(Photos by Peter Zelei/istockphoto and John Robert Shepard)
This happened across my internet desk one morning, and I stopped everything to read it. The poet Donald Hall wrote a short story about a journey he took post-WWII with his very young bride, driving from Oxford to Greece by way of Yugoslavia. It is one of those effortless pieces of writing that immediately draws you in and holds you captive to the end of the journey. It conveys the desire (and fearlessness) of the young to travel as a form of self-discovery. It is also a detailed travelogue of a world now much changed and a graceful reflection on a life that is only possible from a great distance (Hall wrote this essay when he was 84). Take a moment and enjoy.
"I" December of 1952, my first wife, Kirby, and I left Vienna to drive through the Russian sector of Austria into Yugoslavia. At the border crossing, on a two-lane Macadam road with no other car in sight, we stopped to present documents that permitted us to enter Marshal country. Walking back to our car afterward, we met a man heading in the opposite direction, toward Austria. He had emerged from a big black car, and he looked important, like a diplomat or a capo. Seeing the initials of national origin on our small Morris convertible, he addressed us in English. I held in my hand our confusing travel directions. We asked the man if Zagreb was straight ahead.
No one told us there is only one road in Yugoslavia."