The Best Travel Writing

by James O'Reilly

  I had to walk in the dark, through more brawlers, the quarter mile on paved road back to the bed and breakfast. They turned out to be harmful to each other, but harmless to me. It was good finally to be alone in my room with a view of lush jungle growth—huge leaves as big as kites shining green in the moonlight. Drifting off to the sounds of the rushing river below, the faint beat of the discomóvil in the distance, I dreamt of chicken and rice with tomatoes, onion and lime, and my new 250 family members in a world turned upside down.

  Carol Severino directs the University of Iowa Writing Center and writes about her travel and language-learning experiences in Latin America and Europe. Her essays have recently appeared in VIA: Voices in Italian Americana, The Minnetonka Review, The Broome Review, Writing on the Edge, and other venues.

  * * *

  1. Words in Quichua are underlined; words in Spanish are italicized.

  JULIET EASTLAND

  My Black Boots

  In her closet hangs a tale of footwear and funny business.

  The sun was setting, although it was hard to tell given the neon excrescences sprouting in the foreground—pink winking ladies and glowing palm trees, a crime against nature in the city of sin. I’d been playing slots for hours. I’d lost eighteen dollars in nickels, and I was queasy with fatigue and shrimp cocktail. So this was Las Vegas. Yuck. Only one night, then I’d hit the road for the last chapter of my own, two-week personal cliché: a Cross-Country Drive West. Specifically, I had left Boston (parents, Puritans, too much damn brick) bound for San Francisco (performance art? nudity? mind-altering substances?). Never mind that I’d never visited the city, nor had I lined up an apartment or job. I was twenty-five, and I was ravenous for …something—transformation, adventure. Until now, I’d never traveled this far from home by myself.

  Dizzy from the mechanized clangor of the slots, I wandered out along the neon-saturated main strip. Sandwiched between a pawn shop and a convenience store was a shoe store. And there they were in the center window: the boots. My boots—sleek, wicked, inky-black cowboy kickers overlaid with a viridescent sheen, and tapering to a needle-nose point at the toes. I was sure they’d be banned in Boston. Embossed on the sides, heroic western riders lassoed unseen buffaloes. I went into the store, heart jumping, and strode out, two inches taller, reshod and reborn. This was exactly how I wanted to sweep onto the stage of my new life. Don’t mess with me, yo. I gave myself a sultry look in the pawnshop window.

  But there was a catch. As I discovered as soon I arrived in San Francisco and set foot on the pavement, my smooth soles were no match for the city’s hills. I became a fallen woman—under the tree, slipping on some leafy slime; on the side of the street, as my sole slid off the curb; in the middle of a sidewalk, racing to keep up with the realtor. I minced up hills, feet sideways, clinging crabwise to the steep incline; downhill was a frantic soft-shoe routine as I gathered speed, flailing and careering through the crowds. I admitted defeat at Cala Grocery, where I had bought a bag of glorious California citrus and stepped into the sun. My heel slipped on the plastic entrance mat, and as I sprawled in the doorway, watching my grapefruits roll like guillotined heads through the parking lot, I had to admit it: my brief tryst, my affaire de footwear, was finished.

  But how to dispose of my boots? I settled on a classified ad: “Black/green Vegas cowboy boots, ladies’ 10, gently worn.” Of the several responses on my voicemail, Carl’s interested my the most. I was surprised to hear from a man; where I came from, men didn’t inquire about ladies’ footwear. His voice was soft, almost deferential. He sounded older than I. He sounded …safe. I called back.

  “Tuesday evening?” he asked. “Wonderful. Where?” And I did something I had never done before: I invited him over, sight unseen. I chalked it up to the intoxication of trying on my new life, the giddiness of landing in a foreign land. My defenses were down, my exuberance up, and I felt invulnerable.

  At 6:30 that Tuesday, the buzzer rang. I opened the door and shook hands with Carl, a middle-aged man wearing suit and tie and holding a briefcase. He was shorter than I, although his chest had breadth and heft for someone so compact. His face was finely drawn—caramel skin, long-lashed eyes, and a gentle mouth, with a deep smile line on either side. We shook hands and he handed me a card listing him as a consultant. His eyes swept my apartment—the Lilliputian living room, containing both the closet and the dresser, and the bedroom, just big enough to squeeze through, single file, into the kitchen. I got the feeling he didn’t miss much.

  I’d left the boots in the front room with the heels touching, toes pointing out. My guest knelt to look at them.

  “First position,” he said, smiling up at me.

  “Yes! How did you know?”

  “Oh, I know about dance,” he said vaguely. His fingers moved slowly and sensuously over the leather of the boots, tracing the outline of the cowboys. I felt a frisson; no one had ever run his hands over me like that.

  He stood and gave me a beautiful smile. “They’re gorgeous!” he said. “May I try them?”

  “Oh, they’re for you! Of course.” I’d assumed he was shopping for a wife or girlfriend. “Have a seat.” I waved him toward the living room and headed to the kitchen. “Would you like a drink?” I called. “I have water, juice—”

  “Wine would be lovely,” he called back. Wine? Was he crazy? I wasn’t going to serve wine on a first date. Date? Was I crazy? This wasn’t a date.

  I returned from the kitchen holding two jelly-jars full of wine. Carl was sitting on the couch, the boots peeking out from under his pants. His posture was perfect.

  “Are you selling anything else?” he asked.

  “No, just the boots.”

  “Done! I love them.” He eased out of the boots and waggled his toes, beaming. “They were made for me.” I felt a rush of gratitude at his appreciation. I settled into the chair next to him, my knees not quite touching his. My coccyx was still sore from my falls, and I sat carefully.

  He surveyed me for a moment and took a sip of wine. “So what were you doing in Vegas? And why are you getting rid of such fabulous footwear?”

  Without warning, tears pricked my eyes. No one in San Francisco had asked me about myself, other than to inquire about my references and my bank balance. Carl had such a gentle manner. I wanted to tell the truth, to confess. I told him about the grapefruits, and my Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride up and down the hills of San Francisco.

  “I just feel kind of …unsteady,” I finished, sniffling.

  Carl nodded sympathetically. “Yes, this town can keep you off-balance.” He unbuttoned his jacket. “May I?” he asked politely.

  “Of course,” I said, feeling a little off-balance. He shrugged out of his coat and folded it carefully next to him on the sofa. I could see his chest stretching the blue fabric of his oxford shirt.

  “I’m not too worried about slipping,” he said. “I won’t be wearing the boots outside.” He spoke softly, and I had to lean in to hear him. “I’ll use them more for my work.” He saw me eyeing his suit, and laughed. “Not my day job,” he said. “My other work. I’m an erotic dancer.”

  I coughed and spat up a dribble of wine. “Dancer?”

  He reached over and patted the wine from my chin with his napkin. “Whoops,” he said solicitously. “More?” I nodded. He refilled my glass and held it up to my lips, and, like a child drinking milk from a grownup’s cup, I took a sip.

  “Yes, clubs here are good,” he continued. “Audiences are pretty receptive. You probably haven’t had a chance to get out yet.” He refilled our glasses. “But never mind that. What about you? What brought you here?” He asked as if he would rather be nowhere else than right here, with me. I wanted to curl up and be held, like a pearl, in the palm of his hand.

  So I talked. I talked about my parents back in Boston. I talked about their parents. I talked about the friends I had left behind. Carl listened. I told him I’d studied classical piano, and described how I’d become enamored of jazz after
hearing a Coltrane recording in college.

  “Oh,” he sighed, “I love Coltrane. Do you have Ballads? No, don’t get up.” I was quite tipsy at this point, and relieved that he was taking charge. He moved to the stereo and plucked Ballads from the pile of cassettes.

  “Lovely collection,” he murmured. He caressed the case with the same attention and tenderness he had touched the boots. “Excellent taste, young lady.” I beamed.

  Saxophone wafted over us as Carl sat back down, a little closer to me.

  “So which was the song that made you fall in love with jazz?” he asked. I fought the urge to clamber over the arm of the sofa into his lap. I confided that it was actually the dissolute guitar player at the local jazz club who had opened my ears and initiated me to the ways of the world. Coltrane was only part of the picture. Carl’s face didn’t change, but he leaned a bit closer.

  “Really,” he purred. “That’s very interesting. Hold that thought. May I?” He gestured toward the bathroom.

  While I waited, I took the opportunity to open the window. So hot in here! En route to the kitchen, I checked my reflection in my tiny bedroom mirror. I looked flushed and bright-eyed. Drunk. But beautiful, I thought.

  Carl emerged. “I definitely want the boots,” he called. “Did you say you had anything else to sell?”

  I was puzzled. “You mean …mmm …housewares? Crockery?” I swept unsteadily back into the living room brandishing a bottle of wine and a white dinner-plate, one of my four. “Plate?” I asked, toppling into my chair.

  He looked at me for a moment then laughed, and reached over and touched my cheek.

  “No, sweetheart, thank you. No plates.” I placed the plate on the table in case he changed his mind. He leaned over so that his knees touched mine lightly.

  “So you haven’t finished your story,” he said. “About the guitar player.” His attention was irresistible. I told him how my relationship with the guitar player had led to liaisons with his equally unsavory friend, and how I’d finally met a nice boy but had renounced him to come west. I made it sound like I was an old hand at love, when in reality, my previous commitments had ranged from three hours to three months. This latest boyfriend was young, I explained, and lovely but—well, maybe just a bit boring. He was unformed; I was looking for someone closer to my age—a little more worldly, I explained with a blowsy wink. Maybe a foreigner. Or perhaps a woman—I was quite intoxicated by this point—women didn’t kiss women in Boston, as far as I knew, but I’d heard …

  Carl laughed. “You’re looking for adventure!” He put one hand on my arm, and gestured toward the world outside the window with the other. “You’ve come to the right place, sweetheart. This is a fabulous town for that kind of thing.”

  “Like what?” I asked.

  “Oh, you know, really anything you can think of,” he said. I didn’t know, and couldn’t think, and sat in silent agony that he would not elaborate.

  He smiled. “I mean, any kind of …kink. Fetish. Orgies, S&M, sex parties. Things like that.” He held my eyes. “What do you think? Does that sound …adventurous?”

  I drained my glass. It was so very hot in here. I rolled up my sleeves, and Carl took my hand and ran his fingers up my forearm. I hoped he couldn’t see my heart pulsing through my t-shirt.

  “What beautiful hands,” he murmured. He caressed my fingers. “Real pianist’s fingers. Strong. I actually have a bit of a …thing for hands.” He gave a playful nibble. Perspiring and over-stimulated, I began to expound. I explained about the importance of finger span, and how I used to only be able to play an octave but could now reach a ninth. I’d started in on the difference between pianos and harpsichords when he put his finger to my lips.

  “Shh,” he said tenderly. He lifted the wine bottle to my lips and waited while I took a draught. Then he stood and moved to the dresser. “May I?” he asked. I nodded mutely. He opened the middle drawer and surveyed the contents.

  “Look at this finery! Darling, you must have something for me. Maybe this number?” He pulled out a lavender baby-doll T-shirt.

  Ah! The clouds parted. Clothing! He was one of those men I’d read about in women’s magazines—“I came home early and found my husband in bed with my camisole”—a cross-dresser! In my apartment! I stood and reeled to the dresser.

  “Yes,” I burped, hanging onto the furniture to keep the room from rotating. It was a tiny t-shirt that barely stretched over my ribcage, but I had held out hope and transported it from Boston. Carl took the shirt and retired to the bathroom. The universe did have a grand structure, I realized: I’d bought the t-shirt in high school, saved it all these years, and toted it all these miles because it was meant for Carl. I leaned on the dresser, stunned by the beauty and gravity of the world.

  Carl emerged, the fabric stretched tight across his chest. His stomach was far more toned than mine. He ran his hands across his ribs.

  “I love it. What about something for the rest of me?”

  I reached into my drawer.

  “Ta da! What about this?” I produced a tiny blue-and-white gingham skirt-shorts combination—a “skort,” the saleswoman had told my, a pederast’s dream. I’d had my doubts—I thought it made me look like Dorothy—but again, I understood that I had bought the outfit for Carl. Not to pass it on to him would defy the laws of gravity, physics, fate. Everything was falling into place.

  I handed over the skort, and Carl disappeared back into the bathroom. When he emerged, clad in his tiny outfit, he looked like a muscular and slightly deranged member of my girls’ school field hockey team. We moved on to other items: a yellow tank top, a striped sailor bateau-neck (tres Cannes, said Carl), a pink cardigan abloom with daisies. When we had exhausted the dresser drawer, Carl inquired about my closet. I stumbled over and threw open the door, ushering him in.

  “What about this?” he asked, holding up a black velvet dress.

  “Oh no, that’s my favorite!”

  He sighed and replaced the hanger.

  “This?” (long purple dress, spaghetti straps, beaded bodice).

  “Sure, try it.” I was flattered at our similar tastes.

  “What’s this?” he asked at one point. He was standing close to, but not touching, a black velvet shawl fringed with intricate glass beading.

  “Oh, that was my grandma’s.” I never wore it, but I loved knowing it was in my closet—a memento to the imperious and generous family matriarch, long since gone. Carl and I stood together for a moment in respectful silence.

  I’m not sure who suggested the underwear drawer. Coltrane was on his nth round, and I on mine, as I rummaged through my lingerie, Carl standing respectfully to the side. My clock showed midnight. The night outside was dark, but inside my overheated apartment, lights blazed and clothing lay flung over sofa and chairs like a church sale. My anxiety rose. Would my undergarments pass the test? I hesitated, agonizing, and finally settled on a peach camisole, a pair of lacy panties, and a satin atrocity, a crimson teddy sticky with black faux-fur trim that I’d bought on impulse one Christmas.

  I took a breath and presented the items.

  “Well?”

  Carl caressed the teddy. “I must,” he said simply, disentangling the straps from my fingers. “May I?” He emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, resplendent and voluptuous, the satin straining over his chest—a Folies Bergeres dancer gone bad, all sinewy arms and barrel chest. His muscled legs protruded from beneath the furry trim.

  “Well?” he asked, with the flirtatious satisfaction of one who already knows the answer. He executed a pirouette. “I’d love to do my nails to match. Do you have any polish?”

  I tottered to the bathroom cabinet and selected a coral pink, “Prude,” and bore it out to Carl. “Voila!”

  He took my hand and led me to the bedroom. We knelt by my bed, and Carl painted his nails, then mine, with the same sensuous, unhurried care that seemed to mark all his interactions with the world. I envied his approach.

  “Beaut
iful,” he murmured, holding my hands like precious artifacts. He blew gently on my nails, then, holding my hands carefully so he wouldn’t smudge the color, pulled me closer and looked directly at me.

  “We don’t have to sleep together,” he said kindly. I stared at him, mouth open.

  “Sleep. Together,” he enunciated a little louder. “I’m not against it in principle; I like men, and I like women, and you have the sexiest hands I’ve ever seen. But it really doesn’t have to be about sex. I really—well, what I really like is to be watched. You know?” I didn’t, but I wasn’t about to let on.

  “Wisdom is knowing what you don’t know,” I intoned, deeply drunk, and shook his hand.

  On some level, I did understand. The feeling all night had been one of curiosity and sensuality, not animal attraction. Nonetheless, even at this stage in the game, I thought it honorable of him to make his intentions clear. What a gentleman, in his red teddy.

  “Fabulous!” he exclaimed, and stood up. “I thought you’d understand. So you wouldn’t mind …watching?” He surveyed my bedroom. “I feel so comfortable with you, I’d love to dance for you. May I?”

  I nodded, stepped back, and tripped onto my bed. I had a feeling he didn’t mean a court gavotte. “Carl,” I said too loudly, “I would be delighted—no, honored—if you danced for me.”

  He smiled his beautiful, untroubled smile and clapped his hands. “Wonderful! I think you’ll enjoy it. Let me go put on some music.” He dimmed the overhead light and moved to the living room in a rustle of red satin, and I heard the music change from Coltrane to Marvin Gaye. I sat on my bed and thought longingly about my friends in Boston, wondering how I was ever fully going to convey the mise-en-scene.