World Traveler

I have become an avid and frequent traveler these days, but nothing compares to the grand tours I used to take as a youth.

I loved to head East, getting lost in the vast Golden Desert.  In those days, the specimens of cactus I encountered dwarfed my small frame, terrifying me with huge spines that were bigger and wider than my tiny fingers.  I loved to thread my way carefully among the deadly species to climb the forbidden mountain of rocks, reaching up to run my hands along the succulents whose smooth, bulging branches stayed cool against the raging sun.

Heading southward, all destinations passed the Frightening Fortress of Doom.  Its faded pink stucco walls were overrun with deep cracks, peeling away as if infected by plaster-eating bacteria.  The trolls who lived within the fortress kept their vigil at the watch station, casting an evil glance at those who dared to approach.  Get too close and a threatening, bony finger would emerge between the panes of glass.  There were two of them who alternated at their posts, never leaving the guard unattended.  The gravel path spoke of a once and forgotten moat, long dried up like the crotchety caretakers within.  While the structure and its inhabitants turned slowly to dust, the exiled dragons were returning to their native home.  I could often spy a few of the younger ones making their way cautiously toward the massive entrance.  I longed for the day when Man and Beast would clash in an epic battle for the future of the fortress.

To the West was Paradise, a lush tropical island where enchanted monkeys swung from coconut trees and fed themselves from the wild banana trees.  There, I would pluck a fresh hibiscus and tuck it behind my ear to blend with the natives.  The foliage was so dense that I could lounge for hours in its shade weaving garments from dried fronds, listening to the soft whisper as the cool breeze gently rustled the branches.  I loved to hunt for rosemallow buds.  Their delicate green sepals kept fast their precious secrets until they burst open magically to reveal an unexpected flash of color, sometimes a bright red, sometimes peach, and sometimes a daring yellow.

When I headed North, I found myself in Metropolis, a place where I felt oddly at home.  I loved its theatres and art museums, as well as the genial bohemians that welcomed me to play among them.  Sometimes I could pass as an extra in one of their shows, or duck into a studio and try my hand at an original work of art.  Other times it was fun just to be a spectator, watching with wonder as the local people did what they did best.  It was a place that surged with electricity and rocked with noise—where life was a stage for anyone with the talent and guts to step up.

It was easy to get lost in these worlds, but I knew I had to be home in time for dinner.  This was my neighborhood, and I was a seven-year old with training wheels.  My neighbor to one side, our family doctor, had a contemporary house with jagged roof lines.  It was painted a soft yellow and landscaped with a rock garden, large cacti and succulents.  Around the corner was a charming-yet-impossibly-old couple who made even my grandparents look young.  They held their own, but their home was sorely neglected and in need of maintenance, allowng lizards and other indigenous creatures to frolic merrily in their front yard.  The back side of our block was dense with a variety of high and low palms to the point of concealing the façade of the houses.  And our neighbors to the other side, some of the most naturally talented and creative people I have ever met, were always a hub of activity.  The mother and daughter were gifted artists; I loved to stand and study the many paintings that were hung gallery style from floor to ceiling.  The son had a rock band that rehearsed on weekends.  Sometimes, the kids would write a play, giving parts to all of the kids in the neighborhood, complete with sketches detailing how we were to be dressed.  It was in their home that I heard my first Beatles record.

There’s a reason these were called the Wonder Years.  It was a time when we were free to explore the inner workings of our own minds, developing strengths, tastes, and personality.   Ours was probably the last generation with this luxury, as today’s youth are driven to spend every waking hour in structured activities.  The imperative to remain competitive as a nation has pushed a burden upon our children, who are being pressed to learn more and more at a younger and younger age.  There is no time for innocence; no space for creativity.  Most of us long-ago-high-achievers would be hard-pressed to compete with those who are emerging at the tops of their high school classes today.  I am in awe of the capacity of today’s youth for science and analytical thought.  They are learning things in high school that even scientists did not know 30 years ago.  I can’t help but sigh a bit, however.  I truly hope that our precious children will be allowed to find their passions, and not just follow a path because they got good grades.