Traveling Alone
by: Billy Collins
At the hotel coffee shop that morning,
the waitress was wearing a pink uniform
with "Florence" written in script over her heart.
And the man who checked my bag
had a nameplate that said "Ben."
Behind him was a long row of royal palms.
On the plane, two women poured drinks
from a cart they rolled own the narrow aisle--
"Debbie" and "Lynn" according to their winged tags.
And such was my company
as I arced from coast to coast,
and so I seldom spoke, and then only
of the coffee, the bag, the tiny bottles of vodka.
I said little more than "Thank you"
and "Can you take this from me, please?"
Yet I began to sense that all of them
were ready to open up,
to get to know me better, perhaps begin a friendship.
Florence looked irritated
as she shuffled from table to table,
but was she just hiding her need
to know about my early years--
the ball I would toss and catch in my hands,
the times I hid behind my mother's dress?
And was I so wrong in seeing in Ben's eyes
a glimmer of interest in my theories
and habits--my view of the Enlightenment,
my love of cards, the hours I tended to keep?
And what about Debbie and Lynn?
Did they not look eager to ask about my writing process,
my way of composing in the morning
by a window, which I would have admitted
if they had just had the courage to ask.
And strangely enough--I would have continued
as they stopped pouring drinks
and the other passengers turned to listen--
the only emotion I ever feel, Debbie and Lynn,
is what the beaver must feel,
as he bears each stick to his hidden construction,
which creates the tranquil pond
and gives the mallards somewhere to paddle,
the pair of swans a place to conceal their young.
I don't travel alone very often. I'm so directionally challenged that I get lost simply walking to my car in the garage. Here are my two major phobias (there are a lot more, but I don't want to be up all night). The first is rodents--can't stand 'em, whether they're mice, rats, or gerbils. But that's a topic for another post. My second major phobia--being lost. I've had this fear since I was very young, but I cant trace it to any particular childhood experience.
I hate being out of control, and I can't think of a more out-of-control situation than being in a strange place with no idea of how to get home. The very notion gives me hives. Granted, getting lost these days is much more difficult because of GPS and cellphones. I remember when MapQuest first appeared, and I felt like it was the Second Coming of Christ. MapQuest didn't completely eliminate my travel anxiety, but it certainly gave me a greater sense of safety.
Pre-cellphones, I once went for a run in the woods, using a path that a friend said was completely straightforward. "It's impossible to get lost if you follow it," she said. It wasn't impossible. I ended up wandering through the wilderness for almost three hours before I stumbled upon a road I recognized, just as I was getting ready to make my peace with God and surrender myself to the first hungry coyote I encountered.
Now, some of my disciples are probably thinking that my phobia over being lost borders on the pathological. You wouldn't be wrong. The mere idea of being a stranger in a strange land fills me with dread that surpasses public speaking, death, and another Trump presidency.
So, if you invite Saint Marty to a dinner party, please be prepared to provide an Uber to get him there.
