Travels with Red were not grand. They were a series of small adventures.

I liked making hotel reservations. Red preferred to scope out a town before committing. Occasionally this meant a night with no place to stay. Red was not disturbed. We would simply travel on to the next town.

I have always appreciated the authority of maps. Red enjoyed random turns and took particular delight in the decision-moment drama of a fork in the road.

Road signs in France do not always indicate the next town but rather a junction a few towns away. It was my job as navigator to watch for signage that showed the direction we wanted. More than once, I pounded my atlas in defeat. But Red’s antennae were infallible. Around a bend, to my great surprise, would appear our intended destination. Often the circuitous route included a sweet reward: a field of sunflowers or a “Frog Xing” sign.

Red could always find parking. In Amsterdam, where an open parking space is as rare as a modernist building, Red casually pulled into a little slice of pavement as if it had been reserved for us. Our car nestled there undisturbed all day.

After towing my rollaboard through dozens of cobblestone-paved towns, the bag went lame in Rome. With one wheel off, it had no further interest in following me. Once again Red had an uncommon solution.

“You see, this bag has no value. Therefore, it will not be stolen. We’ll leave it in this doorway while we find duct tape.”

“Duct tape?” I thought. “As wheel repair?” But getting into the spirit of the ruse, I transferred the wheelie’s contents into my backpack and topped the broken bag with an empty takeout container smelling ripely of tuna.

And off we wandered through the maze of Rome streets in search of duct tape. With the help of my pocket translator I asked, “Nastro adesivo?” in every little shop along the way. Blank looks. “Hardware store?” I proposed. A fast flurry of Italian and a shrug.

At last, the baker smoking outside his fragrant shop took pity. “Ah! Ferramento!” He directed us to a hardware store just north of the Coliseum. Two hours after leaving the wounded bag, we returned to find it unmolested. Even the odorous tuna box remained, as if standing vigil.

Only later did I realize that a bag without value could simply be abandoned. The duct tape adventure was just another of Red’s little diversions.

Red’s interest in travel eroded soon after the cobblestones broke my bag. I go alone now, and I long for unexpected detours. ¦

She traverses the line of fiction, non-fiction

“The Effect of Cobblestones” was the first of 16 entries honorable mention winner Mary Charles wrote for the 2021 Writing Challenge, responding to every photo prompt presented in the eight rounds of the contest. She says the story was loosely inspired by one of the many trips she and her late husband took together.

“Most of my short stories are somewhat autobiographical,” she says. “I’m not quite sure what the dividing line is between fiction and creative non-fiction.”

Here’s the real story behind the picture: Florida Weekly Senior Editor Cindy Pierce snapped it while walking in Manhattan’s Upper West Side during a visit last fall.

And here are a few excerpts from other entries inspired by the church doors photo:

¦ Much to Mrs. Frogmorton’s chagrin and against National Trust regulations, Sir Rupert constantly placed a plastic bucket outside the front door with a sign: “Voluntary Contributions for Hitchin Castle’s Upkeep.” It didn’t yield much, at most one-hundred pounds a week, but that was sufficient for Sir Rupert to purchase his two pints of Hitchin Dark Ale, nightly, at the pub.

“The St. Cateract’s Dinner” Bob Ellis, Port Charlotte

¦ Finally, we board our flight. I always let her have the aisle seat. She thinks I’m being gentlemanly, but I know statistically the aisle has a higher fatality rate than the middle and window seat. I play all the options. I settle in for the flight, put in my earphones and queue up the movie.

“Abandoned” Patricia Durachko, Millsboro, Del.

¦ This morning I packed a bag for my mother. I stuffed it to bulging with every piece of clothing and all the personal items I could fit. Once I dropped her off, I would return, pack my own things, lock the door behind me, and leave forever. With no forwarding address and new cell number as soon as possible, no one could rechain me to this unbearable responsibility. If mothers could drop off babies at firehouses, why couldn’t a daughter drop off a mother at a safe haven?

“Running Away” Nancy Murvine, Marco Island

¦ When she finished, she asked if I would stay a few days, told me the convent had an extra room and the church could help me find a job and a new place to live. As we stood to go, I remembered my bag at the door. I ran back to get it. I knew now that no matter how worn it was, it was not worthless. I knew that, just like this dirty suitcase, I had a place here.

“Dirty and Tattered, Worthless and Worn” Cindy Swisher, North Fort Myers

¦ Father Juan regretted saying that Salome’s “confession” would not shock or scare him …

… “Well, how much is sitting on our doorstep?” asked the priest.

“It is so much, Matias and me had to count it together,” replied Salome. “There is $652,400 in American, $100 bills. It is yours. Give it to the poor. Do what you wish. We don’t want anything to do with this money obtained from sin.”

With that, Salome burst open the confessional door, heading tearfully for the side door where Mathias was waiting.

“Peace Be With You” Robert Atkinson, Fort Myers

¦ This primordial urge to see the world became the motivation behind Tim’s decision to quit his job, fly to Europe and head east. At a border post on a bleak road between Mashad and Herat, he entered Afghanistan, a hard, gravelly terrain dry and devoid of life. Flagging down a severely overloaded truck, he hitched a ride to Kabul.

“The Green Hotel” Linda Bannon, Naples

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

Our Hometown DMCA Notices Newspaper web site content management software and services