19 May 1985, Posted by Scott An Chora in Travelogue, No Comments.

05/19 Los Angeles, California

Imprisoned by my own curiosity. I felt as if I was looking up through trees that encircled my view, staring at the many branches and the fruits suspended beyond my grasp.  I knew I could no longer be satisfied simply to lie here on my back, closing my eyes and dreaming of things out of my reach.

I wanted to touch and longed to taste those fruits.  I wanted to know where the river was flowing. I wanted to let loose the chain I had bound myself in. As far back as I can remember, I’ve woke from dreams where I was flying through air above my childhood home.  I knew the sound of the air rushing past my ears, the view from above the trees and the knowledge that my ability to fly came deep from within.  Yet still, these were only the familiar views from the confines of my own backyard.

I have grown into the body of a young man whose thoughts, sometime sharp yet random, were being built upon uncontrolled emotions.  One upon the other they pile up beyond my ability to separate them, making it sometimes difficult to find the clarity I needed. Yet, there were times when I could see the end of the river. It was in these moments when I picked up a pencil and began mapping out my thoughts.  Over time I had come to appreciate the mental photographs each of these penciled searches provided me. They were windows not only into yesterday but had the ability to capture the place where I stood, the thoughts I had entertained and helped me to remember where I was.  Each one of these windows, much like my dreams of flying, had a claustrophobic feeling of familiarity.  They were mostly about things I knew, love I had lost, the fear of death.  But it had become evident to me that I needed to jump into the river and head downstream.

I had maintained my student status at college so that I could take advantage of the many student discounts offered.  I took a couple of classes and dedicated a portion of my free time to planning a trip down this river.  On the surface it had all the ear-markings of a long holiday but under closer inspection I was actually planning a change – a one-way ticket and a trip duration that would be predicated by my ability to stretch funds.  An open road.

I’m a Californian who loves California.  Whether it’s looking up from the truck of a large sequoia, down into the Yosemite Valley, gazing at San Francisco from across the bay or wandering up the Big Sur coast I want to share what I appreciate about my home.  There have been numerous occasions when my path had crossed an individual traveling through this great state of ours.  “Where have you gone?” I’d question.  “Well, we went to Disneyland and let’s see, Las Vegas was exciting but we lost money”.  I had no intention of being this person, just passing through and ignoring what made each place special.  My goal was to sit, watch, listen, share a meal, follow someone home, whatever it took for my eyes to open and understand our similarities.  Only then I could begin measuring the differences and begin to define who I am.  For months I delved into books searching through history, landmarks, art and I began earmarking those things I wanted to see.  I began sketching out a map in my head, of where I would go, how much time it would take me and how much I thought it would cost. I laid everything out but in the back of my mind I still entertained the thought “What was I really going to do with all this free time?”

I recall a few year back drinking a bottle of Wild Turkey on an empty stomach.  We were sitting around lounging in the living room, allowing our conversation to be dictated by the alcohol, jumping from one subject to another.  Liars always have to keep up their guard.  In this conversation, one of the young men (who was dating the young lady sitting next to him on the couch), let this guard down while trying to demonstrate what he considered to be his manhood to the other guys in the room.  He was bragging about his conquests.  When he was confronted with disbelief and while defending his statement, he forgot that his girlfriend was hanging on every one of his words.  Not a smart move.  Especially the way he explained the slutty behavior of number three.  Blinded by his own brush strokes, he could not see the hole he was digging for himself nor could he interpret the expressions on all our faces.  It was obvious that the alcohol influenced his choices and blinded him from the fact that his current girlfriend was now inches away from clawing out his eyes.

As he realized his error the shock took the color out of his face, then she stood up.  She made a gesture of distancing herself from him at first but when she reached the edge of the couch she reached over and grabbed his guitar.  It had been undisturbed for the last hour and was resting against the edge of the couch.  She hesitated for a second and then broke the silence with a few choice words at the top of her lungs and then to our surprise she hit him.  She chased him right out the front door with his broken guitar in her hand.  He was bleeding from his forehead and began apologizing half way down the driveway.  She left no doubt that if he didn’t leave, she’d keep hitting him until he did.  Once things settled down, if they ever did, I noticed the broken hearted was outside the kitchen door crying, setting the broken guitar against one of the empty trash cans.  In an attempt to distract her from her tears I began to construct a story.  I expressed in short that all musical instruments possess a soul and how some people would see it as sacrilegious to simply discard such a vessel into the garbage without remorse or even a second thought.  To demonstrate that I was serious in my convictions and wasn’t just letting the alcohol do my talking, I offered cash in exchange for its broken body.  She agreed but probably still thought it was an impulsive move from somebody too drunk to know better.

That guitar sat alone for months in the corner of my room, one hundred percent decoration.  One day I got out a bottle of Elmer’s glue and began reassembling its broken body.  Once the glue dried I again left it alone to gathering dust in the corner of my room.  It was a poor little soul with all those scares.  Months later while cleaning out my closet and throwing out a bunch of stuff gathered during my childhood I came across a box of stickers.  I found myself a razor blade and began dismantling each sticker into its components to erase any linkage these stickers had to my childhood.  One by one I placed each new pattern onto the guitar, with the initial intent of covering up its scares.

Over time stickers came from all directions – small parties, sister’s friends, etc., – a rainbow of band-aids.  I became convinced that if I brought this guitar along with me on my adventure I could teach myself how to play.  I saw this as the perfect solution for filling any down time I might experience while traveling.  When I mentioned this idea to my father, he thought that carrying a guitar was the most impractical decision I could make.  Maybe a fishing pole or sleeping bag would be more practical.  But what I didn’t explain was that I was willing to deposit it in the first receptacle when I got tired of lugging it around.

The more I thought about it the more I convinced myself I ought to start off with a traveling companion.  Jim was the only person I knew that could afford to travel and would be willing to spend money to do so.  The majority of my friends were either seeking to buy a new car, or had spent the last of their available money on a dime bag of weed.  So if I would have a traveling companion, it could only be Jim.

I met Jim in college.  He was sitting in the back of the room making puppy eyes at a cute young lady that not only Jim but the rest of the class was too intimidated to talk to.  I sat next to her and opened up a conversation.  The next day Jim sat next to me forcing this young lady to take the seat next to him, which placed Jim between our conversations.  I discovered that not only did Jim and I attend the same kindergarten but we had been in the same class in the same year.  That thought resonated in my head for some time, because I prided myself on remembering details but didn’t remember Jim at all.  We had common interests and have been hanging out since. When I broached the subject, Jim thought about it for a while but it didn’t take a lot of arm-twisting to persuade him a vacation after our college work was a good idea and he agreed.

I purchased myself a one-way ticket to London, England, a train/drive pass for Great Britain and two (2) three-month unlimited first-class train passes for the continent.  Then I packed up all my belongings and was ready to spread my wings.   “I don’t care how rough the road may be just show me where it starts”.

“T0 gain what a trusting man would earn”