Traveler´s City

Everything was new and beautiful. We were free and unattached. A vague itinerary had us wandering through the forests and dunes and lakes of Michigan and Canada, with ice cream shops and backwoods bars as reference points. A half-gallon of organic milk in the cooler, a borrowed tent, and deflating party balloons in the backseat.

Honeymooners.

We had planned to amble along the coast a few hours at a time, alternating between campgrounds and hotels, taking in the idiosyncrasies of small-towns and the slow-paced beauty of state parks and wildlife refuges. We had just bounced off another roadside farmer’s market (you can grow anything in Michigan) and started north on highway 37 towards Sleeping Bear Dunes National Lakeshore. My Michigander-of-a-wife was graciously putting up with my Hoosier delight in such an abundance of sand and open water.

Someone was walking north on the road. I measured her up quickly – not getting her mail, no flat tire, disheveled, frustrated.

Hitchhiker.

Of course, I maintained my speed. My wife and I both passed a “sorry-mate-if-we-had-a-truck-you-could-ride-in-the-back” look and then stared straight ahead. Gospel swirled through my head. I thought about my God, the one who takes on in the most distressing disguises – the crazy veteran, the poor kid with a swollen belly, the gay high schooler who is everyone’s favorite target. I thought about all those words that slice straight through the layers of excuses, self-protection, and “rational” thought that I cocoon myself inside. An orange sign. Slowing traffic. The urge arose and… a moment of decision.

U-turn.

I explained, “Well, dear, I just thought, ‘Ya know, I’m sick of always living for the next big thing. Waiting for tomorrow. Putting things off. What if we just…”

“I know,” my wife replied. “I was thinking the same thing. Let’s do it.”

Our target was still disheveled, still frustrated. I had a moment of hesitation and thought about the worst-case scenario. But upon seeing her again, I relaxed a little. I don’t remember ever seeing a “Suzanna” on the FBI’s Most Wanted list.

She crawled into the backseat amongst clumsily packed belongings. A real live hitchhiker; this weekend was just full of surprises.

“Sorry about the balloons on the floor,” I apologized. “We just got married.”

For the first time in my life, I was given responsibility for another human being, a petite female goddess I was crazy in love with. What was I thinking? I hadn’t even been hitched for 100 hours. The painted reminder was still fresh on my window - “Keep your hands on the wheel!”.

Introductions and a pause. I teed off first. “Our religious teachings say that you can find God in people in distress, people in need, so we thought we’d help you out.” Jeez, Adam. You don’t have to be a freak about it. I’ve often tried (unsuccessfully and awkwardly) to bridge the gap between Old Time Religion and the New Age, offering something sufficiently orthodox yet still relevant and comprehendible to post-modern man (and woman). My beautifully simple wife cuts through all the crap. She urges me, “Honey, just tell people you’re a Christian. They’ll understand.” That’s what I’m afraid of. I usually settle for something in between, like “follower of Jesus”.

For a few dozen miles I played out knife-attack scenarios in my mind (dodge blade! swerve car! detain while stunned!) while my wife craned her neck around to attempt eye contact, listening politely. We heard tales of failed automobiles, knife-happy doctors, and unpaid bills - basically drawing of the short straw day after day for an entire lifetime. Who knew that Michiganders were so self-righteous and inhospitable? Not like those humble folk in the Southwest. Our traveler ensured us that hitching a ride in Flagstaff was as easy as ordering lunch. You’d be hard-pressed to get a ride in Michigan, that was for dang sure.

I began to probe a little deeper, wondering where she actually needed to be taken. It turned out that she needed to get to “Traveler’s City” to get money wired from her step-brother-in-law (once removed). I looked at the green highway sign: “Traverse City: 43″. I figured that we could drop her there and leave before she realized that she had not indeed arrived at Traveler’s City. I also figured out that it was about 30 miles out of my way and that I had an appointment with the dunes. But the voices wouldn’t leave me alone: If anyone forces you to go one mile, go with them two miles. Give to the one who asks you. Oh, God - why? But then I looked at her in the rear view mirror and realized that she really might not get another ride today and that modern humans survive much better in the city than in the woods. I tried to calm my breathing. Don’t think of gas, don’t think of time, don’t think of honeymoon…

As we approached our destination, it turned out that she wanted to visit the hospital for her sore hips, which explained her constant shifting in the backseat. Those blue “H” signs along the road that you never really think about actually do lead you to a hospital. At her insistence, we arrived at the door labeled “emergency”, another first for me and what I assumed to be a weekly ritual for her. A young man emerged with a wheel chair before I even put the car into park. Our guest exited the car after requesting some money to hold her over and, after a bargaining session, settling for a few pieces from our food cache. I drove away before medical personnel could ask any questions or mystery lady could change her mind. The Parable of the Good Samaritan knocked: Look after him, and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have. I sighed, my muscles relaxed, and I pointed the car toward the shoreline.

I hadn’t planned on any meaningful interactions with strangers on my honeymoon. I didn’t particularly like our visitor or care to hear her tall tales, and she probably didn’t enjoy traveling through Michigan. But we did share a few miles together - spontaneous, nervous, and new. It made my flawless vacation a little dirty, but also a little more real. I probably won’t ever see her again, but if I ever do find Traveler’s City, I’ll be sure to look her up.

Author Bio:: Adam and his wife are currently funemployed and are hunkered down with a few brave Word Made Flesh gringos in El Alto, Bolivia. They generally steer clear of hitchhikers, gringo or otherwise.

for further reading . . .

• The Man and The Couch
• The Death of Evelyn and the Failure of the Church