Robert (gurdonark) wrote,
Robert
gurdonark

here's where the story continues

"ain't there one damn song that can make me break down and cry?"--old d. bowie song
"but the only thing I ever really wanted to say was wrong, was wrong, was wrong"--old Sundays song

Tonight I drove home from the Salvation Army singing "Alison" as I cruised up the Central Expressway. This has been a day of listening to music made by East German zithers and bombardes, sagas of Icelandic proportions and well-measured thoughts.

I read a website about the province of Varmland, in Sweden, because some of my wife's forbears come from near Karlstad. A page described in English a 90 km. bike path road through the woodlands for which one could rent odd pedalcars. I imagine I could enjoy a Scandinavian woodland, on a June morning when the aroma of trees permeates everything.

I thought to myself, while walking aimfully down a hallway, that I understand pilgrimages to the place of one's forbears more than I understand pilgrimages to holy places. Today the big band station that I listen to when NPR lets me down featured talk of a "In Paul's footsteps" tour. The promoter kept talking about how it was a very emotional experience. Call me a cold mackerel if you will (I have proofs to the contrary), but I do not choose my vacations in order to have more emotions. I have rather my normal quota in day to day life. I rather suspect that Paul, experienced traveler that he was, would urge one to find the footsteps in which people nearby need help more than to try to figure out the best hotel in Corinth, but my suspicion is not scientifically tested. I love to travel, and don't plan to stop. But as the gas runs out and the world becomes more virutal, I wonder if travel will not alter a fair bit.

Today was a day of welcome e-mails, welcome but hard-working tasks, and raisin bran.
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