It seemed reasonable to me. I was about to go to Europe for three months, and if I budgeted myself correctly the trip would cost $450 for the entire summer.

So that’s what I did. It was 1971 and I was 20, the summer between my junior and senior years of college. I’d saved money from working in the campus library and with $450 in traveler’s checks, a Eurail Pass, a copy of Arthur Frommer’s Europe on $5 a Day and a borrowed backpack I boarded a charter flight from Oakland to Amsterdam.

I did it alone, because none of my friends had the money or the inclination to go for that long. It didn’t occur to me I’d get lonely, which I often did, or that my $5 daily stipend would prove awfully limiting and sometimes painful. I traveled on the rough: staying in youth hostels that charged the equivalent of $2.15 for bed and breakfast; sleeping occasionally on trains; eating Wimpy burgers for lunch; making dinner from yogurt, cheese and a hunk of bread and eating it on a park bench.

Every single American college student was tramping through Europe that summer, or so it seemed. Time Magazine ran a story about the great exodus and put it on their cover. But there were thousands of young Europeans, Australians and Israelis as well. and what developed was a wide-ranging fraternity of  young and curious, like-minded adventurers. We crossed paths, swapped stories and shared information about bargain flights and cheap hotels, which hostels to avoid and which destinations not to miss.

I slept on cement floors more than once. In Madrid, a dusty youth hostel on the edge of town had no toilet facilities, just holes in the floor and two well-worn grooves to place your feet in. In Munich, hostelers were awakened each morning when a large frau marched through the dormitories banging on an enormous stewpot with a heavy metal spoon. In Geneva, they blasted you awake Waco-style with loud music until you got out of bed. Most hostels required that you vacate after breakfast, and barred you from re-entering until 5 p.m.

That kind of thing gets tiring. A couple of times I took a detour to the countryside north of Paris where my Aunt Betty and Uncle Bob were teaching at the European Bible Institute in Lamorlaye. I could catch up on sleep there and uncouple from the tourism circuit. Eat Aunt Betty’s cooking, do my laundry and enjoy my aunt’s shy, quiet, graceful hospitality. I adored her.

I visited nine countries in 13 weeks, circling clockwise from England and Scotland to France, Spain, Switzerland, Italy, Germany, Denmark and the Netherlands. I got introduced to sangria, tapas and the audacious, dripping-candle architecture of Antoni Gaudi in Barcelona; visited a tiny, remote Danish village called Vistoft where two American friends were apprenticing as ceramicists and escaping the Vietnam War; crossed the English Channel in a hovercraft and, when arriving in France after two weeks in Britain, felt like I’d stepped from dreary black-and-white into a gorgeous Technicolor spectacle. Near the boat dock in Calais you had a shop that sold nothing but cheeses, some in huge, 6-foot-tall wheels. Next to it a wine shop, a patisserie and a flower shop exploding with color and fragrance and something that felt like the celebration of life.

In Barcelona, I was hosted by Raul Alcalay, a Catalan who’d spent a year as foreign exchange student to my home town of West Covina. On the back of Raul’s motor scooter I got a king’s tour of Barcelona and everything designed by the miraculous Gaudi. His family dined at 10 p.m., a multi-course meal that lasted almost till midnight, and later Raul took me to rowdy tavernas where Catalan men played guitar and drunkenly sang Cuban revolutionary songs. At night I slept in the Alcalays’ tiny guest room and felt very fortunate; in another part of the spacious apartment Raul’s lovely mother, 45 years at most, was dying of cancer.

In Denmark I boarded a train in Copenhagen, located on the island of Sjaelland, and headed west. The entire train rode onto a huge ferry that crossed a 14-mile body of water, left the ferry and traveled overland on the island of Fyn, then crossed a short bridge to the Jutland peninsula. In Montreux, that elegant Swiss town on Lake Geneva, I took the greatest train journey of my life. As we headed east to the German-speaking region of Switzerland, a stream of cheerful, rosy-cheeked hikers boarded wearing lederhosen and rucksacks and carrying pointed, hand-carved hiking sticks. The train kept climbing, the Alpine landscape grew lusher and cooler, and by late afternoon we had slowed to a crawl while the train finessed a tangle of tight curves. The scenery was so enchanted that when the train turned to reveal a waterfall filtered through foggy mist, it seemed that everyone on the train – day hikers, old ladies, tourists and children — quietly sighed in unison. Or so it seems to me now in retrospect. A perfect moment.

The train terminated in Interlaken, a resort town high in the Alps. The youth hostel was full but outside the train station I met a lively Dutch family who invited me to share their dinner and spend the night at their camping site next to Lake Thun. Mr. and Mrs. Van Dyk’s kindness and generosity were overwhelming, and their beer was excellent. When it rained buckets that night their son Chris rescued me from the leaky tent they’d loaned me, and set me up on the floor of their caravan trailer. The lightning was thrilling on that magnificent night: with each angry thunderclap the entire valley lit up so brightly – like high noon in July – that you could see the blunt peaks of the Jungfrau, the Eiger and the Mönch in sharp relief.

The following day I thanked the Van Dyks and took a narrow-gauge train on a steep ascent up to Grindelwald, probably the prettiest, most pristine village I’ve ever seen. Rustic chalets with flower boxes at each window, the freshest air you’ve ever tasted, friendly people, amazing vistas. Everything sparkled. I remember speaking to a pair of older hikers who asked how long I’d be staying. When I said one day, they looked sad for me. My memory of Grindelwald is bittersweet, precisely because I couldn’t stay longer and also because I know that if I went back today I would be disappointed by the growth and the clamor of tourism.

My last stop that summer was Amsterdam, where I’d started the journey. I remember standing in a record store where you could rent a turntable by the hour and listen to a variety of LPs. I chose Joni Mitchell’s “Blue,” which had come out that summer. It was about travel, about being young and alone in the world and questioning your path. The song “California,” with its plaintive longing for home and connection and constancy, sounded like she’d written it just for me:

Joni captured an essential aspect of youth in “Blue”: the anticipation of something soon to change, the thrill and anxiety of that anticipation, and the ways in which foreign travel intensifies those thoughts. The day after standing in that Amsterdam record store and falling in love with “Blue” —to this day, it’s still my favorite record— I flew home to California. Out of the $450 in Thomas Cook’s traveler’s checks that I took to Europe in June, I somehow still had $15 left.

That summer in Europe was the beginning of a lifetime of travel – a passion that’s never sated. I don’t travel rough any longer, and sometimes I spend in two days what I spent over three months in 1971. I’ve visited 45 countries so far and all seven continents and I’m impatient as I write this, waiting for Covid to disappear so I can explore again without fear. Travel teaches you so much: geography and other cultures; how to see the world through someone else’s eyes; to think more openly and curiously and without bias.

“The world is a book,” Saint Augustine wrote, “and those who do not travel read only one page.”

Mother and Child,  Mary Cassatt 1897

Going Back to Work

I was working as a high school librarian,   with an easy 20 minute highway commute,  when I discovered  I was pregnant.   I happily applied for a maternity leave and told my principal I’d be leaving a week or two before my mid-March due date.   And by that time – with my big belly – it was getting difficult to fit behind the steering wheel.  (Against school policy I kept my keys!)

My husband Danny and I had dutifully attended a Lamaze class,   and were anticipating a natural childbirth,   but apparently the baby had other ideas.   He was in a breach position and had to be delivered by Cesarean.    (See My Brown-Eyed Girl)

Back then hospital stays after childbirth were several days long,   but after C-sections or other complications the stay might be as long as a week,  and that was the case with me.   Of course I was anxious to get home with my new baby boy,  and at the time I probably didn’t appreciate those extra days of hospital rest.

Thankfully once we got home –  despite those middle-of-the-night feedings,  the lack of sleep and irritability,  and all else new parents are heir to –  all went well and we had the spring and summer to  show our little Noah the world.  However I had every intention of going back to work in September,   and so over the summer I weaned the baby and we had the good fortune to find a wonderful nanny.  (See Our Noisy Nanny)

And in September I did go back,  but it was exhausting  – driving to school in the morning after too little sleep,   coming home tired every afternoon,   taking over the child care and household chores when the nanny left,  making  dinner,   and then the bath-time and bed-time routines.

We were living in Westchester then,  and Danny’s  long work hours and his train commute to his mid-Manhattan office often brought him home too late to be of much help.   So after one semester – although I loved being back at work –  I was a nervous wreck and felt I needed to take a child care leave.   It was the right decision and I was able to enjoy several wonderful years parenting Noah full-time.   (See Stay-at-Home Mom)

One day during those magical years I remember sitting in the park as I watched Noah play in the sandbox,   and wishing that precious time could stand still.   But of course it couldn’t,   and all too soon he started kindergarten and I knew it was time I went back to work.  I wasn’t apprehensive about leaving him,  I knew he’d be in good hands with loving grandparents nearby and a wonderful nanny.

Nevertheless,   I dreaded how I’d feel when the day finally came.   When it did I kissed Noah good-bye,  and carrying my school keys and a paper cup of tea I headed to the garage for my car.   Then starting off on that familiar early morning commute back to a job I loved,  I actually felt pretty good!

– Dana Susan Lehrman 

Now why did I come into the room?

The word was just on the tip of my tongue.

What was the name of that actress in the movie we just saw?

How about the one where your husband INSISTS he is correct when I can prove he isn’t, or that he’s told you something when you know he hasn’t. I’m sure he thinks he has; it was on his mind. He just never told ME! Does that one ring a bell?

I used to have the BEST memory. No longer and believe me, it frustrates me no end. I am far from dementia, but I know I am not what I used to be. I could memorize long monologues from plays for my acting classes (as I had to do regularly). No problem. I could memorize an entire piece of music after several weeks of practice.

Particularly scary is not knowing how to get somewhere when I’ve been there hundreds of times. I have to stop and think before I set out to drive. “Now, HOW do I get there?” Sometimes I turn on my GPS, even when I’m not going far. I just can’t remember. My shrink tells me this is a common phenomenon in post-menopausal women. That was somewhat reassuring, but sure, blame that on lack of hormones too.

I do not believe that doing puzzles or memory exercises will save me. I do think writing helps. I have to remember words. That’s a good thing. One reason I like to write stories ahead is because I often can’t come up with the BEST word as I write. So I like to let the story breathe a bit, and then a better word is likely to pop into my head at a later moment.

On both sides of my family, members lived well into their nineties. However, most suffered from vascular dementia (not Alzheimer’s, but they still lost their marbles; it wasn’t pretty). It is sobering to think about. Eating well, exercising and keeping active in spirit is the best remedy I can think of to try to keep it all together.

 

 

“You can’t do that to another girl!”

Alex was really pissed. I didn’t understand why she was pissed at me, exactly. It had been her boyfriend’s idea to walk in the summer moonlight and make out in some neighbor’s yard, not mine. It would have remained a regrettable secret, but Alex (not her real name) either suspected something and bullied her boyfriend into a confession—or his guilty conscience compelled him to ’fess up. Either way, the details had come out: a few kisses in the dark and horizontal body contact with another girl—me.

What happened next: a torrent of full- blown, female adolescent fury aimed— justly or not— at me. “You just don’t do things like that in a house of girls!”

Alex had a point—we did live in a house of girls. I was sixteen in the summer of 1968, staying at my aunt and uncle’s house in a Southern California beach town. Alex, also sixteen, lived with my relatives as their unofficial foster daughter. Along with my three female cousins, that made five teenage girls living under one roof.

 

We girls had fallen into a lazy summer routine. As we waited for the sun to cut through the “marine layer,” we’d fuss with our hair, put on swimsuits, pack lunch. We took our time walking down to the beach—slapping our flip-flops on the sidewalk and yakking all the way.

We’d stake out a place on the sand, shed our t-shirts, and swipe on Coppertone or Sea ’n’ Ski. Walking towards the surf, we sucked in our stomachs and made sure the bottoms of our swimsuits didn’t creep up.

For me, beach life meant freedom and a world apart. I had no real responsibilities, no obligations, and got no push-back from anyone. My aunt and uncle let me do my thing. So if I acted a little wild, I knew they wouldn’t stand in my way. We didn’t have a curfew; we didn’t need to be specific about where we’d be or when we’d be back or who we hung out with.

Unless we hung out with another girl’s boyfriend.

By my actions, I had violated the unwritten code of cohabiting teenage girl behavior. I could’ve made the argument that Alex’s boyfriend was eager to stray with another girl into the night, both of us acting more daring, more brazen and maybe a bit crazier than we would have in the sensible light of day.

The truth is, the languid rhythm of the beach town brought out a side of me that was untethered and reckless. I had my reasons for acting out: I was trying to get over a bad break-up. Why not flirt with every boy I met? I didn’t have any better ideas.

I’d been in a long-distance relationship with a boy I met at summer camp the year before. When summer ended, we sustained our romance with phone calls and bad poetry.

He came to see me at the beach, since he lived nearby. At the end of the evening, we had a nasty fight.

“Are you calling me a liar?” he asked. (I was.)

“Then get out of my car!” (I did). I told him I never wanted to see him or hear from him again. Ever.

He laid rubber in the driveway and drove off. Good riddance, I thought. Then I burst into tears.

 

My cousins threw a party a couple of nights later. Five girls attracted a lot of boys. We danced to the Beatles, the Temptations, and Marvin Gaye on the dimly-lit patio. When the slow dancing started, I looked in earnest for a partner. So many prospects: tan, blonde surfers with long hair and sexy smiles.

But the one who caught my eye? Jack (not his real name either):  a skinny kid with a mouth full of heavy metal. He had a slow smile, brown hair that hung over one eye, and long, graceful hands.  And there you have it—a love-sick girl, hoping to get her groove back, somehow drawn toward a kid still in junior high. In a house of girls, in a beach town, under the moonlight on a cool summer night, strange, unpredictable things can happen.

Jack. Me. My cousin’s room, with the door closed. Happy hearts beating fast; metallic kisses and slow hands. After about an hour of this, he reached for his fly and politely asked, “Want me to …?”

I said. “Uh, no…that’s okay.” God, he was adorable.

I felt happy when I was with Jack.

And when I wasn’t with him, I’d ask myself if I was nuts.

 

A few days later, Alex’s boyfriend and I started talking and the next thing I knew, he had me by the elbow and we were out the door.

As we walked around the neighborhood, the conversation turned to love. Or maybe it was sex. I can’t remember exactly. But he was certain he could teach me all about it. I didn’t like him that much and I didn’t really think he could teach me anything worthwhile, but again—it was summer, the moon was full, and I was in a boy’s arms and could feel his heartbeat as he pressed himself against me and slowly brought me down to the ground. Was I insane?

We might have been caught in the act by a cranky neighbor or a slobbering dog. Or his girlfriend. Before things really got out of hand, I pushed him away. “We should stop now and go back to the house,” I said, “before Alex notices we’re both gone.”

I had an inkling she was the jealous type and should’ve thought twice before doing anything to incur her wrath. I certainly wasn’t going to kiss and tell, and I assumed her boyfriend wasn’t an idiot.

I assumed wrong.

Under duress the next day, he told Alex that we’d been out together, which was technically true: we had been “out,” and we were together. After her sorry excuse for a boyfriend slunk out of the house, Alex fired off the “house of girls” diatribe.

She shook her finger in my face. “You just don’t do those things—how could you?”

My heart rate accelerated, my face felt hot, my knees shook. That afternoon’s guacamole rose in my throat. No one had ever come at me like that. I wanted nothing more than to hightail it out of there—and escape the comeuppance I undoubtedly deserved. Time to go home and back to my less-fraught real life.

At the end of my boy-crazy summer, I learned some lessons about life and love—the hard way—in the house of girls.