Travel

Back in the days when I consulted, there was a rate for anything over three hundred miles, and over five, you flew me there and had a rental ready at the airport. But in general, I wouldn’t say I like cabin air, getting sick from someone spewing disease in a closed environment, or the phony hospitality of airlines. I even prefer highway rest stops to airport lounges. And my luggage never gets lost.
I also like the feeling of control I have on the road. I can visit a side attraction, think about things, and sing along loudly. Since the asthma inhalers have messed with my voice, even Bob Dylan sounds better than me. Doing the singing on an airplane would get me tossed.

But sometimes, I would rather fly over a place than travel through it. Some locales are too full of memories, and I find myself tripping back in time to people and places from a long time ago—ghost places, ghost people, and ghost happenings. Every time I go through New York City, I have to avoid getting off at exits that might take me to old neighborhoods, apartment buildings, or locales. Washington Heights, Riverdale, Riverside, or Greenwich Village. You might think that I could desire a sentimental journey at my age, but I don’t. To quote Poe and his Raven – “Nevermore.”

Current travel plans? I’m staying locally in New England—going down to the coast to see friends. Locally, I’ll do the grand tour of sawyers and lumberyards looking for decent-quality pine or cherry for carving projects. No journalist will hound me for an interview regarding the prime four-quarters planking found at Bingham’s or Farnsworth’s yards.

But the ships I carve from the wood will set sail on vast oceans of spume and wave. That will have to do.