It wasn't the first time I traveled abroad. Extravagant shrubs made this different. Words mixed with their secretions. Rhymes collided with the foliage as if the natives had recalled bits of poems lost in a forest. They flipped from arias to monotone chants without warning. I memorized their melodies in a night correspondence course designed for travelers. And I met a couple of characters, Gail and Leo, pals of mine, we hung out for a time. I've forgotten much since. Back here in Pennsylvania we say, "Throw the cow over the fence some hay."

Burning Pyres

On the road, close to the sea, burning pyres sucked the night sky then collapsed. Shouts rose with the smoke and flames. The fires might have been burning garbage. (After all, it was Monday night.) Evidently, this was a commemoration of those who died in Albino riots. A band of Albinos gathered secretly at dawn. The twilight purple became their complexions. They tried to escape. The local militia tracked them down the night of July 15, 1858-a slaughter. Red blood curdled on alabaster skin.

For this anniversary, a rowdy crowd gathered in the town square
And pushed toward the flames, 'round the pyres.
Police sprayed water on their clothing.
Embers turned to ashes. Coals expired in the square.
The screen went blank and flickered darkly.
A damsel held her thumb up there.

The smell of sweet tobacco seeped through hotel cracks and mingled with the scent of mildew. After the news I fell asleep and woke hours later with the squeak of bed springs in the next room. A soprano in the adjoining room pleaded in a minor key, "Lits bug no mor."

At breakfast I guessed who woke with that sigh. A blue eyed girl with a pout approached and asked if she and a friend could accompany me on my journey. "Wa nod a luft," she begged pointing to a balding paunchy baritone with a stubby six o'clock shadow who looked a little like a cat burglar. "Wil shore the gis and glove directions."

I told her I could play the trumpet.
She swished orange juice, then
stretched her neck and gazed at a morning
star through a ceiling crack, and gargled, "Me Gail, hymn Leo."

Parked outside was the car I had rented for the trip, a 1956 Citroen convertible. It looked a little spacy with bullet indicator lights, rear view mirrors, and various other War of the World accoutrements. It had the profile of an overturned bathtub. The cockpit seated four people comfortably. An innovative feature was the hydraulic suspension system. The parked car sat just a few inches off the ground. But when you turned on the key, water rushed into the shock absorbers from a central pond just behind the engine. This caused the shocks to expand and the car rose to a proper driving height. At the end of your drive the water flowed back into the pond and the car sank to the ground. You floated along the road, dreamy. You leaned with the turns and cornered the way you might maneuver a sailboat.

There were three circular dials on the instrument panel, a speedometer, an odometer, and a clock. The clock, a chronograph, was obsessively detailed with large numbers for the hours, minutes and years, beginning with the year 1901 and ending with the year 2000. What I liked best was the steering wheel. Its shaft rose from the dash, curved to one side and attached to the wheel at one point only.