Home Sweet Anywhere

by Lynne Martin

  Later that afternoon, I started working again on the book proposal. Bob had sent several pages for review, and I wanted to get them back to him as soon as I could because the next day the Wall Street Journal article was to publish my first article. We had no idea what would happen when it came out.

  We were so excited that concentration was difficult, so we tried to relax with some mindless TV. “Well, sweetie, I think it’s time for bed,” Tim said, switching off the set as he headed to the kitchen to make coffee for the next morning.

  “I’ll just check my emails,” I said. California time is eight hours behind Irish time, so we often received messages from home late in the evening. When I opened my email account, I squealed. Embarrassing, but yes, I squealed.

  “What is it?” Tim asked.

  At first I was alarmed at the sheer number of messages in my box. “I don’t have any idea, but there are about twenty new emails here from addresses I don’t recognize. Do you think I’ve been hacked?”

  “Wait a minute.” He dropped a towel on the counter and hurried over. He looked at the entries and started laughing. “You know what this is? These aren’t hackers…these are readers, honey! Look—there aren’t any suspicious attachments and their names look normal. They must be Wall Street Journal readers. The online edition must have broken already! Open one and see what it says,” he said excitedly.

  “‘Inspiring’ is the subject line?!” I croaked, almost too excited to read. “Dear Lynne and Tim, I just read your article and I want you to know that you are my inspiration, my heroes! You’re proving that people really can do anything if they have the courage. Keep on traveling. Bob.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” Tim said. “Go on, open another one.”

  “Listen to this,” I said, getting more and more excited. “‘Just finished reading the article in the WSJ. How I envy you! Look forward to following your blog and your book. How do you manage the language barrier? I’m so attached to our home. Been here forty-five years! I’m sure I’ll find all the answers as I read past blogs. You have inspired us! Keep writing! Julie.’”

  Letters continued to flood my inbox as they were routed from our website contact page, and I eagerly opened them all, soaking in the thrilling notion that perhaps our story, our life, had actually touched other people’s. Finally, sometime after 1:00 a.m., we forced ourselves to quit reading and get to bed, but we were so stimulated that we both read our Kindle books for a long time before we slept.

  The next morning, we dashed to the computer. Almost two hundred emails sat in my inbox. “Check the subscriber list on your website,” Tim said. Aye, aye, sir! Readership had jumped from thirty to a hundred and ten overnight.

  We didn’t need Tim’s strong coffee that morning. Our hearts already pounded.

  I read the emails. “Tim, I have to answer these folks. They’re saying things that deserve a response, and almost all of them have questions about repositioning cruises or house rentals or something.”

  “You’re right,” he said. “If it gets to be too much for you, I can help.”

  I laughed. “Sure…I can just see you writing my kind of prattle: ‘Dear George, thanks a billion for writing to me. I’ve attached five hundred articles about repositioning cruises, plus instructions about how to get a passport. Give my love to your wife and entire family. I will love you forever, your best friend, Lynne.’” (If you can’t tell by now, I am a very enthusiastic person.)

  He did have to help me, though. He still does. He doesn’t prattle but is definitely the expert on practical matters. We committed to answering every email, and we still do that, but there were so many that it sometimes took us quite a while to get back to people.

  As the day continued, the flood of mail only intensified. We both hunched over our computers for hours at a time, responding to good wishes and encouragement, answering questions about all aspects of our life on the road. We were ecstatic that people found our story inspirational, that we were on the verge of really making a difference, and that so many people were interested in us. It was an unbelievable experience. As we typed, we brought each other finger food when we thought about it, things we could munch on without missing a beat. It was an emotional whirlwind, and we couldn’t help ourselves. Each email filled us with delight and awe.

  Suddenly, Tim gasped and then sputtered. “Oh my God! Get over here. This is unbelievable!”

  I raced to his side. On the computer screen, I saw the front page of Yahoo. Across the five-story crawl at the top, there were the Martins, grinning with the serene roses of Notre Dame Cathedral’s garden blooming in the background, the caption “How One Retired Couple Travels the World” emblazoned beneath us! The crawl moved us right along, sandwiched between an article about China and another about a football player’s special gift. Neither of us had ever dreamed that Yahoo would pick up our story. “This is the wildest thing I have ever seen,” he exclaimed.

  We were amazed that our grinning faces continued to appear on the crawl for the next three days. Our website readership and email list subscriber numbers went through the roof, a result that had never even occurred to us. When the online version of the Wall Street Journal appeared, most comments were positive, but there were some heated debates. We stayed out of it and let those folks talk among themselves.

  We answered every one of the emails. Apparently, we had delivered a message to which people could relate. From the responses we got, it seemed that those close to retirement saw our idea as a fresh way to approach the last third or half of their lives. Some told us that they had felt trapped, and our notion gave them the push they needed to begin thinking of their future in a different way, to seek a plan that would allow them to move beyond predictable behavior. People who couldn’t travel for health or other reasons said they enjoyed hearing about our plan and looked forward to more blogs and a book. (My first reaction to that was “Wow!” followed quickly by “Eek!” when I remembered the state of my book proposal.) A surprisingly large percentage of our correspondents were young people, some of whom traveled while in their twenties but were now involved in raising families. It tickled us that people our children’s ages found our story of value, too. Many told us we gave them hope that they would be able to travel again once they fulfilled their obligations to their children. Others requested more specific information about the nuts and bolts of Tim’s massive planning, and we were happy to comply. Readers called us “inspirational,” “heroic,” and “brave.” Not a single person was insulting or negative. And that was inspiring to us as well.

  Something else arrived on our email: requests for interviews by bloggers, newspapers, magazines, and television. Each query caused a flutter of excitement between us, followed immediately by terrified discussions about how to proceed. I was in the “don’t do anything until you have something (like a book) to sell” camp, because that had always been a guideline when I was in the PR business years before. Tim bivouacked in the “strike while the iron is hot” sector. Late one night, after a particularly intense debate over how to respond to these, he said, “Now, don’t get defensive about what I’m going to say, but Rick Riccobono suggested that we call Sarah McMullen. As you know, she’s a moxie public relations person, and I’m sure she’d have some good advice for us.” Rick, who is one of Tim’s dearest friends, and owner of the comfortable leather chairs we so enjoyed in London, is a digital media rights expert and works internationally in the music industry. He was a wonderful source of information and encouragement for us as we stumbled through this new experience, and we’d already had several phone conversations with him about what was happening to us. His suggestion was good enough for me!

  “Hmmm…that’s a good idea. I know she’s so smart. You’ve told me in the past that she worked with Elton John for all those years. She’s not only talented, but she’s gotta be one tough cookie to have survived that.”

  We phoned her and laid out our quandary for her. “Oh, y’all,” she said from her office in Houston, �
�I think Lynne’s right. For the most part, saving the big interview shows for later, when you’ve got a book coming out, is a better strategy.”

  I fell for Sarah during that conversation, not because she said I was right, but because she proved to be all the things I knew and imagined: smart, funny, sweet, and generous. We have become such great pals that Tim leaves the room, shaking his head, when she and I get into serious BFF conversations about hair and shoes! Her guidance and sincere excitement over our newfound notoriety made our fifteen minutes of fame even more fun. Both she and Rick made themselves available to us, serving as our cheerleaders and offering sagacious advice when we asked for it. They were our lifeboats in a sea of uncharted waters, and we will be forever grateful to both of them. Over the next few days, we were so involved in answering emails that we barely spoke to one another, except to read aloud particularly touching or amusing messages. Of course, we sent a link to the article to our friends and family, so we enjoyed a flurry of communication on Skype and FaceTime. We hardly slept and procrastinated about showering until late in the day. Our obsession grew so intense that we resented stepping out for groceries.

  One afternoon, I looked around our littered living room and burst into crazy laughter. Tim slowly tore his eyes from his screen. “Yeeesssssss? What is it?” Along with his two-day growth of beard, he obviously had not checked his hair in the mirror that morning. I looked even worse. We both were still in our jammies at 11:00 a.m.

  “Look at this frat house! We’re messy all the time, but we have sunk to a new low. We’ve gotta stop and clean up this joint!” I exclaimed.

  Let me illustrate my point. My coffee table “desk” held not only my computer and notes, but also a half-finished peanut butter jar with a knife standing straight up in it, cracker crumbs littering the paper towel under it, and a browning apple core on a saucer. Several empty Coke cans, a flat non-alcohol beer and an abandoned wineglass were scattered around the room. Soaking in the sink, waiting for someone to deal with it, sat a saucepan that had been used for heating canned soup.

  “Oops…you’re right. Just let me finish these three from yesterday and we’ll get on it,” Tim said sheepishly.

  We spent the next few hours cleaning up our home and ourselves. When we returned from the grocery store, we found another note from Alan and Maureen. “Haven’t seen you in days. Time for a break. 6 p.m.! Sláinte [cheers in Irish], A and M.”

  It was just the nudge we needed. Alan and Maureen became our ballast as we plowed through the waves of excitement that washed over us. For several days, they were the only respite we gave ourselves. They greeted us at their door with hugs and kisses, and ushered us to our red chairs in their beautiful sitting room. Alan poured Tim his drink and handed me a hefty glass of red wine, and they listened indulgently to our latest tales of neophytes awash in the current of sudden media attention. The fire snapped and sputtered and the wind swirled around Old Connaught House that night. We could see that immense changes would occur in our lives, not all of them easy to navigate. Our advisors, Bob, Rick, and Sarah, kept talking about books, TV, interviews, a future that looked terrifying from where we sat in our little apartment in Ireland.

  That night, after our refreshing evening with Alan and Maureen, we managed to put together another bowl of soup with crackers. In the next couple of days, as the torrent of letters continued, I was asked by the Wall Street Journal if I would write a short piece, answering some of the most-asked questions readers had posed. I was thrilled to accept their invitation.

  ***

  The pressure of making decisions mounted as our days in Ireland came to an end. Several agents had expressed interest in representing me, and a major news program contributor had made overtures about featuring us in a segment. Every day brought some new challenge that needed to be addressed, and our team of advisors became more valuable with each volley. We tried to keep food in the house, make our living space sanitary, and clean our clothes for traveling while simultaneously thumping away on our computers and talking on the phone late into the nights. The eight-hour time difference to California suddenly became a real problem because just as we would end a long, hard-working day, the people there would be just starting theirs, ready to talk, ask questions, and make plans. The days evaporated.

  So did our wiggle room. We had none. Our reservations for a week in Marrakech, Morocco, were nonrefundable, so we had to take this show on the road without knowing what our Internet situation would be. Our repositioning cruise, which sailed from Barcelona, was an immutable climax for our travels, a deadline that could not be postponed because of all the reservations and plans made around it. We woke up early and went to bed late, both of us exhausted from stress and excitement. As we prepared to leave Ireland, we left those coats with a friend and donated other cold-weather gear to a local charity shop. And I signed a contract with Dana Newman, an effective, enthusiastic literary agent and attorney with a solid track record of success with nonfiction authors. It was a moment I never could have imagined when we printed those cards in Mexico!

  We left Ireland for Africa just before winter roared in from the Atlantic. And as we did, even more publishing mayhem rumbled into our lives, as furious as the Irish Sea in October.

  Chapter 11

  Morocco

  The Muslim call to prayer erupted from a speaker mounted on the ancient tile roof across the street, answered by a hundred others throughout Marrakech. Smoke billowed out of doorways where men seared meat over charcoal stoves, and I glanced up just in time to avoid running into a donkey cart that had appeared from nowhere. Drums, snake charmers’ flutes, shouts from vendors, and Arabic music blasting from boom boxes competed frantically. It was chaos.

  We hurried along. Tim walked particularly fast, his shoulder almost touching the peeling terra-cotta wall. I followed as closely as possible without stepping on his heels, my eyes downcast, trying not to trip on the uneven cobblestones. I flinched when the pink sleeve of a woman’s robe touched my face as she roared past me on her motorcycle.

  Without turning his head or slowing down Tim shouted to me, “We sure are brave! We may finally be too old for something!”

  “You got that, buddy!” I shot back without breaking stride and then giggled, “What’s wrong with us, anyway? We are too old to be doing this! We should be home babysitting grandchildren or something.” Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young kept singing “Marrakech Express” into my mind’s inner ear.

  Tiny shops, their tattered awnings meeting in the middle of the narrow lane, offered trays piled with silk purses, leather goods, jewelry, fruits and vegetables, water pipes, bolts of cloth, and pottery, making our passage almost impossible as we headed for the center of the city. Storekeepers vied for our attention, some touching our arms, imploring us to look at their goods. We dodged donkey carts, tourists, Africans in robes and swirling burkas, men in fezzes and skullcaps commanding us to follow them, and women and children begging for money. The cacophonous moment, the calls to prayer echoing over everything, the confusion of odors—spices, searing meat, baking bread, sour bodies, sweet incense—made us breathless with excitement.

  The dark narrow souk (market) street ended, and a blinding sun startled us at Jemaa el-Fnaa, the gigantic, chaotic square, one of the largest in the Arab world. It is the heart of Marrakech, where snake charmers, fresh orange juice vendors, men with chained monkeys, magicians, fortune-tellers, rug merchants, jugglers, and drummers all gather to conduct their business wherever they choose to squat. So do men in colorful Berber costumes, with their coned woven hats and brass cups dangling like necklaces, henna tattoo artists, and people selling jugs, hats, maps, and postcards.

  We stopped to stare. Big mistake. We were assailed by these people, who wanted us to either buy something or hire them to guide us somewhere. We learned very quickly not to make eye contact but to keep walking purposefully, grabbing furtive, sneaky glances at the surrounding low faded terra-cotta buildings, the towers reaching upward here and there, and
the purple mountains in the distance.

  Tim spotted a restaurant with umbrellas, grabbed my hand, and half-dragged me through the crowd to a table, where we would have ordered anything just to buy time to get our bearings. When the waiter arrived, Tim gestured to the items the people at the next table were enjoying, and nodded. The waiter understood. He returned quickly with a filigreed teapot, two jewel-colored glasses, and a plate of honey-soaked phyllo pastries full of nuts and spices.

  We had arrived in Marrakech.

  “This city is breathtaking,” I breathed, sipping the strong tea. “I love being in such an exotic place, but I’m so glad we decided to try it out before committing to a whole month here. Of course, we did choose to be in the medina, the oldest part of Marrakech, not the more modern section of the city, but still…”

  “I thought we’d go over to that part of the city tomorrow to just get an idea of how the Europeans live here,” he said. “It’s funny—we started this trip in Istanbul, which is a pretty challenging place, and we’re ending it here in Africa, which is even more daunting!”

  We retraced our steps to our riad, this time more at ease. (A riad is a Moroccan home that has been converted into a hotel.) We enjoyed looking at the performers, the buildings, and the vendors’ wares. Marrakech enveloped our senses completely, but only after we surrendered to her manic pitch days later did we begin to catch her rhythm and negotiate the streets with a modicum of confidence.

  Here are a few basic facts about Marrakech. Facts that increase your chances for survival. Traffic never stops in Marrakech, the streets are dangerously uneven, and there is always the temptation to stop paying attention to what you’re doing. A fall or a collision awaits the unwary. It’s also easy to get lost in a thousand-year-old city whose streets all look the same to a foreigner. Fittingly, the owner of our riad had given us the sort of directions in a language we now expect in countries where street names mean little and can change every block: the language of landmarks. “Walk down the street until you pass the square with the drugstore on the left. There will be two arches. Take the left one, and follow that street until you get to the big mosque. Go to the right, around the mosque and on to the next set of arches…”