The Feisty Traveler - A Quirky Memoir

by Lil Cromer

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  A few golf stories come to mind while on the “circuit.” I mentioned my friend Millie earlier in the North Carolina and the cruising chapters. She and I paired up to play team golf. We experienced two incidents that are worth sharing. One involved a woman who bragged and bragged about how she was the Michigan State Champion for years; this woman treated her partner like a piece of dog shit. I was having a bad day but Millie was shooting par golf. On the back nine on a par 5 she hit a wayward shot, so I pulled up my bra straps and strung together three good shots and was facing a twenty-five foot birdie putt. We wanted to slam the lid on the match and shut the state champ up, so I drained the putt. Her comment to her partner, “Sure she does nothing all day and when her partner’s out of the hole she makes birdie.” Millie and I felt pretty smug the rest of the day. The other incident happened while playing against a tall smug woman we referred to as “hats.” It was a cold Florida day; both Millie and I were menstruating and not playing very well. In the bathroom we over heard “hats” tell her other team mates it was like taking candy from a baby. Millie and I marched up to the snack counter bought a couple of Snickers candy bars and headed to the 10th tee loaded for bear. We ended the match on the 15th hole and walked off the course with “hats” wondering what hit her. While in Crystal River at the semi-pro tourney we met Patty Burg who was the keynote speaker. She said, “If you girls would spend as much time on the mental aspect of the game as you do on the physical, you’d be unbeatable.” I took Ms. Berg at her word. While Millie was up and out early on the practice tee, I drank iced tea, smoked cigarettes and plotted out my strategy for the first round of the two day tournament. Millie struggled to break 80 while I coasted right through to a round of 75.

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  Occasionally while driving across the country, Hal would make arrangements to stop and see cronies from his Air Force days. One friend lived in Chapel Hill, NC and could only be described as spoiled. One night while dining in their home, the son brought over his girlfriend who happened to work for Adam and Eve, an adult novelty store. While she regaled us with some downright interesting stories, what did Hal’s friend do but jump up and turn on the TV to a ball game with the volume up so loud the neighbors could hear. Being a young feisty woman, I jumped up and turned it right off then asked the girl to continue. She said the owner of the store donated condoms to African nations to try and curb indiscriminate childbirth. Turns out because they were free, the natives didn’t use them. Next he sent them another crate of condoms costing a penny each and these they used.

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  Another military friend was a southern gentleman with a wicked sense of humor by the name of Haywood. While visiting him and his lovely wife we sat down to watch some home movies after dinner served with plenty of wine. When the lights were turned back on and he spotted the film piled up on the floor instead of on the second reel, he quipped, “Well, I’ll be dipped in goat shit!”

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  In 2007, I visited Brandon at Albertson College in Caldwell, ID. A beautiful old campus dotted with tall white flowering trees which the students call Cum trees as the odor from the flowers resembled the smell of semen. This area of Idaho is in Treasure Valley and more like high desert. Mountains are barren and not very tall. Lots of vineyards, we visited one called Sawtooth with excellent reds; just had to buy a case and have it shipped back to Florida. Drove into Oregon one day to see the Snake River which Evel Knievel jumped over. As luck would have it the batteries in my camera died that day and I didn’t get any photos of the beautiful river and canyon. That was the last time I didn’t carry a spare set of batteries with me.

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  My friend Janet, whom you met in the chapter on New York, invited me to join her family in San Salvador, Bahamas. Her son-in-law worked for Club Med. These all inclusive resorts are not my cup of tea — not much to do but eat and sunbathe. Janet and I did join in the water aerobics which helped with the weight gain from all the food and drinks. My cover-up was a t-shirt that looked like a tanned woman in a pink bikini, the stares were priceless. Her little grandson, Max, was five years old and wasn’t too fond of drinking his milk. Each time I’d toast then take a swig of my wine I’d say AHHHH! Soon Max was toasting with his milk and saying AHHHH!

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  The husband from my practice marriage only wanted to head up to Wisconsin when vacation time rolled around. The vacations consisted of deer hunting, fishing, beer drinking (the best part of the trip) and outhouses. His brothers and their wives generally accompanied us. The boys insisted you couldn’t catch anything if you didn’t get up right at dawn and get out on the lake; many times they returned empty handed. Well Connie and I preferred to fish in the afternoons. We had a system, I baited the hooks and she took the fish off. One afternoon we caught two five gallon buckets full of crappies and bluegills proving the men wrong again.

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  I’ve traveled to Las Vegas three or four times. Not being a gambler, my enjoyment comes from taking the bus up and down the strip, checking out the awesome architecture and observing the gamblers. Over the years I’ve asked my gambling friends who pays for those multi-million dollar hotels and casinos. It sure isn’t the owners. It’s sad to watch tired waitresses coming off their shifts with pockets full of tips and dumping it all in the slot machines. Or the senior citizens cashing their social security checks so they can gamble. Warren Buffett calls gambling a tax on the ignorant. I agree.

  A couple of the characters I saw in Vegas: a cowboy in a black ten gallon hat getting his boots shined while swigging a Budweiser and talking on his cell phone and a gin swilling Christmas Elf playing slots for twenty-four hours straight. She had a white fur coat draped over her arm, her legs crossed, red pants, green shirt, a Christmas scarf and decorated straw hat.

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  The most interesting trip by far was to visit another of Hal’s Air Force buddies and his wife. We stayed at their lovely home for three days and were fortunate enough to get an inside look at Vegas. Merle was the #2 financial man for Howard Hughes based in the Sands Hotel. After a delightful Mother’s Day brunch, we toured the immense kitchen followed by a tour of Sammie Davis’ suite which contained a complete stainless steel kitchen and phones in every room including the bathrooms. Next we visited the suite of a high ranking Saudi official who was a regular at the Sands. He reserved an entire floor of the hotel for his entourage. His suite was huge, but what I remembered was the walk-in-closet, larger than my entire condo, filled with suits covered in plastic with shoes underneath to match and shelves of shirts. Seems his advance team comes ahead and brings all the clothes he’ll need.

  The last night there our friends took us to the dining room on the top of the Sands Hotel. The view was gorgeous, but the service was over the top. As six of us dined, we were attended to by a staff of six waiters. When I put a cracker wrapper down it was whisked away immediately. If I put an ash in the ashtray, a new one appeared and the old disappeared. At the prodding of my hosts, I tried snails for the first time and liked them. Hal on the other hand said, “The first person who ate a snail must have been one hungry man.”

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  Because most of my relatives lived in Indiana and Illinois, I made numerous trips up there to visit. One summer, my mother insisted the whole fam damily go to Wrigley Field to watch a Cub’s game. It always amazed me that the stadium was full for afternoon games, didn’t anybody work in Chicago? I wondered why my mom was such a Cub’s fan; she had team posters all over her house. Seems she had a hysterectomy during baseball season and was laid up for six weeks. Not being a fan of soap operas, she got hooked on the Cubs.

  In 2000, I piled mom, her brother and his wife in the Buick and traveled to Chicago for a relative’s wedding. Two events stand out. First the wedding was conducted by a Protestant reverend and a Catholic priest, pretty progressive I thought. That is until I heard the bible reading from the Book of Sirach that reads, “A silent wife is a gift from God.” Second, the next morning when we left the hotel,
mom’s Buick’s battery was dead as a door nail. I assumed she had automatic lights set so didn’t bother to turn off the lights the night before.

  One summer while visiting in Indiana, an old school chum invited me out to Lake Michigan for a ride on her little Sunfish sailboat. Since I’d never been on a boat before I was clueless as to how much work was involved. The first part of the afternoon went well as I followed her directions but things went south when she forgot to yell “duck” when she swung the sail about. The top of my bikini was stripped off and dropped into the lake. After we finished laughing, I donned a life vest as we made our way back to the beach where we’d left our clothes.

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  For several years when visiting in the Chicagoland area, I’d schedule “dates” with a Catholic priest who was one of my high school teachers. The discussions we had on topics like sin, homosexuality, women in the church, abuse by priests, theology etc. were inspiring and educational. One day we traveled to Nappanee, IN to visit an Amish colony. During a spectacular lunch of homemade foods, the discussion was homosexuality. I contended that folks were born with a gay gene. He argued that people have a choice. Another day we traveled northwest of Chicago to Wilmette to visit a Baha’I temple. It was interesting to learn they have no designated leaders or preachers; anyone is welcome to take the pulpit and talk.

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  Another visit to Indiana I went in search of the perfect motorcycle ride. I called my old friend Herb who used to ride. He directed me to a friend of his named Otis. I had such a fantastic time, I wrote the following essay.

  Lil and Otis

  The Iron Horse

  The future always seems to have more time than the present. My friends consider me “interesting.” I hope it’s a positive thought, because this much I know to be true — God gave each of us a limited number of heartbeats and I’m not going to waste any of them. In accordance with my personal rebellion against stifling rituals during my post menopausal years, I’ve compiled a list, a rather short list, in no particular order, of things I must do before life’s parking meter snaps “Expired.” After all, isn’t it important to possess a feeling of control over your destiny?

  Recently, I began in earnest, a search to find the perfect host to take me on the perfect Harley-Davidson ® ride. I must admit that the chase did turn out to be as interesting as the conquest. Form surely must follow emotion when you’re talking about riding on a Hog. I could hardly wait to feel the vibration between my legs — the naked eroticism.

  Since I want to live long enough to experience the other items on my list, my first priority was finding a trustworthy, cautious, safe host. A friend of a friend of a friend gave my name and phone number to Charlie, a used car salesman and weekend Harley rider. My interview never got beyond the telephone stage. For thirty minutes I patiently listened to him ramble on and on about himself, the three bikes he owned and which one would be suitable for my ride. I hung up as soon as he tried selling me one.

  My next prospect, Peter, was also recommended by a friend. An engineer by career and a Harley hobbyist, Peter patiently explained, bore and stroke, displacement, carburetion and wheel base. He suggested I pass a test prior to the ride. Before I nodded off, I thanked him for his time and even offered to pay for his lunch.

  Jerry, an aged hippie, with a face that looked like a bouquet of elbows was behind the counter the night I walked into the Harley dealership. He wore jeans that looked as if they could stand up all by themselves. It was easy to rule him out since I just couldn’t fathom his long gray greasy locks slapping me in the face.

  One evening, after months of searching, I was sharing a Tecate beer with a reliable old friend and I casually mentioned this craving to him. The very next morning, before the toothpaste taste was out of my mouth, he called to tell me that in precisely two hours a knight in black leather would be over to take me for a ride. My heart was beating so fast I could barely manage to hook my bra.

  Now, for the logistics. What do I wear? Would jeans look gauche? My only leather outfit was a short skirt, which was definitely out. Were shorts inappropriate, just in case, God forbid, we took a spill? Should I wear sneakers or boots? Do I need gloves? Where do I put my hands when I’m on the back? Would he think me presumptuous grabbing him around the waist? If I only held onto his shoulders, would I be safe from falling off? What about a helmet? Would he provide one or would I be forced to frantically search for one? How would I secure the helmet strap?

  The anticipation was flowing through me like a river.

  I could hear the unique lumpy potato-potato sound of the bike even before I walked out the door. There in my driveway stood an exquisite royal blue, twin cam 88, dyna glide—a twenty thousand dollar love machine. This 631 pound beauty looked like no Harley-Davidson ® that I’d ever seen before. It sported solid disc wheels, custom metal fenders, a shotgun-style dual exhaust system, a textured leather seat insert, a hand-laced leather tank panel, and a wide-style handlebar.

  Otis introduced himself as I noticed he wore a pair of no-nonsense work boots, the kind that can kick start a Hog with one stomp. His black vest, Harley T-shirt, black headband, and jeans, appropriately clinging to his butt, fascinated me. The beaming grin peaking out from between his salt and pepper mustache and matching beard was reassuring.

  “Hop on and we’ll take a little ride,” he said.

  As I nervously straddled the bike, I silently thanked the good Lord for protecting me and hoped he’d keep it up for a few more hours at least. I then settled into the large padded second seat, the only variety that would accommodate my now eggplant-shaped body.

  Well, it felt good, really good, riding around the city. The wind flattened out my cheeks. I felt the rush of adrenaline as the bike leaned at forty-five degree angles when taking the corners. The exhaust fumes were intoxicating. The intrusion of the vibration had a very open almost revvy feel. My insides growled. This was different, this was hot!

  We headed out to the Interstate and rolled up to eighty-five miles per hour. The landscape blurred, my eyes watered, my whole body was pulsating. This was the ultimate feeling of freedom, I was flying! The iron horse seemed light as a feather; Otis and I were one with him.

  I did it! One beast has been tamed—now it’s on to the next item on my list.

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  Travel Quotes

  All I want for the rest of my life is more boarding passes.

  If traveling were free, you’d probably never see me again.

  Traveling has a way of forcing us to live in the present.

  Travel is: glamour, freedom, learning, self-exposure, self knowledge, new people, luxury, trial, difficulty, challenge, achievement and endlessly interesting.

  Travel is like an intimate human relationship, evolving as it happens, never stagnant, always kinetic. It is movement, meditation.

  Travel is a pleasure charged with emotion, attitude and experience

  We travel to become temporary locals. Travel is a series of hills and valleys.

  Never live vicariously.

  Travel humbly; visit people and places with reverence and respect for their traditions and way of life.

  Travel is like having a child: It never seems to be the right time, but if you let it happen the rewards are inestimable and last a lifetime.

  Pooh-pooh McDonald’s in foreign countries all you want — until you’re desperate for a clean restroom.

  Thomas Swick’s seven pleasures of travel: anticipation, emotional connection, movement, novelty, discovery, break from routine and heightened appreciation of home.

  The reason you see more than other people do is because, on some level, you are willing to know more. Once you know, you can’t un-know. That’s why awareness takes courage.

  Life is more meaningful when we challenge ourselves.

  Tourism (the notion of traveling merely for enjoyment) didn’t exist until the Victorian Age. Before then, travel was a chore and only endured by armies, refugees, traders, emigrants and religious pilgr
ims.

  There’s a basic explanation for my wanderlust; it’s my quest for knowledge and understanding. I crave the opportunity to connect with other people. I’m fascinated by our differences and the things we have in common.

  I have never been interested in the mainstream. Most people are interested in the mainstream, so it doesn’t need my interest. What makes my ticker beat faster is discovering voices, people, places, realities that are not generally known.

  In a group you’ll just be a tourist, that’s why I always break away from the tour.

  A traveler is preferable to a tourist and that’s what I strive for.

  The difference between being a tourist and a traveler is that a traveler is open to unplanned experience and doesn’t have her nose stuck in a guidebook, tracking down famous sites. She ventures out from behind glass windows and meets people, she connects.

  Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime. — Mark Twain

  What is a traveler? by Sohia Dembling

  She respects a place for its differences from home, but sees the similarities too.

  She knows that travel is not just moving between places but being in those places.

  She visits a place with all five senses; this is the only way a traveler can say with assurance, “I’ve been there.”

  She knows the importance of details and finds fascination in the grocery store as well as the museum.

  She is excited, not frightened, by unfamiliarity. She’s not afraid to get lost, knowing there’s always a chance of finding something wonderful at the end of a wrong turn. She knows travel is a calculated risk.

  She is flexible, as travel rarely comes off exactly as planned.