In our family we call it “Travel Magic.” Possessing it
doesn’t mean you won’t suffer from motion sickness, delayed flights or bad
food, because that’s just a part of the deal – but Travel Magic does expose you
to extraordinary moments when you’re out exploring the world.
Moments like:
· Riding
the train into Paris on your first trip to France, and having an accordion player
in the same car who begins playing traditional folk tunes just as the Eiffel
Tower bursts into view
· Getting
a private tour to the top of the Washington Monument after it closes, because
you didn’t know you needed to get (free) tickets in advance but the guide
decides “what the heck” (though in this case it is also helpful to have a
husband with Jedi Mind Powers)
· Driving
a convertible West along Route 66 on the night of the 4th of July,
and timing it just right so that you pass through the fireworks show of every
single city along the way
We always experience Travel Magic when we travel
together, and the kids who have traveled independently say it works for them,
too. I was a little unsure whether I’d get Travel Magic on my own, though. In
the first place I’m a terrible traveler. I have the worst sense of direction in
the world (seriously, I’ve gotten lost going to the bathroom in my own house), I
have a tendency to trip over things (like curbs and stairs and hydrogen atoms),
and I’m a little shy (with good reason, obviously). I figured I’d be doing okay
if I just made it through the first week without breaking any bones.
Then we went to Winchester.
There’s at least one excursion a week in this program,
designed to accompany our fields of study and/or alleviate our horrific ignorance.
The first one was to Chawton (where Jane Austen lived) and Winchester (where
she died and is buried in the Cathedral). I wasn’t overly keen on it because I
don’t have much patience for Jane Austen (please don’t tell the other English
majors), though I yield to nobody in my admiration for her choices in
window-seating. However, I did very much
want to see Winchester Cathedral, and
Dun dun DUNNNNN
The Round Table.
Obligatory
Photos of Jane Austen’s Writing Table, Her Burial Tablet, and Her Window Seat
Yes. The Round Table.
Probably not THE Round Table, but . . . there’s a lot of Arthurian
legend in the Winchester area, and you can’t just not go see it, especially
if you’ve already shot off your big fat mouth to your kids about it.
So after the Cathedral tour they just sorta turned us
loose in Winchester Town (pop. 120,000) with a vague, “If you want to see The
Hall and The Round Table, it’s over in that
direction. There are probably signs. Be back where the bus dropped us off at
4:45.” (As if I remembered where that
was.)
Doubtful but determined, I more or less threw myself
at the High Street. After a few blocks I heard a German couple consulting their
phone and talking about The Hall, so I blatantly accosted them (you can do that
if you’re an American) and asked if they were looking for The Table. They
laughed and said no, they were looking for their daughter, but they’d just come
from The Hall and could tell me how to get there; it’s up that way, they said, pointing up the High Street. Relieved that I
was at least going the right direction, I resumed the hike. (Everything’s
uphill with this lot.)
“It’s not Arthur’s, you know.” Startled, I looked to
my right; walking next to me was a trim, middle-aged man with gorgeous silver
hair. He was dressed in a well-made gray suit and had that look of solemn
politeness that you get sometimes with very small boys and older English men.
“Sorry?” I said, because that’s what you say in
England instead of, “Huh?”
“The table. It’s not the real Round Table.” He sounded
like John Gielgud dipped in honey. “They did a ring-dating on the wood several
years ago, and it is from the late 13th century. It is likely that a
prince had it made for some celebration.”
“Oh well,” I barked, “since I’ve come all this way I
might as well take a look.”
“Are you an . . . American?” he asked. “Yes,” I said; I
couldn’t deny it even if I wanted to, I couldn’t be more obviously American if
I was a buffalo-head nickel. “I’m from Oregon.”
“Never heard of it,” he said grandly, and strode along
dispensing very interesting and subsequently verifiable facts about The Table,
The Hall and the general landscape. Finally – in order to contribute something to the conversation besides
increasingly desperate gasps for breath – I asked, “Are you from England?”
Again, dumb. He couldn’t have been more English if he’d
been standing in a tub of Shepherd’s Pie, waving the Union Jack and singing “God
Save the Queen.” I’m pretty sure I snorted when I said it, too.
“I was born not far from here, just southwest of a
little town you’ve never heard of called Basingstoke. It’s primarily a place that
exists to support other places. I’m actually only in town to attend a funeral;
I must be getting back soon,” he said soberly. We had reached a branch off the
main sidewalk, accessible by crossing a footbridge over a small creek. “I must
leave you here. Just follow that path and you’ll soon reach The Hall.”
I thanked him warmly (but not profusely, because One
Must Not Emote), and he said, “No pleasure! My problem!” which was charmingly
mortal of him. Then he disappeared.
Here’s the thing.
I may be a Yankee, but I’m not a Damnyankee. I know
the stories. I know who is supposed to have lived around there – and who, if
the stories are true, aren’t dead, but only waiting until they’re needed again.
I know which one didn’t like to cross running water.
And I know the name of that little neighborhood
southwest of Basingstoke.
It’s Merlin’s Mead.
PS: If you are tempted (as were certain husbands who
shall remain nameless) to make scornful remarks about how the GPS and Google
Directions on my cell phone would have made this a much simpler exercise, I
can only report that the very next day
I missed an excursion completely because I asked the phone for directions to one of
the other Colleges and Google cheerfully steered me a mile out of the way and
straight into a 12-foot-high wall with no visible apertures of any kind. “Really!” Google kept saying. “The door is
RIGHT HERE! Go in! I wouldn’t lie to you!” The College I was looking for was subsequently revealed to be directly across the street from mine.
A GPS knows nothing about Travel Magic.
