No one on the corner got flannel like us

Swagger doesn't happen by accident. Unfortunately obscured in this picture is my new prized possession, a Great Gatsby locket, gift from my older sister.

"What pictures will you put in it?" she asked, and I didn't answer at the time but I'm leaning toward Neal Cassady and Elon Musk.

I drove to Woodstock, New York to see a band. Before the first show I treated myself to a motel room so I could grade papers, but in Connecticut I'll be sleeping in the Champion, iced-over windshield concealing a view of Long Island Sound.

Here is my travel wardrobe. I call it "Backstage with Old Crow Medicine Show," or "Evel Knievel Incognito at a Barn Wedding."

I shouldn't be able to blend in anywhere with my spangles, my stars and stripes, my unnecessary white dresses and my tee shirt with vintage revolver on it. But the crowd is heavily flanneled and suspendered and anyway, I sit in the back.

The band didn't break up, but one left the group and another wrote a solo project. The nice side effect is that they come to each other's shows now. You're as likely as not to see one onstage and another in the house. I spot one right away; he has always had the look of a Civil War ferrotype about to rob a convenience store. I once saw him toss his guitar behind him and keep going when it began feeding back midway through “The Devil is Real.”



title credit M.I.A.

The Scent of Freedom

On to Champion's interior. For winter break, I had planned to drive south until it was warm enough to camp in the vehicle, but the tour itinerary of my favorite band dictated otherwise. So I'll be sleeping in my car in Rhode Island. In December.

My friend Bear (yeah, that's his name. What.) said, "Eventually you just have to be cold. Might as well winterize it for Connecticut before you try sleeping in it in Wyoming."

Initially I priced out some high-tech insulating materials. Then it occurred to me that the word Connecticut is Native American in origin. Humans were winterizing for Rhode Island long before aerogel was invented. (They were also probably naming their children Bear.) I examine photos of lodgings of the eastern Pequots and determine that I'll need some waxed canvas and a layer each of leather, wool, and cotton.

But the first step is to craft a burrow for my pet rabbit, "Tugboat." Tuggie will have to remain below-decks at all times after the redesign: no matter how elegant my Pequot teepee roadster, it spoils the effect if I emerge from it shaking rabbit turds out of my hair.

Now that I'm out from under the vehicle and on to fabric selection for the interior, my mom has enthusiastically joined the project. From my parents' basement, aka the Cave of Wonders, she produces a custom-fit basin for Tuggie's litter box and another for his daily mound of timothy hay. We swab out the wheel wells with vinegar and lay in some fabric, some cedar chips, and a few urine-soaked paper towels. "Everywhere you want a rabbit, it has to smell like rabbit," Mom advises. "And put in some pin-up pics of girl rabbits."

Her point about the smell reminds me of something I've been meaning to mention. The literary heroes of my early teens did not devote nearly the amount of care to their appearance that I do. I plan to match them note for note in rail-riding, steamboat-steering, guitar-strumming, apple-stealing, and covert public urination, but circusninja is also rife with posts about stylish one-pieces and the best pedicures for touring the Colosseum. I make every effort to ensure that I smell like homegrown lavender extract and/or Froot Loops.

Jack Kerouac likely smelt of Sterno cans and unwashed denim. Mark Twain almost certainly smelled like a barnyard full of chain-smoking ducks.

Champion of the Undercarriage

The mechanics who examined "Bantha" handed me an itemized list of repairs needed, not expecting me to leave the shop, list in hand, and do all the work myself. I was lucky to have found Travis, a coworker who let me attach - er, apprentice - myself to him.
Apart from the repairs list and the loden-green jumpsuit, I had little to offer. But after three hours in the October sunshine with Travis, marveling at the cold asphalt under my elbows and the unpretentious steel chassis above me, I had replaced the following:
headlights
rear brake shoes
over-tinted driver's side window
front engine mount
steering control arm
name - Bantha now answers to "Champion," thank you.

I had also expanded upon my signature look by deciding that henceforth I would lacquer my short, grubby nails red. Whether it conceals or highlights the grease underneath them remains to be seen, but it certainly rounds out my jumpsuit-chic aesthetic.

I returned Champion to the shop for re-inspection. "The engine mount isn't fixed at all," observed their mechanic.
"I replaced it completely."
"Put the car in park and turn the steering wheel. You can see all sorts of wobble..."
"The motion you're describing would have to come from the rear engine mount. The list you gave me says front engine mount."
"Well, it depends on which way you're facing..."

I wobbled my engine mount right outta there. They had the good sense not to charge me for reinspection. For the record, it does not depend on which way you're facing, but on whether it is situated toward the rear of the vehicle.

I'll let you know, but it might take more than scarlet fingernails and a jumpsuit that matches my eyes to get myself taken seriously in the automotive world.

21 jumpsuit

I bought a car named Bantha.
Note that I did not say, “I bought a car and named it Bantha.” In fact I had to google the name, and when that was unsuccessful I asked the previous owner what it meant. When he told me it was the name of the mammoth in Star Wars, my response was to form the first two letters of the word, “whyyyyy…" which I retracted out of politeness.
The owner was honest about his Star Wars deal (actually now that I think about it, and examine the stencils on my bumper and gas cap, he probably downplayed it a bit) but he made a few careful edits to the vehicle’s history that I discovered when it failed inspection. For example, “Oh, that dashboard parking brake light…it’s just always on for some reason!” turned out to be “Hey hon, ya know somebody got under here and cut this brake cable, dontcha?”
The mechanic didn’t actually call me “hon” but I felt the need to quote him that way so that you’d know he was a real mechanic.

I’m going to be a real mechanic, too. I bought a jumpsuit - it’s loden green and matches my eyes. It’s made of a specially treated stain-resistant cotton/poly blend and when I wear it I feel like a happy four-year-old.
I’ve been into coveralls since 1981, when my mom hand-made a pair of dusty mauve corduroy overalls with pockets shaped like mittens. As a circus performer I always wore unitards - I had a shimmering silver, a plunging red, a sensible navy, a versatile brown. When the romper trend took off, I rejoiced and bought four at a street fair in Baltimore.
Here is a picture of me wearing one of my Baltimore rompers just outside the walls of the Vatican. That is not my real head. The flip-flops are from Barcelona and offered more cheapness than comfort.

Come at me, all-in-one life. 

Having anticipated the romper and unitard trends - and let’s not forget my mom and I are ahead of mitten-pocket-coveralls by thirty six years and counting - I look forward to the near future when I can wear my loden green mechanic’s jumpsuit to an array of social gatherings and photo opportunities. Stay tuned for pictures of me and my jumpsuit riding a monorail with a scenic vista behind us…me and my jumpsuit flashing a peace sign at the Berlin Wall…me and my jumpsuit swimming with a dolphin.

They didn't let just anybody in that club

Back home in Boston, I was paired with Brian - he of the paella, large, no squid -  to give a presentation on the trip. We linked up a few times to run through the material, some ninety-six pages of original sixteenth century letters containing instructions for the global governance of the fledgling Society of Jesus, of which Brian is now a member. I joked that I shouldn’t have to do any of the reading since I’m just a biology teacher and my presentation partner is a professional Jesuit. I kept feeding him biology factoids – the cell membrane is an amphipathic bilayer with a hydrophobic core – which he shaped into analogies that fit the reading flawlessly. “So its outer and inner faces have the same integrity, but to get across the middle, there’s a semi-selective barrier?” It was like watching him make origami as I passed him fragments of ever more challenging raw material. A square envelope. The paper ring around a restaurant napkin. A postcard from the Vatican.


title credit Kenny Chesney

The big potato

"I bet you'll have an audience with the Pope," said Mom, scanning the itinerary.

"Mom, that's not how it works. Do you have any idea how many Catholics there are in the world?"

"They're probably hoping to surprise you. I mean it would fit right in to your course, right? The Pope is a Jesuit. Why else would they take you to Rome?"

"Because it's ROME, Ma. Not everyone has been there. We're just going to see Rome. You know, the Vatican, St. Peter's, the Sistine chapel - we're going to stand in line like normal tourists and see all the stuff you're supposed to see. THAT's how it fits into the course."

I give her grief for it, but I've always appreciated my mom's indomitable "Well, why NOT my kid?" optimism.

Our wake-up call is a punishing 6:45am, and that doesn't allow time for breakfast. We are supposed to attend Mass at St. Peter's basilica and then return to the hotel to eat. By now I should know better than to depend on the proposed meal schedule. My comrades have already teased me for squirreling away "bus butter" and "purse pizza." 

Hypoglycemia is a real thing, people. I looked it up. 

Our Roman guide, Rudy, returns from the gates of St Peter's square with a helpless shrug. "The church is closed." Our American leader, a

Jesuit priest, isn't shrugging. He looks appalled. "There is an audience," Rudy explains. "Special audience, so they have changed the routine. That's how it is with this Pope, you never know."

After MUCH standing around and failure to accept the reality of the church being closed, we end up in a metal carrel behind a bunch of nuns. Rudy is making new friends, getting the lay of the land. Turns out all these people - the nuns, the civilians (I count four languages), the men dressed up kind of like nuns (no idea, and I didn't ask. By this time I was just wishing I'd thought to bring a pocket pretzel or some backpack brioche) - have tickets for the special audience. We're not getting in to the church.

Just when I'm about to make Marc google hypoglycemia so I can show it to our leader and say "It's a real thing," we decide to cut our losses and return to the hotel. "You can stop by here at 9:20am, at the edge of the square," Rudy offers. "He will come out onto the platform in the distance there, maybe you will see him."

The square is closed and guarded when we return but I stride toward the guards with all the confidence that comes from standing next to Kendra, a beautiful blonde with a disarming smile. We are so getting past these guards. We offer the contents of our purses for search, and the guards look quizzically at me, holding up my undereye concealer wand. "HYPOGLYCEMIA IS A REAL THING," I want to shout. It gives me those high-fashion heroin eyes.

The ticket holders are gathered beneath the platform.  Marc, Brian, Sean and Noel made it through before the gates were closed; we find them easily by scanning the crowd for Mount Brian. We wait in the sun as a Cardinal announces the names of all the groups who have made a pilgrimage to be here today. Cheers erupt from the Indiana youth choir. The Portuguese are more dignified when their name is called. Up on the dais, every pregnant pause only produces another Cardinal, to repeat the litany in Spanish, then in French.

At either side of the square, where the arches meet the ancient walls, two enormous video monitors come to life. There is a shift in the crowd; people are scanning. The video screen shows the Pope in his carriage rolling along, waving, grasping hands. It looks like any image I've seen on tv but I realize he must be HERE, somewhere. I don't know which way to look so I watch the crowd; it gets a little momentum as people begin to spot him and start turning, larger and larger groups all looking in one direction. 

My friends start jumping up and down. I hear the vehicle before I see him; he's nineteen yards to my left and rolling fast this way. To my astonishment, he's going to pass right by us. None of us even use the zoom lens on our cameras. 

What began as a series of delays and disappointments has been transformed like the Eucharist into a close encounter with something soul-stirring. The moment the Jesuit Pope passes me, I say a prayer for what I want most: for my student, Andrew, not to have cancer anymore. I pray that he will be liberated from ever having to worry about it coming back. I pray that he'll get to play soccer again. Please, God, let it be Andrew's life and not his death that becomes a testament to the power of prayer. 

I stood in the spot that Rudy suggested for us, that Brian located, that Kendra secured, that only grace could have created. No one pushed me; no one jostled each other at all. I raised my arm and reached out. 

I didn't earn that audience with the Pope. I think God just sent me there to hold the camera.

Don't look at him; look at the nun.

"Seasickness is just a misunderstanding in the inner ear."

An unlikely oil scion who would have made an excellent Muppet for reasons too numerous to mention, Marc has nearly completed eleven years of training to become a Jesuit priest. He is funny and irreverent; he swears and he smokes. He beats me by 0.7 seconds with every witty quip, but he's also the first person to hug and thank someone who shares a personal insight during evening reflection. 

Marc chose a window seat directly behind me on the bus, where he sat for six days sharing a few personal reflections of his own, on everything from solar panels to sunflowers to acute motion sickness. "Press your fingers on the tendon in your wrist," I told him, "and look at the horizon." A diving guide named Octavio taught me that in Mexico. It doesn't work, but it gives you something to think about. 

 I was pressing my own wrist when we made the approach to Montserrat,  a rising series of switchbacks that reminded me of a marble maze. In the back of the bus, Kendra inquired about the window hammer. In case of emergency, you tap it in a rectangle shape around the window and force the glass out. "Just use it on me," Marc moaned.

title credit Paul Theroux

I can't hide in plain sight when it's this quiet in here

Traveling in a group has been in every.single.way foreign for me. Brian, a thirty-three-year-old from Iowa with blue eyes and a superb intellect, has never left North America before. He handles every exotic detail affably and expertly. He has a rejoinder for every quip and already knows which beer he likes best. He can order paella, large, hold the squid. Six foot eight and ducking through doorways, nothing seems to catch him by surprise. I've got fifty three countries on the guy and I'm caught up short by every change in the routine, every "ok, back on the bus!", every walking tour that should have ended an hour ago, every hotel wake up call. (Hell, every hotel. In Paris I slept on a bench in a bookshop; in Croatia, an abandoned fort; in Hong Kong, a shuttered shop window until my dignity got the better of me). 

The biggest adjustment, though, has been the silencing of my inner monologue. Without it, there can be no circus ninja. 

Martillo/Martilio

More translation hilarity ensued today when we visited the basilica of Our lady queen of hammers. I mean martyrs. 

Evidently not every burrito is my lucky burrito

Lingua ninja, not so much. It's only day two and I've broken my pledge to keep my Spanish skills on the down low. I don't know why I wanted to, but I really did. But I've been using it everywhere and today I was geeking out on word origins when another member of the group asked, "Are you a Spanish teacher?" Whoops. 

Perhaps part of the reason I wanted it quiet was so that people wouldn't think that *I* think my Spanish is good. We have a tour guide assigned to travel with us throughout the week; occasionally she has to translate when the local museum guides speak only Spanish and Basque. Sometimes I try to translate in my head before she gets to it. Results are mixed.

"That's where he had a burrito," is what I hear the docent say in Spanish.

"This is where he kept his donkey," says our guide.