Home Free (6 page)

I park the car by the highway and right away I find the overgrown footpath that goes the back way up the “mountain”—just a big hill, really. Our place was on the crest of it. Everything feels the same, even the small white wildflowers underfoot and the clarity of the air. It has a distinctive sparkle here, like Vinho Verde. I walk past barking dogs, and clucking chickens.
O tempo volta
para tras.

The first time I arrived here, I had taken the bus to São Brás, left my bags in a
residencia
then walked the four kilometres to Alpor-tel, asking here and there after the tall
inglês
. They kept gesturing up the road. It was dusk by the time I left the highway and began to climb. At the top of the hill I came to a two-storey house, ochre and white, with an explosion of purple bougainvillea against one wall and grass growing up through the tiles of the patio. The dark wooden panels of the front door,with a brass knocker in the shape of a woman's hand, were narrow as a cupboard and opened down the middle. The place was elegant but slightly derelict-looking.

I had no idea what to expect. My plane mate could have a wife and family with him, if not a cult.

I knocked, then pushed open the door and there he was, like a page out of some Graham Greene novel. He was sitting in a dark leather armchair in an otherwise empty room,with a book in his lap, a cigarette between his fingers, and a glass of red wine on the floor. He was surprised to see me, but not overly.

“Amazing,”he said. “I've been thinking of you the past few days, wondering if you'd come.”

That night, we walked all the way back to my
residencia
, where we slept badly in the single bed, facing the painting of Jesus Christ on the wall. The next morning we brought my things back to the villa, and I moved in. His father owned the place and planned to rent it out some time. But for now it was empty.

We cooked over a brazier and lived mostly outside, where the back wall of the house jutted out into a ledge. Hours were spent just sitting on the ledge, watching the mists lift off the hills to the north. Our Portuguese neighbours were remarkably accepting of these English hippies who did nothing all day long. And it was, accidentally, domestic life, a
home
, the thing I missed but didn't realize. There wasn't even the problem of being in love, at least at first. Politics, the scene in London,my family—they all felt as far away as Jupiter. We had successfully dropped out.

Several months went by.

My decision to go back to Canada was as casual and careless as my arrival; it was almost Christmas, and I thought I should show up for it.

Chris walked me to the highway,where we flagged down the big smoke-windowed bus to Lisbon. I was wearing a long, three-tiered brown woollen cloak, the kind the local shepherds wore, and had packed a big bag of unshelled almonds. Although I waved from my seat on the bus I doubt he could have seen me through the tinted glass.

My parents lived in Burlington, near a big bridge called the Skyway, not far from the American border. On the day before Christmas, at the end of 1971, I flew to London, then New York, then took a bus north. One of Buffalo's famous snowstorms enveloped the area—the winds were strong on the arch of the Skyway. The driver agreed to drop me beside the toll booths, where my sandals sank into more than a foot of new snow: O Canada.

In my bag was a glass kerosene lamp and ceramic bowls from Portugal, presents for my parents. A cab ride took me to my parents' front door. It was early, 7:30 or so. The shoulders of my cloak were covered in snow. I was excited, breathless. My father in his bathrobe took his time answering the knock. Merry Christmas! I said,with a conscience as smooth and clean as a skating rink. His face registered surprise, anger, worry, relief, surprise, anger, like symbols rolling by in a slot machine. Either I hadn't written in weeks (a possibility) or else they hadn't received my letters. The worst part is I can't remember which it was. In any case, they weren't expecting me. They had accepted the fact that I wouldn't be home for Christmas. Now I was on their front step, in a goat-smelling cloak.

My mother appeared at the door, brought me into the house, and went about normalizing things. It was Christmas day, after all. I sat down to proudly show my mother pictures of my travels, photos of the
inglês
, in his Indian shirt looking, I now realized as I saw him through their eyes, like a cross between a pig farmer and a dope dealer. She studied the pictures without saying a word and then went to the table, already set for 11—the whole family, minus me.

My mother added a place setting and turned my attention to the turkey on the counter, trussed and ready for the oven. Did I think five hours would be enough? We gazed at the bound bird and I tasted her dressing. No one said a thing about the fact that I had disappeared off the face of the earth or that my mother had been worried for weeks.

I couldn't see what I had done wrong. My carelessness eluded me. I was only miffed that my prodigal-daughter surprise didn't go over the way I had hoped.

But Christmas is nothing if not a set of small rituals, and these eventually salvaged the day. My mother made it clear that I was welcome, although now that I had crossed the border into her country, I would do well to put my alarming photographs away and observe the local customs instead.

I picked up a small knife and began to peel potatoes. Meanwhile, my father passed through the kitchen, cracking his knuckles in vexation and relief,working hard to forgive me.

When I reach the top of the hill above Alportel, the white house is still there, but it's been turned into three lavish rental units. An English couple in their sixties is staying in one; when they see me peering through the slats of the gate, they graciously invite me in. The man has a long white beard, like a hobbit, and the woman is tiny, tanned to a walnut colour, and wearing a bikini. I tour the house,where the huge blackened hearth in the kitchen is the same as I remember. So is the feel of the undulating, rosy tiles underfoot. The courtyard where the lemon and almond trees used to grow is now occupied by a swimming pool. The ledge at the back of the wall has been removed.

They are friendly and offer me a cocktail, but I say I don't want to drive the mountain roads after dark.

On my way back, I swirl into the parking lot of the Alte hotel and ding another car with my mirror. There's no damage, just a scratch on mine I will have to pay for. I log onto the computer one last time and find a brief email from Casey. He's taking a break in Puebla, he writes, and plans to meet up with two friends from Montreal who are biking their way down the Mexican coast. He'll ride with them a while, then gradually make his way back north. His hard travels seem to be behind him for now.

I buy a can of silver spray paint in town, a challenge to my Portuguese vocabulary. It covers the scratch on the mirror perfectly. Then I splurge on a phone call home to ask Brian to meet my flight. The sound of his voice steadies me. This is not a custom of ours, to pick each other up at the airport. We are very independent in our habits. In some ways, even after all these years we're still learning how to be a couple.

His Version

A
MONTH OR TWO after I got back to Toronto, Casey flew home from Las Vegas with his bike in a box. His hair was wild and his eyes were very blue. Whiffs of the ocean and the desert came off him. Somewhere on the road, in a pay phone, he had applied and been accepted for a job at a summer camp in Maine, leading canoe trips. More outside. More adventure.

And he thought he might go back to university in the fall after all. Maybe change his minor to environmental studies, cut back his course load a little.

That sounds good to us,we said.

There were a few weeks left before he had to be in Maine, so he stayed with us. Sometimes he would stay out with friends 'til 3 or 4 a.m., keeping Montreal hours, then biking home. I am a light sleeper. On those nights, I fell into a certain routine.

We go to bed shortly after midnight as usual. Then, around two,my eyes pop open. I can tell by the slant of the light in the hall that his bedroom door is still open. Not home yet. Never mind! Think of all the nights he's been somewhere else, in Tucson or Tijuana or Montreal and you're not around to worry about him showing up, I chastise myself. He's in his twenties now, I remind myself, not a little boy lost in the mall; he could be driving a tank in Afghanistan. God, imagine that. (I do.)

Brian sleeps on, unperturbed, beside me. Then I think about a friend of ours, a psychotherapist with a son Casey's age still living at home; she told me that she can't help it, she stays awake 'til he gets home too. It's like we're soldiers with post-traumatic syndrome, who get triggered by harmless but familiar situations.

Three a.m. Was he wearing his helmet? I feel ridiculous, mothering away in the dark, for no good reason. Should I avail myself of the little blue crumbs of Ativan in the drawer by the bed? No, let's wait a bit. Maybe the paperman will drive by earlier than usual— his muffler is shot so I know that sound too—and I can read the
Globe
.

I don't think I have the telephone numbers of any of his Toronto friends. Alex, Tom, and Rhys. Rhys who?

Then I hear the
chunnng
of the wrought-iron fence closing and the front door unclasping. The delicate tick of the road bike being wheeled in. The fridge door opens, and closes, followed by his cautious steps on the stairs, adult and thoughtful.

The hall light goes off.

Now I can sleep.

Two years after our simultaneous journeys, I began to put together some notes for this book. But the chronology of events had faded, so I asked Casey to map out his itinerary for me. Also, had he thought more about why he wanted to take off and travel in the first place?

This is part of what he wrote back:

“Hitting the road was a bit of a shot in the dark. I knew I wanted a change and a new experience, but I wasn't sure what I was looking for. Part of it was a rejection of ‘the establishment,' whatever that was. I've always had a chip on my shoulder about schooling and jobs and institutions. So I decided to get away and do something that wasn't tied to any of these things. The freedom was exhilarating. Every bus stop and overpass and skyline seemed unbelievably real and vivid.

“One thing I noticed is that the farther from home you get, the more your differences stick out. I was a bit of an odd character in New Mexico but I really stuck out in Guatemala. I realized I would always be having the experience of a gringo, no matter how far I travelled. I began to notice how I must have appeared to people in the middle of their own regular lives. I was a dirty, aimless white kid hundreds of miles away from his family and friends. I was going nowhere in particular, for no apparent reason. In Mexico, especially, people often couldn't understand why anyone would want to be away from their home and family.

“In Toronto, each adult person is, more or less, on their own. Not alone all the time, but when it comes down to the wire it's sort of every man for himself. You go to school to succeed, and to make a life for yourself. People work at jobs, advance their careers, buy their own things, and support their own families. If you're successful, it's your achievement. If you fail, it's your problem. The individual is the basic unit of social interaction. This puts a lot of pressure on the individual to succeed and to be an autonomous, fully functional member of society.

“In Latin America, from what I could see, the family was the basic unit of life, not the individual. People seemed to identify and understand themselves primarily according to their family, extended family, and community. It's hard to say this and not sound clichéd, but family and community seemed to mean something totally different in Mexico than it did in my world.

“I don't want to sound like a sociology textbook, so let me tell you why this is relevant to me. I was on a journey, spending time and money. I was choosing to go out into the world and find something. I was obviously doing
something
, but what the hell was it?

“First, I was getting away. I was striking out on my own and escaping my family. Why was I escaping my family? I don't know. I have and had a great family, but for some reason I felt the need to get as far away from it as possible.

“Travelling was, in one sense, eye-opening, rewarding, and mind-expanding. But in another sense, it all led nowhere. It was a treadmill. Getting away gave me lots of perspective, but it didn't leave me feeling like a well-defined individual. It was, sometimes, a little too much perspective. I was struck by how wonderful and different life could be but I didn't return with anything substantial.

“I knew when I left that I was chasing after some kind of dream. My ideas, however, were hazy. I was looking for my own version of the American dream. Not the Star-Spangled Banner version though. I was looking to discover something that spoke to the reality of America,which I saw as being sort of fallen, desperate, excessive, and glorious. I wanted to experience America first-hand, as it really was. I thought of myself as walking in the footsteps of Woody Guthrie, Bob Dylan, and Jack Kerouac—on the road.”

[So, I thought,my literary suspicions are confirmed. . . .]

“In a lot of ways, I was looking for glory. (This is stereotypical of young males everywhere, but for me it was true.) When I came home, I thought I would return with stories and a broader understanding of the world. I would never have admitted that I was looking for glory, but that was surely a large part of it.

“But I found that this kind of search eventually hits the wall. I saw all kinds of people, with all kinds of lives, and all kinds of stories, but whenever I'd stop to talk with someone, the question eventually came up—‘What is
your
story?' They wondered what I was doing in their world, in their town. Did I have a wife or children? Where was my family? What mattered to me, and what was I doing so far from home?