Daryl May in his travel-spent youth
I spent my first night camping on the floor of a British minivan in a vehicle so small you couldn’t straighten your legs to sleep. Even though it was still winter, the condensation that accumulated inside the van was abominable. I’d scarcely slept, my limbs were stiff, and I was drenched.
“Ugh,” said my friend, Jennifer, as I related the experience. “Did you learn from that?”
“Not exactly,” I replied. “Another night’s camping was in a campsite in Austria, without a tent. I refused to sleep in the van, so I slept on the grass. In the morning, I found someone had stepped on my glasses.”
“Hmm,” said Jennifer. “But I’m sure you learned from that?”
At the Austrian border
“Well,” I said, “maybe not. Once I slept on the grass median of a German autobahn. I had been hitchhiking, and the freeway forked, just as night fell. My ride went the wrong way. I had to get out, and there wasn’t anywhere to exit on foot in the dark.”
“That,” said Jennifer, “sounds downright dangerous. What if the police had stopped you?”
I thought for a moment, wondering whether she’d believe me. “Well,” I had the protection of the police in Varazze, Italy.”
“How so?” she asked.
“I had nowhere to stay, and the roadside was all concrete,” I explained. “So I swung myself over a fence and found a nice patch of grass.”
The future Mrs. Jennifer May
“In the morning, I discovered I’d trespassed on to the police sports ground. An excellent sleep,” I assured her. “And I exited without incident.”
I didn’t see Jennifer for a week or two after that. I wondered whether she was avoiding me. Could it be that my on-the-road stories had bored her? Should I have steered the conversation to safer topics like movies and music?
By good fortune, I ran into her in the library the next day, and we went for coffee. Determined not to bore, I only resumed my on-the-road tales when she asked.
“You mentioned Baghdad,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “I hitchhiked on an out-of-service bus from Mafraq, Jordan, to Baghdad, Iraq, through about 500 miles of desert. There was no air conditioning, and it was over a hundred degrees. Dust poured in through the open windows; It caked everything and filled my clothes, my nose, eyes, ears and, ugh, my mouth.”
“Sounds like fun,” said Jennifer. “What did you do when you got there?”
“I negotiated a special rate at a hotel,” I said. “For that I had to sleep on the roof.”
“And, err, bathrooms?” she asked.
“The Embassy was only two blocks away,” I explained. “They opened at ten.”
We met two days later — deliberately as if by accident, as people do when they want to see each other and are not sure about their relationship. I was determined to change the subject. In fact, I had boned up on the feminist movement, which was gripping the nation at the time.
“I agree,” I said, “that equal pay for equal work is a no-brainer.”
10 miles of desert
“Well, between Basrah, Iraq, and Khorramshar, Iran, there are 10 miles of desert. And it was 120 degrees and 100 percent humidity.”
“You hitchhiked?” asked Jennifer.
“No,” I said. “I walked.”
“You walked that far in that heat?”
“Not entirely,” I explained. “Half-way across, a smuggler’s truck gave me a ride. Trouble was, they avoided the Iranian customs post.”
“And … ?” she asked.
“I had to get help from our consulate,” I explained. “Without an entry stamp, I couldn’t get an exit permit to leave the country. They sent me back to the border post for the entry stamp. I told the guards that I’d dozed off in a car.”
“Yikes,” said Jennifer. She was clearly impressed. “That was when the Shah was still around,” I said quickly. “So no jail time.”
I’m not sure whether it was due to my on-the-road anecdotes or my plainly besotted demeanor, but she let me kiss her when we parted.
Jennifer and I met again the next day. Could it be, I wondered, that I’ve found my soul mate — another travel-crazed person with a penchant for exotic places?
It turned out that she wasn’t all about exotic places. “What about travel in the States?” she asked at our next meeting.
“Well,” I explained, “do you remember when Greyhound had a go-anywhere bus ticket: 30 days for $45?”
“No, I do not,” she said.
“Well, they did.” I said, “And it was a godsend when I was touring as a student. I saved on hotels by sleeping on the bus.”
“Hmm,” said Jennifer, “So how did that work?
In the snow of Europe
“Didn’t Greyhound mind?”
“Didn’t even notice,” I said. “Besides, I’d paid my $45, and I only went to 20 states and half of Canada.”
“After I’d had enough of Washington, D.C.,” I went on, “I took the bus for real to Savannah, Ga. The next evening, I took an overnight roundtrip to Atlanta instead of spending on a Savannah hotel.”
“Those sound like on-the-road, on-the-road experiences,” said Jennifer.
“Yes, indeed,” I agreed. “Comfortable too: reclining seats, air-conditioning, and a flush toilet.”
Then I clammed up for a while and happily let Jennifer lead the conversation to topics she liked, which just happened to be travel, camping, travel photography, travel gear, and food on the road. But then she got serious, and I sensed I was about to be tested.
“Tell me honestly,” she said, looking at me intently. “Were all those stories true?”
“They were true.” I said, “Every one. Count me an idiot if you like. But they’re all true.”
“And what part did you like most?” asked Jennifer.
“I guess I enjoyed hitting the open road in that bus with reclining seats, air-conditioning, and a flush toilet — even if there were a half-dozen strangers.”
A faraway look entered Jennifer’s eyes, and she paused before she spoke again.
“Maybe we could do that together one day,” she said, wistfully and half questioningly. “But without the half-dozen strangers.”
And with that statement, we became inseparable. “We will,” I said. And later we bought an RV, and we did.
Daryl and Jennifer May
Read more of Daryl May's 'Stories from the Road' series.