The Song
In My Head





It's not just the number of pushpins in your world map‚ it's what you did while you were there. Great moments from my travel diary:

. . . sitting at a glass–walled café in Paris‚ getting drunk on Carlsberg beer while student rioters and truncheoned gendarmes tussled outside.

. . . after Easter Eve services at a tiny village in the Greek Peloponnese‚ burning my fingers on a candle as we silently processed down a rocky hillside in the dark.

. . . buying cheap antibiotics for my son's raging ear infection at the Wal–Mart in Acapulco.

. . . watching Japanese schoolchildren in a Tokyo hotel ballroom learn how to eat with a knife and fork.

. . . waiting in a van outside a walled compound near Montego Bay‚ Jamaica‚ while guard dogs barked and shady transactions were transacted.

. . . watching the sun "rise" at 2 a.m. beside a lake in the Icelandic countryside‚ while drinking aquavit and nibbling on roast puffin.*

. . . visiting Disneyland in its first year of operation – and again 50 years later.

. . . staring down the border guard en route to Communist–ruled Budapest‚ trying to prove that I was the same person as my passport‚ despite my big glasses and curly perm.**

. . . eighteen days in a gas–guzzling Dodge Caravan with three internet–
addicted teenagers‚ a preoccupied Manhattan litigator‚ and a screwy GPS system‚ on a coast–to–coast adventure in the Family Truckster.

* Just kidding about the puffin.

** Must have been the 80s.

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