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Travels Past, Adventures To Come Nancy H. Rosenberg Completed Read an Excerpt Travels Past, Adventures To Come My husband, Brian, and I frequently play a modern version of a parlor game that we call "Remember?" It's a private game of our own invention, and it tends to morph with each round. "Remember the time in Plymouth, Virginia, when you were showing off by walking on the handrail over the Muddy Bog, and you fell in?" I'll say spontaneously, over a weeknight bowl of pasta and a glass of chardonnay. He returns the volley. "Remember when you asked that Amish man in Pennsylvania for directions to a gas station?" It's a game of alternating hilarity and poignant remembrance. We recall places, events and people who might otherwise be lost in our mental labyrinths, which are increasingly occupied by such soulless details as cell phone numbers and web site addresses. In the game, one memory jarred gives rise to another. "Remember the ginger forest we found in Kauai?" he says. "Yes, and the lady in line ahead of us at the local deli that night who asked for a reuben, then paused and asked the girl at the counter, 'Are those good?'" Our eyes crinkle in a simultaneous smile, recalling how the question struck us both as funny, someone asking for advice on such a clearly subjective matter. The counter girl's answering raised eyebrow sent us into gales of suppressed laughter. To this day one of us will occasionally toss out a reference while perusing a menu: "Hmmm, herbed fettuccine with gorgonzola and artichokes… Is that good?" We return to the game. "Remember the crazy street man in Austin, wearing a pointy sequined bra and singing Love Me Tender to no one in particular?" It's my turn. "Remember getting lost in New York City?" Brian scowls. "That wasn't me; that was you. It's virtually impossible to get lost in New York. It's one of the most organized cities in the world!" He's right. Now I remember; I got there before he did and met him at the hotel. I flew in from D.C. on a sunny May day. I'd been savvy enough to wear black, but no amount of premeasured cool could hide my wide eyes and dropped jaw that all but dragged on the sidewalk behind me. New York was a tapestry of contrasts, a tattered homeless person crazily propped against the glamour and glitz of a world-class department store window, oblivious to the scowls of the mannequins. "Remember visiting the Vietnam war memorial?" I do. We were newlyweds living in a D.C. suburb when we decided to explore the statues and memorials on the Mall by moonlight. What we didn't realize until we got there was that it was the night before Memorial Day, and the wall had been transformed into a sacred mourning spot for dozens of leather-clad vets, many of whom were choking back sobs or carefully tracing names on the wall with callused fingers and banging fists. We stood in stunned silence. I'd been a history major in college, but nothing taught me more about war than that night at the wall. "Remember the restaurant in Mexico?" I ask. He does. This is couple-speak for one of our most memorable meals. We were visiting Cancun with my family, but one night we broke away from the group and struck out on our own, ending up on the beautiful Isla Mujares, or Island of Women. We found an ancient, weathered restaurant full of locals, and a five-gallon bucket of swimming fish was lugged to the table so you could point out your entrée. We tossed bits of warm corn tortillas to an occasional stray dog who would wander through the open-air restaurant. I've never had a better-tasting fish. "Remember strolling through the cobbled streets of Old Town Stockholm in the summer at 10 p.m., and it was still light outside?" I ask. I had been amazed at the phenomenon, at being so far north that the sun refused to set. Now there's a twist in the game. My husband has that look in his eye, and I can tell that, predictably, the game is about to morph. "Now let's play, 'Let's Go,'" he suggests. I know instantly what he means. "Let's go to Greece and explore the ruins and cruise the archipelago," he says. "Let's go to Holland and see where the flowers grow." "Let's go to Jamaica and dive with the manatees." "Let's go to Dubrovnik and haggle in the marketplace that overlooks the sea." "Let's go to Pamplona and watch the bulls run." I pour more wine and raise my glass. As much as I love traipsing down Memory Lane, nothing can compare with the lure of the unknown. We smile, clink, drink. The best is yet to come. Excerpt My husband, Brian, and I frequently play a modern version of a parlor game that we call "Remember?" It's a private game of our own invention, and it tends to morph with each round. |
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