Home Sweet Anywhere

by Lynne Martin

  We glanced at each other and I recognized pity for her and a flash of anger at her husband’s total lack of regard for her wishes wash over Tim’s face. It made us sad to see someone so disappointed in her mate after all these years. We came up with all kinds of ideas: she should join a dancing group; get active in some clubs; head back to school and learn something she really wanted to know about; proceed with her own life until Harold came around.

  Tim poured out ketchup for his French fries and asked, “Have there been any changes lately that would affect his behavior?”

  “Well, the doctor has given him some new medicine to treat his prostate cancer.”

  “Then why don’t you get in touch with the doctor and see if he could change the prescription to something that won’t make him act this way?” Dr. Tim took a bite of his sandwich.

  Beatrice and I looked at him quizzically. What’s to say it was the medicine? “So, how long has he been treating you indifferently?” I asked, probing for more details.

  “Well, let’s see, I’d say forty-four years, for as long as we’ve been married. This is nothing new.”

  And there it was. Clearly, Beatrice had been so busy working for forty-four years that she failed to notice she was married to, well, a jerk. I volunteered Tim to go over to their house and punch him in the nose, then jump on the boat and sail away. We all laughed at the idea, and Beatrice thought that sounded like a winner. Tim? Not so much.

  As our ferry left for Molesey, we waved to Beatrice. We still speak of her often. She did give us a small laugh, too, I’m embarrassed to say, because the notion of living with someone for forty-four years and not noticing what an uncaring person he was is almost absurd, the stuff of dark comedies. We wonder what she ever did about Harold’s neglect, or if she just kept trying to ignore it. I certainly hope she branched out a little! Incidents like that always make me appreciate my darling Tim and his sweet nature even more than I already do.

  ***

  Meeting people is the most interesting experience of our wandering life. An invitation to someone’s home for a drink, dinner, or even coffee takes on added importance because being on the road, frequenting restaurants and public places all the time, makes us crave being inside a permanent home, just for a few hours. Speaking of homes, when people ask us what we miss most about not having a home, we say in unison, furniture. Of course we miss our family and friends most of all, but a comfortable chair molded to fit you perfectly over years of use comes in a close second! Think about it: who in their right mind would put really expensive furniture into a place they plan to rent out regularly to complete strangers? Most of our rentals have been very attractive, well situated, clean and fairly well provisioned, but not one has contained a decent sofa or a truly comfortable chair. For some reason, the beds have been uniformly acceptable, but the seating situation is usually abysmal.

  Our deprivation has resulted in marginal behavior on several occasions: While we lived in East Molesey, old friends of ours, Margo and Rick Riccobono, who were living in London, invited us to Sunday lunch, to share a joint, which is what the British and Irish call a roast (now, now, no naughty thoughts, please), and spend the afternoon in their spacious town house. The instant the greetings and hugs ended, Tim and I bolted for the living room and rudely claimed the soft, cushiony leather chairs. As we sighed with pleasure, Margo and Rick looked at us as if we’d gone crazy. They sat in those chairs every day, so what was the big deal? When we explained that a soft seat with good back support was the thing we missed most being on the road, they kindly let us roll around in those big chairs all afternoon. They could have served cat food for lunch and we would have been happy, as long as we could spend another half hour loafing luxuriously. (Actually, they treated us to a fabulous meal, and even their dining room chairs were comfortable.)

  We learned to restrain our new obsession with comfy furniture by visiting houses where we couldn’t sample the furniture at all. We took a train to see Windsor Castle and particularly enjoyed the kitchens, which have functioned forever and still serve Betty and Phil (that would be Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip, for those of you not in the inner circle) when they’re home. Another morning, Tim drove us through traffic, fog, and rain to reach Highclere Castle, the magnificent estate where the BBC films its popular television series Downton Abbey. The castle, which sits in the middle of five thousand acres, is the most stately and beautiful home either of us had ever seen. We reveled in its understated opulence. In person, the home, with its priceless paintings and antiques, far exceeded its appearance on the series. As the sun began to appear later in the morning, and we toured the glorious gardens, Tim remarked, “I’ve really loved seeing this place. Too bad we didn’t get to sample the furniture, but I’ll bet you none of it is as comfortable as Rick’s leather chairs!”

  We also became adept at catching our little red train. When England gave us a beautiful day, we’d hop aboard and venture into London town. Old favorites like the Victoria and Albert Museum, or the Vic and Al, as it’s called, the world’s largest museum of decorative arts, claimed an afternoon. It remains Britain’s granny closet, even after a smartening up with new display cases and fancy interactive features. I’ve visited the museum at least once in every decade since the 1960s, and it always seems filled with things of value the people in charge don’t have another place for. Inlaid inkstands, lace bracelets made of human hair, and eighteenth-century Christmas cards sit alongside priceless furnishings, art, tapestries, and archaeological treasures. We could have spent weeks there. We stepped into Westminster Abbey to pay our respects to royals, poets, musicians, and clergy. We marveled once more in the British Museum at the Elgin Marbles, those huge chunks of Greece’s Pantheon that the Brits took home for “safekeeping” in 1803 and refuse to give back to the Greeks. The museum, lovely and imposing, stands along a tree-lined street near a string of pubs that have revived exhausted tourists for two hundred years. The museum remains endlessly fascinating and daunting. We try to see one new portion each time we visit, while saving energy to call on our old favorites.

  Portobello Road, famous for its Saturday outdoor market that stretches for many blocks, also gave us an entertaining afternoon. For once, this was a surprise I could offer Tim, since I had been there many times on other visits to London. Shops full of dusty castoffs stir up business next to stores selling high-priced antique jewelry, cart owners hawking plastic toys, and art galleries presenting high-priced paintings from known artists. The brick-and-mortar shops are fascinating, but the vendors under their tents also offer their own brand of excitement. Tim and I inspected silver pieces, old books, antique jewelry with arcane finds like champagne swizzlers gentlemen used to calm the bubbles that might annoy the lady he was serving, and trays of monocles, opera glasses, and hundreds of other curiosities. This browser’s paradise tested our resolve to refrain from adding to our luggage burdens. Some of the boxes in our storage unit contain marvelous little goodies I have dragged home from Portobello in years past—a cut-glass bottle with a sterling stopper, a silver calling card case from 1848 with its owner’s name engraved under the lid, a traveling wooden writing desk with its old glass ink bottles with brass lids. Unwrapping those treasures when we finally settle again will be like Christmas!

  ***

  The September weather and the leaves continued to turn. That meant spending several afternoons plying Oxford Street looking for sweaters and jackets. We had planned to shop for them in London anyway, since it made no sense to drag these heavy, bulky items along all summer. The big shopping streets led to some of the busiest pedestrian sidewalks we had ever seen, one of the few places where we became consciously aware that we were slowing down a little with age. London is full of people in a hurry. They give no quarter for those who hesitate. The other pedestrians weren’t necessarily aiming for us, but they jostled us enough times to catch our attention. Our safest bet turned out to be walking single file, with Tim blazing the trail. When we needed to make decisions, we
would stop at the side of buildings, not in the middle of the sidewalk. The Brits have thoughtfully provided signs on the pavement and lampposts, reminding tourists to look to the right before stepping off the curb (kerb, as they say).

  Sometimes, we stayed in the city for dinner and a show. Seeing a play or a musical in London felt particularly comfortable. The theaters are smaller and more intimate than in many cities, creating a more personal experience. Covent Garden, the center of the theater district, is lively at all hours, full of tourists and theater patrons, and crowded with busy bars, restaurants, T-shirt and souvenir shops. We enjoyed two musicals and a play, after which we raced across the bridge to Waterloo to make that last little red train leaving on Platform 2. One play, Chariots of Fire, was entertaining because of its unique staging. It featured a short track on which a very physical cast ran. As we applauded at the end of the show, the cast began to applaud, too, and members of the audience came up to the stage. The Summer Olympics had concluded the week before, and medal-winning British athletes had been invited to the performance. We joined the excited audience in celebrating their excellence. The evening became particularly memorable for us. It was impossible not to be affected by the swelling of pride we felt around us. I always think of the British as being plucky. Being a child of World War II, I have faded memories of seeing news film at the movies of children picking through the rubble of bombed-out buildings, and of the lines of refugees boarding trains to be taken away from London to escape the horrible bombing raids. That spirit of nationalism erupts often in England. There’s a “can do” endurance that is impressive and touching to me. Their appreciation of their countrymen’s achievement and seeming devotion to sportsmanship has always spoken to me, so I had to hide my moist eyes and drippy nose from Tim, who might have teased me for being so sentimental about the British. He is, after all, practically 100 percent Irish!

  Not every day was filled with tourist fun. Tim continued working on his novel while I was wrapping up my article for the Wall Street Journal. The WSJ had asked me to expand it to a two-thousand-word piece and had hinted that it would be the lead piece in the Next section, which addresses retirement issues. My muse, Tim, had also suggested that I begin working on a book proposal, so I was trying to do that, with mixed emotions of excitement and my ongoing terror of rejection. On many days, our writing work and household chores seemed just as mundane as they would have been in California, ending with a homemade meal like pot roast or chicken and an evening of TV or a downloaded movie. Again, we felt right at home in our homefree life, even if the sofa was slightly less than comfortable.

  Our domestic horizons had also expanded to include a shopping area a few miles away, which boasted a more upscale supermarket, a big Boots pharmacy, and other stores we were happy to find. One day, as I was searching the drugstore for things I needed, Tim grew restless and said, “Look, I’ll just go take a walk to see what’s up the street. Take your time. I’ll be back in a few.” I muttered an agreement and continued my perusal of the merchandise.

  About fifteen minutes later, he appeared at my side brandishing a large sack. “What in the world?” I asked.

  “You’re not gonna believe this.” He pulled a gorgeous black overcoat out of the bag and put it on right there in the shampoo aisle. “Twenty pounds!” he said excitedly. It fit him perfectly, was the right length, and looked warm and fashionable.

  “How on earth did you do that?”

  “Salvation Army Store, m’dear, right up the road. There’s one for you, too!”

  I laughed and we hustled up the street. Sure enough, the Salvation Army Store carried a black double-breasted mid-calf gently worn coat just my size. Why not? That set us well for autumn in England and a chilly October in Ireland, our problem solved for around sixty dollars. We felt proud to have done our bit to save the planet, too, by buying used. When we returned to the apartment, we investigated the coats and discovered that mine, a name brand, retailed for around $400. We were even more puffed up with our brilliance.

  Even though we try to keep our luggage to a minimum, wardrobe and grooming loom large in our nomadic adventure. They’re important to us. We’re not clothes horses, but we try to look presentable and appropriate. We have to remind ourselves that we’re not seeing the same people all the time—except each other. We also have to remind ourselves to mix things up a bit. Sometimes, I step out of the bedroom, look Tim up and down, and say, “What time’s the funeral today?” because we have once again fallen into the traveler’s trap of wearing black all the time. Our thinking is that it always looks smart, doesn’t show dirt, everything matches and—yes—it makes us look thinner!

  By the time we arrived in England, after four months on the road, we knew that buying seasonal clothes in almost any city was easy, particularly since we are not tourists and have the time to shop as carefully and smartly as we would at home. Thus, finding a sweater, blouse, or jacket was never a big problem.

  That said, we were (and still remain) on the perennial lookout for lightweight, multipurpose clothes that retain their good looks without the use of a dryer. In our experiences so far, those appliances are almost universally unavailable abroad, and the machines that claim to perform both washing and drying are plain useless. Thankfully, most rentals provided either a clothes drying rack or some other method of hanging out the laundry. But sometimes they didn’t, and on laundry day, our apartments looked hilarious with underwear adorning lampshades and jeans splayed on towels over the dining room table. Since then, our braided nylon clothesline has become one of our most valued tools. We became shameless about wearing jeans far more often than we would have considered sanitary when we had unlimited use of laundry machines. We’ve discovered that as long as there’s no evidence of last week’s spaghetti dinner, we can still look presentable to those who don’t know that our jeans could probably stand up on their own!

  Shoes are another matter altogether, particularly for me. I left California without a pair of dressy shoes because my feet had grown from an 11 AA to 11½ AAA while we were in Buenos Aires. It was a shocking development for a woman my age. We couldn’t find any dressy shoes before we left home, and neither Florence nor Paris offered any solutions. We searched the Internet and finally found Crispins, a shoe store in London that specialized in large ladies’ shoes, and my sweet, sympathetic husband willingly went with me to shop there.

  We boarded our little red train and negotiated Waterloo to the underground. After several subway changes, we stood within blocks of the store. The traditional Georgian street looked as if Henry Higgins was going to step out one of the elegant doors any minute. Distinguished boutiques, exclusive dressmakers, and chic designer shops lined both sides. It made me nervous because everything was so chic and expensive. Even though I had worn my nicest blazer, I still felt like a fraud. What was I doing in a neighborhood full of designer boutiques?

  Finally, we found Crispins. When I told the saleswoman what I wanted, she snapped her fingers and said gleefully that she had just the thing. In moments, she reappeared and my Cinderella fantasies were realized. A pair of Stuart Weitzman 11½ AAA black suede wedge shoes, trimmed with elegant bows and a shiny black buckle, slipped on my feet like soft gloves. They were outrageously beautiful—and so expensive that both Prince Charming and I gasped. These treasures were not on sale. But, knowing a maiden in constant shoe distress when he sees one, my gallant man insisted I have them.

  I have requested that when I leave this earth, I take those Stuart Weitzmans with me. (For the record, I’d also appreciate being dressed in Eileen Fisher for the occasion.)

  The wedges were so special that they deserved their very own carry-on, so we looked a little like refugees when we bid England “cheerio!” and boarded our next flight a few days later on our way to our next home abroad. Tim had become so expert at left-hand driving that by the time we approached the massive traffic around Heathrow Airport, he didn’t flinch at all. What a marvel he is! As we gathered our belongings, Victoria
was the last to go into my carry-on. I’m not sure, but I thought I heard her whimper when I unplugged her from the British car. Maybe she had a hunch she was headed for the Republic of Ireland.

  Chapter 10

  Ireland

  Dark clouds raced across the sky. Our black wool Salvation Army coats comforted us as we huddled in the car rental parking lot, waiting for the attendant to finish his inventory. As I looked up at the threatening sky, I realized I would need the overpriced Stuart Weitzman suede shoes in Dublin like a fish needs rain boots. No way would I risk water spots on those beauties, so they’d have to stay in storage for now. The fellow handed over the keys. As Tim maneuvered the second duffel into the micro trunk, I heard him grouse, “Crud! This is the smallest car yet. I’ll bet sewing machines have bigger engines.”

  He slammed the trunk. The car was so light it nearly came off the ground!

  But wouldn’t you know, the tiny black Nissan became one of our favorites. It was small enough for Tim to negotiate narrow Irish lanes, and we could park it almost anywhere. We quickly discovered Tim’s driving experience with the fast but orderly Brits had been good practice for driving on the opposite side of the road, but the Irish’s quixotic habits required a new skill set. They were zippy and unpredictable, which required Tim to be extremely nimble. At least the Irish didn’t seem to be as given to tailgating as the Italians or the French!

  I hadn’t been in Ireland for well over twenty years. My late husband Guy and I lived in Dublin for two years while he worked in visual development for a U.S. film company, and during that time, I fell in love with the country. Tim had heard so many stories about my great experiences that he agreed to go. His Irish heritage added to his enthusiasm for a visit, and I was excited about showing him a country I had come to love.