A Year in the World Read Free

did not want a well and had drilled down a hundred meters without finding a drop. We are planning to meet in Madrid.
    From San Francisco, I board a flight to Paris and am happy to see my seatmate take out a book instead of a computer. No white aura and tap-tapping for the ten-hour flight. She looks as if she could have been one of my colleagues at the university. Is she going to Europe to research a fresco cycle or to join an archaeological team at a Roman villa excavation? I take out my own book, ready to escape into silence for the duration. She smiles and asks, “What are you reading?”
    “A biography of Federico García Lorca—getting ready for Spain. What are you reading?”
    “Oh, a book on John three thirteen.”
    “Three thirteen. I don’t know that verse. We used to sing ‘John three sixteen, John three sixteen’ in rounds at Methodist Sunday school.”
    The flight attendant comes by with champagne and orange juice. “Just water,” my seatmate and I say in unison. We begin to talk about travel and books, chatting easily, though I am, at first, waiting for a chance to retreat. We know nothing of each other and will part when the scramble to exit at Charles de Gaulle begins.
    She asks a lot of questions. I tell her I am a former university teacher, now a full-time writer. I tell her about living part of the year in Italy, and that Italy has given me several books, written with joy. She probes. Are my books published? Are they popular? And if so, do I know why? What do I try to accomplish with my writing? How do I feel about people’s responses to my books? On and on. I tell her that I’m embarking on the first of many travels and that I hope to write a book about my experiences. Why? What will I be looking for? I am drawn into lengthy explanations. I say I’m interested in the idea and fact of
home
. I’m going to places where I have dreamed of living and will try to settle down in each, read the literature, look at the gardens, shop for what’s in season, try to feel
at home
. I’m talking more openly than usual with a stranger. Is she a psychiatrist?
    “And you’ve never felt God’s hand on yours?” She looks quizzically at me.
    “No. I’ve felt lucky, though.”
    “Maybe you are bringing happiness to people through the will of God. Maybe.” She smiles.
    She answers my own questions evasively. She is holding something back, even in the basic exchanges, such as whether she is on vacation, that simple opening into conversation. Our little equation is out of balance. Finally, I ask bluntly, “What do you do?”
    “I . . . I guess you could say I’m a speaker.”
    “On what subjects?”
    Silence. She is gazing out the window. She is a very still person. “I’m part of a foundation. We try to help in communities with severe problems.”
    Vague. She sees my questioning look. She frowns. “We’re involved in education, and orphanages, and churches.”
    “Oh, so it’s a religious foundation? What religion are you?” I assume she is a Presbyterian or Methodist, a good volunteer for good works, or is involved in Catholic charities.
    “I know this is strange, but I have a strong sense about you. I’ll just tell you my journey.” She then describes the surprise of her conversion, her subsequent adoption of six children from all over the world, her work in Africa and Russia. Her husband, a prominent lawyer, eventually had his own revelation and joins her in her missions. Dinner is served and we talk on.
    “You’ve probably never met anyone like me, anyone who hears the voice of God.”
    “I think I haven’t. You
hear
the voice of God?”
Oh, mamma mia
, I think.
    “Yes, he’s talking to me right now, all the time.”
    “What does he sound like?” I wonder if she is speaking metaphorically, living out a grand
as if
.
    She laughs. “He’s funny sometimes. Sometimes we dance. He’s telling me about you, but I don’t want you to think I’m a psychic with a neon sign in the