a baby in a hot car in a Louisiana WalMart parking lot, I had my map pinned. Four continents, some twenty-three countries and nearly six-hundred cities clustered achingly in front of me. I'd won. For whatever such a win is worth. Bragging rights, I believe they call it on a basketball court. I know, I know, someone out there will read this and call me a hack, citing their far more intensive and vast travel history. Kudos and bravo to you! I am working hard to catch up with you. Life is nothing without some travel: no matter the destination, close to home or very long-distance.
The real worth is, besides the tomes of analog photos, Megs of digital photos, travel journals, unique and irreplaceable wardrobe pieces and a lifetime (thus far) of memories (far more adventures to come, duh) that I find myself pretty regularly saying, "Hey! I've been there!" whilst consuming my scads and hordes of media: print and motion. It's a pretty cool feeling.
It's a rather wide range, too, which is also fun and has always served for great material. I can write characters like Early Grayce as well as I can write a Niles Crane; I know these people and from whence they call home. From episodes of Entourage and Curb Your Enthusiasm to adverts in the Travelsmith catalogue and the spooky hotel locales for this Miss Marple-novel and that Poirot-remake and a variety of films and travel shows, I find that I've not only been to this or that burg, but this or that specific restaurant, sometimes this or that specific museum wing. An episode of American Dad reveals that, lo and behold, The Stan Smiths and I once shared the same area code in The VA. What up, 757? (I always thought their neighborhood looked strikingly similar to ours. We even had room for a gay alien in our attic ... I would have loooooved that!)
Even now, as I watch a biography of Anne Rice and scenes of her Garden District, First Street-house, I say, "Hey, I've been there!", not just the Garden District, but that house, her house. (In fact, I even spoke with Anne Rice, granted it was via her intercom and consisted of a mere ten words or so, when I asked her sign my copy of Violin. She sent a very kind assistant, Ms. Sue Tebbe, to the gate to gather the book and lo and behold, three weeks later, I received a FedEx package from one Anne Rice, 1239 First Street, New Orleans. Yes, I still have the FedEx slip as well as an e-mail exchange from Ms. Rice. [That being a thank you from her after I sent her my first published novel: Savannah of Williamsburg, Book I. Yet, that's another blog: my shameless attempts to foist my work on those whom inspired me along the way.] Une mille mercis, Ms. Rice!)
As I watched an episode of Ghost Hunters this morning, I recognized a bridge in the opening promo shot and thought, "Hey, that looks really familiar." Bridges being somewhat homogeneous, with certain obvious exceptions like the Golden Gate, the Coronado, le Pont Neuf, the Bridge of Sighs, the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, the George Washington, etc., I was surprised it triggered something in ze leetle grey zells. Then, ze zells dialed in and I knew it was the bridge to Newport, R.I. The team was investigating the Rose Island Lighthouse. "I know that island!" I trilled to myself. We were only in Newport for a few days and there just wasn't time to get over there. The lighthouse, though, I remember as being so consummately, so perfectly "Rhode Island": sea-worhty, Victorian Italianate, Mansard roof, innate luxury and comfort no matter how tiny or rustic. If you haven't yet visited Rhode Island, do so: historic-home of the Astors, the Vanderbilts, the Griffins, the Pewterschmidts and Dark Shadows' Collinwood Mansion. (Eaaasy, DS-freaks ... I know Collinwood is set in Collinsport, ME; yet, the exteriors were provided by Carey Mansion, now Salve Regina University. Ditto for the Blue Whale on the show, using Bannister's Wharf and its Black Pearl Restaurant for exteriors. Hollywood. They're funny.)
Irrelevant, silly nonsense? Absolutely! Amusing and entertaining to Moi? Ceaselessly! How is this significant to anyone? 'Tis not, not in the least. It is significant to me, and so much of it to my Viking since he has shared most of these destinations with me, and, since blogs are all about absolute narcissism, that really is all that matters. I have not, however, been to Fargo. I imagine when I've tired of the Mediterranean, bored myself silly with the Pago Pago, can't take another moment of Newport, R.I. or New London, CT, feel sick at the sight of Charleston and Savannah, and grown weary with Scandinavia, I may try Fargo. Or, chances are more likely I shall probably end up driving smack dab into Fargo on my way through to Madison, Toronto or Quebec (been there, been there, been there). Of course, what do I know?
Any travel ideas, anyone?
