I was privileged to do a good bit of traveling in the 21 years between my first overseas trip (to the Soviet Union) in 1988 and my last overseas adventure — a Baltic cruise — in 2009; and I’ve written about many of those times in my earlier blog chapters. I’ve also been able to see a good bit of the United States, coast-to-coast. And I would be hard-pressed, if you were to ask me, to pick a favorite place or favorite trip. But there are a few places, right here in the U.S. of A., that stand out in memory, either because of a sentimental attachment or because I once made an absolute fool of myself there. Either way, they’re unforgettable. As, for example . . .

1. Lincoln Woods Beach, Rhode Island. As children, my sister and I were not allowed to go to public swimming pools, movie theaters, or other closely-packed places in the summertime because of the looming threat of the annual polio epidemic, in a time before Dr. Jonas Salk’s life-saving vaccine came to be. But there was a place our parents did take us, because it was outdoors and spread out: the beach on a cold-water, spring-fed lake at Lincoln Woods in Lincoln, Rhode Island, just a half hour or so from our home.

The water there was still and calm, shallow for quite a distance from shore, and — when you swam or waded over one of the many springs — it was ice-cold. And we loved it. On one of our first excursions, my sister Merna and I were just wading in the shallow water when she felt something hard underfoot. It turned out to be a large, flat, smooth-surfaced rock, big enough for both of us stand on. And we soon found that the water was shallow enough at that point that we could even sit on the rock without drowning. We dubbed it “our rock,” and it was the first thing we looked for on every visit to the lake, year after year. It’s a silly thing, but it has probably stuck in my mind because it was one of those shared moments between two sisters who usually fought over everything, at least until we were both in our forties. I know the lake is still there, and I sometimes wonder whether the rock is. I hope so, and I hope some other siblings or best friends have found it and claimed it as their own.

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2. Montpelier, Vermont — where I was kicked out of the public swimming pool. I was about 18 or 19 years old, living in Washington, D.C., when I went back to my former home of Manchester, N.H. to visit my old school friends. One friend, Marlene, had relatives in Montpelier, and we decided one day to drive up and visit them, and to include in our itinerary an hour or two at the pool. Marlene had been there before, but I hadn’t; and for whatever reason, she neglected to tell me about the most important rule: every hour, the pool was cleared for 15 minutes to give everyone a rest.

This was an unusual pool in that it wasn’t rectangular; it was round, and the high-diving board was at the top of a tower in the center of the watery circle. Now, I’ve always been just an adequate swimmer, and never learned to dive at all. But on a dare from Marlene, I found myself at the top of the tower, prepared to jump from that considerable height into the pool. What I didn’t realize, as I stood there trying to screw up the courage to take the plunge, was that the pool had just been cleared. When I heard the lifeguard’s whistle repeating and repeating, I looked around and found that I was the center of attention: the only person still in the pool, standing like a statue on the diving board in my one-piece, green-and-blue bathing suit (yes, I still remember that too), about to make my jump in front of dozens of laughing onlookers.

Looking back from today’s perspective, I probably should have frozen, forcing the lifeguard to climb up and rescue me — that would have been even funnier. But I didn’t. Instead, I waved at the obviously annoyed lifeguard, walked to the edge of the diving board, yelled “Geronimo!” . . . and jumped. It seemed an eternity until I surfaced, and then swam — still with my faithful audience watching — to the edge of the pool and climbed ungracefully out of the water. Six decades later, Marlene and I — friends to the bitter end — still laugh about that day. Oh, to be 18 again!

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3. Costin’s Sirloin Room, Washington, D.C.: It was my 30th birthday, and for some reason I no longer understand, I was having a hard time accepting the fact that I was so “old.” As was our tradition, my sister Merna was taking me out to dinner that night, along with a friend who was visiting her from out of town. So, knowing that I was going to have a big meal at our favorite, very elegant restaurant — famous for its freshly baked bread and special blend of cheeses, huge slabs of prime rib, and rum pie — I had skipped lunch. But my boss had bought a bottle of champagne to celebrate, which we cracked open at the end of the afternoon and polished off — just the two of us. And then I went home, prepared dinner for my two small children, left them in the care of my mother, and headed out to dinner, feeling perfectly fine.

People drank less wine and more cocktails in those days, and I recall having just one whisky sour at the restaurant. I then proceeded to down a meal that would probably kill me today: bread and cheese, a small salad, a gigantic hunk of medium-rare beef, and a baked potato that looked like it was on steroids and slathered with butter and sour cream. And about three-fourths of the way through, I began to feel ill. I mean, room-spinning, ready-to-up-chuck, sick as a dog. I said something to Merna, and she took one look at me, grabbed me by the arm, and headed back toward the ladies’ room. But we never quite made it. Somewhere in the middle of the dining room there was a post. I made a grab for it, missed, and slid, in what felt like slow motion, toward the floor. And passed out cold.

Let me give you a little background here. This was the era of the miniskirt and go-go boots, Twiggy, and the “British Invasion” of the Beatles and other English heart-throbs. I wasn’t wearing go-go boots that night, but I was clad in a silk dress whose hem ended about mid-thigh. So when I came to after just a few seconds, there was a waiter behind me with his hands under my armpits, trying to lift me off the floor. But I wasn’t fully conscious, so I was dead weight. And as he lifted, so did my dress. When he pulled up, I grabbed the skirt of the dress and pulled down; he pulled up, I pulled down; he pulled up, I pulled down; and so on, until finally I was vertical. The poor waiter, not knowing what else to do with me, then plopped me onto the nearest chair, which happened to be at a table with two men who had been engaged in a business discussion while trying to ignore the farce taking place in front of them. I looked at them, muttered “I’m not drunk, really” . . . and everything went dark again, as my head hit the table with a thud.

The rest is really anti-climactic. I came to again in just a few seconds, and was completely awake this time. I muttered some sort of real apology, and Merna and I headed — with as much dignity as possible — for the ladies’ room, where I splashed cold water on my face and straightened my twisted dress. Then we walked back to our table, where her rather bemused friend had been waiting for us. I actually finished my dinner, and topped it off with my favorite rum pie. And I was able to drive home afterward, perfectly sober. I guess it had been just too much rich food, and a little too much champagne, on an otherwise empty stomach, because I had no further ill effects.

But I was never able to show my face at Costin’s again. And how I missed that rum pie!

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And finally:

4. Provincetown (Cape Cod), Massachusetts. You have not lived until you’ve experienced the annual Provincetown Carnival Parade at the end of summer. My sister and I stumbled on it one year when we were vacationing farther up the Cape and decided to drive to P’town for the day. What a hoot!

I’m straight, and so was Merna; but in that enclave famous for its gay (now LGBTQ+) population, we were assumed to be a couple that weekend, which was fine with us. After all, when you’re with a crowd of people in full celebration mode, it would be a waste not to join in the fun. And what a great bunch they were, openly enjoying life at a time when they couldn’t always live openly. Somewhere, I have a photo of myself, standing with three guys in full drag, arms around each other and me, while my sister played photographer. I wish I knew where to find that picture now, but it was taken at a time before digital, and the print is packed away somewhere. But the memory lives on; the good ones always do.

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You know, come to think of it, if you were to ask me now to name my favorite place in the whole world, it probably would be Cape Cod. It’s where I felt totally relaxed, forgot the workaday world back in Washington, and immersed myself in the artist colonies, the seafood restaurants, the summer theaters, the quaint little shops, and the madcap vibe of Provincetown, if only for a week. My sister summed it up best on our first trip there, when we were driving through the stop-and-go tourist traffic in Hyannis and she said, “You know, I’ve noticed something. The whole time we’ve been here, you haven’t honked your horn once.” And she was right; there’s no need for a horn when life is perfect.

TTFN,
Brendochka
8/10/23