I met a traveller from a far away land. As I walked around Ashland, OR, just before a showing of Macbeth at the Oregon Shakespeare Festival, I discovered a small curio shop in the artisan’s market. A grey bearded man was chatting with some tourists, trying to convince them to buy some of his wares. I’m not sure what, but from the looks on their faces, they had only been window shopping. He had pulled them into his net and was working the charm.
I noticed a tinge of the Old Country about his manner and the way he spoke, though his clothes were more suited for an eclectic adobe and sandwashed Santa Fe Style shop with the heavy scent of pinon smoldering somewhere. His blousy shirt was unbuttoned enough to display a large turquoise squash blossom necklace and skin the color of leather. The blued lines of some tattoos peeked out as well. His hands were twisted from age and hard use, also lined with tattoos. Some older than others.
He was telling the couple about how he had rescued six pirates who had capsized at sea, and how the pirates had become his friends for his kindness.
The couple drifted away and the man directed his attention to me. We started talking for a bit and he explained to me that his shop had a little bit of everything. Scarves of handthreaded silk, bronze and ceramic statues of the Buddha, old tin signs. One sign he pointed to was one for a Cork brand of Stout. He talked about how when he lived in Cork forty or fifty years ago, he could buy a half-pint for seven copper pennies.
He told me that he was originally from Dublin, and had started off by trade as a sailor. He spent many years at sea, some of which had taken him to Cork, Ireland and even working a rowboat to take supplies and visitors out to Skellig off the coast. He said he had once climbed to the top of Skellig and how you just about look off into the end of the world.
His shop was filled with many collections from his travels and an interesting life well-lived. He wore rings on every finger, silver, gold, handmade, some with large stones. Each had a story to tell, I’m sure, if you asked about it. A whole lifetime of collections. Memories.
We swapped stories for a little bit and found many parallels between my life in a skoolie and his life at sea. How everything onboard had to have at least two jobs or it didn’t stay. That was when he tried to sell me one of those silk scarves for $85. His friend, a beautiful young blonde woman in a wide brimmed felt hat, whose picture hung by her items. Imports, mostly from India. She had the look of an Influencer, young, attractive, wealthy for not having actually done much with her time on this planet so far.
Just about every item he tried to baffle me with I knew what it was. The tiller handle which he kept by the door for protection, the windlass crank, two bronze windlasses whose gearing mechanisms rolled inside with each turn with the sound of a Swiss watch being wound. I have my collections too, must of which are just the knowing of what things are.
It was time for me to be going. My feet were beginning to hurt from walking around in old shoes on hard sidewalks.
As an English major and History minor, my familiarity with Shakespeare was fairly thin. Unfortunately I had read more of the Bard’s plays for History classes. Julius Caesar, Henry IV part I and II, Henry V, a few other histories. Much like putting on a movie for a history class than actually historically accurate events. My English classes were riding the crest of the new wave of Postmodern English curriculum. The Man from Stratford had been removed. I read Hamlet and Much Ado About Nothing. I knew Romeo and Juliet from high school, which of course meant my education of the play lacked much of the nuance of a classical education. I enjoy the plays on TV, the film adaptations. The language is thick at times and tends to run on and on, but once you have an ear for it, it gets easier. I had never seen Shakespeare performed live. Macbeth would be my first.
It was incredible.
After the play, my feet had rested enough to take in more of the sights. I found a few bookstores, one of which was used books, not far from the Shakespeare Festival. I struck up a conversation with a pair of sisters and one of their boyfriends about good books to read. Then on my way out, I got into another conversation with an older couple, who seemed interested in the way I was living. They told me they liked the way I talked and that I had a “beautiful vocabulary.” That was some high praise.
Some days I don’t. Many days alone on the road I only talk to Penny, and that usually centers around throwing the tennis ball, the location of missing tennis balls, and how we are out of Milk Bones. (Which reminds me. I need to pick some up today). Some days I get on a roll when meeting new people. Even stranger still, there are times when I feel like so much life has been packed into these nine months.
The places I have gone, the new experiences and misadventures. How strange that I can casually mention in conversation about places I’ve been recently, like Carlsbad Caverns, Yosemite, Chaco Canyon Ruins, mountains and forests and deserts and the sea. These stories sound well-worn, frayed at the edges, like the fading tattoos of the Irish sailor. But it’s not even been a year on the road.
What wonders and sights to behold await for the years to come?
