This commentary is by Elayne Clift, a columnist who lives in Vermont. Her book “Around the World in 50 Years: Travel Tales of a Not So Innocent Abroad” was published in 2019.
I was 22 years old when I first flew across the Atlantic for a solo adventure in Europe. My best friend, with whom I was to take the trip, had become engaged and I wasn’t going to wait for anyone else to accompany me on this dream trip.
I flew overnight from New York to Amsterdam, where I wanted to kiss the ground in the early morning sun. I was seduced by travel as a child on summer holidays to Canada, home of my paternal grandparents and copious relatives.
Bitten by the travel bug, nothing compared to the idea of seeing some of Europe’s amazing countries and capitals. With a Eurorail pass and modest hotel reservations in hand, off I went, from Amsterdam’s canals to London’s pubs and palace, then to Paris cafes and the Champs Elysee, the Roman coliseum, the magnificent statue of Florence’s David, and Venice’s San Marco Square, where I wept at the beauty of the Doges Palace.
Those magical places spurred me on to worldwide travel in the years to come. But the really special part of that initial journey resided in the people I met and the conversations we shared in trains, restaurants, hotels and museums. No sooner did I bid farewell to one new friend than I made another — young travelers, wise elders, and in two cases, attractive men who figured in my future.
Everyone I engaged with told stories that moved me, made me laugh, tear up, and most importantly speak the truths of my own life. I felt I had climbed into my own skin. No need for gameplaying, diminishing or apologizing for my thoughts, so often expected of American females in the 1960s. I could be myself and still be appreciated. It was a new, sensual experience, devoid of sexual overtones. The experience changed my life and opened my eyes to the wider world.
Years later, for example, on a brief work trip to Khartoum, I stayed in an old, barely functional hotel where I crossed paths daily with a solitary elderly woman who, I learned, lived there. Each day she shuffled along the corridors in her black dress, white hair in a bun. We passed in the lobby and smiled at each other in the dining room, but we never spoke for lack of a common language. Also, I didn’t want to intrude on her privacy, or befriend her only to abandon her when I left.
But I never stopped regretting that I hadn’t sat quietly with her or found a way to bring her comfort in her loneliness. It was a lost moment for each of us because connection in any form, I now know, is a gift not to be left unwrapped.
Once, on a visit to England, I stayed in a bed-and-breakfast hosted by a woman whose husband had suffered an injury and was unable to work. Every day she repeated her routine — cooking eggs and sausage for guests, changing beds, cleaning rooms, caring for her husband and two children. And every day, we shared an intimate, unspoken moment when we shared a smile, for she knew that she would never have my mobile life, and I understood that I would not be subjected to her particular burdens.
The experience, silent again, made me sad and helped me understand my privileged place in the world. I think somehow it also brought her comfort to be understood.
And how can I forget Roy Cesarini, whom I met in a café by the sea in Italy. Roy was a dapper gentleman whose sparking blue eyes, pink cheeks, broad smile and carefully trimmed moustache drew me to him immediately. Roy saw that I was struggling with the menu. “May I be of some assistance?” he asked.
So began a moving experience as Roy began to tell me his story. A British prisoner of war due to Italy’s collaboration with Germany, he was sent to a work farm where he became the endeared “Roy.” There he fell in love with the farmer’s daughter, Elizabeth, and she with him. Soon Elizabeth was warned that she risked arrest for collaborating with the enemy. Roy was sent to a farm in Scotland. They wrote letters, never received. Each thought they were forgotten.
After the war, Roy returned to Italy, married, and became a restaurateur, but he never forgot Elizabeth. Shortly after his wife died, he learned that Elizabeth had also passed away. From that time on, he had traveled to England annually to lay flowers on her grave. “She was my first love, and I don’t forget her,” he said. His story taught me a lot about love.
Years later I heard from Roy’s friend that he had died. Like Elizabeth, I fell in love with Roy Cesarini, and I don’t forget him.
At this time of gift-giving, I recall these treasured memories born of travel. Every one of them, and there are many, offered me deeper insight, heightened compassion, and a kind of connection that made me a better person. I am ever grateful for moments shared with intimate strangers.
