London, England
July 25, 1983

Dear Folks,

My first glimpse of the foreign part of my worldwalk was not of the jagged coastline of Ireland as originally expected but, rather, of hedge-rowed meadows in south England.

I had planned to go directly from Boston to Dublin, Ireland. However that plan was discarded at the last moment, when I discovered I could reach the British Isles for less than $175--$23 from Boston to Newark International Airport, and then $149 from there to London--on a new economy airline called PEOPLExpress.

I couldn't resist trying the economy airline--especially when regular airlines wanted nearly $500 for a one-way ticket from Boston to Dublin. So, true to the spirit of the trek, I decided to take the economy flight. There was a grave risk, however: the airline's once-daily flights to London were reportedly booked solid until October. That could mean I'd have to wait on standby at the Newark terminal, hoping that someone would cancel and free a seat for me.

London is a popular vacation spot for Americans, so I was apprehensive about the number of other standby passengers I'd find. I visualized waiting at the terminal for several days. Each week there were only the five daily flights to London.

As it turned out, my luck continued to be as good as ever.

No sooner had I walked up to the ticket counter for the PEOPLExpress's London flights, and placed my backpack beside all the other luggage piled there, than a sunburnt middle-aged man in shorts and sneakers approached me. "Would you be wanting a reservation, chap?" he asked in a voice heavy with an English accent.

"Why, yes!" I answered eagerly.

He laughed at the enthusiasm I was showing at such a late hour. It was nearly midnight. With a long smile, he said, "Me son Michael and me daughter Laraine and I come to try standby, too, and we found out at one of their other ticket counters that they's 'ad four cancellations on this flight to London. If ya 'urry, perhaps ya can grab the last one!"

I glanced at the many other standby hopefuls, dozing in chairs or on the floor, waiting for the London ticket counter to open at 4 a.m. Surely someone else has had the sense to ask at one of the other ticket counters, I thought.

His beautiful daughter started tugging at my arm. "Come! You'd best 'urry!"

I followed her through the terminal to the airline's ticket counter for their Melbourne, Florida, flights. Incredibly, it was still open at such a late hour. Immediately I asked the clerk if the airline's flight to London had any available seats.

He checked his computer and replied with a flair of triumph, "Yes, we do! One, to be exact."

"I'll take it!"

Laraine smiled. Her father laughed. Even the ticket clerk seemed to take delight in my reaction. With a flourish he handed me my boarding pass and said, "Your flight attendant will collect the fare after you take off. You can pay with cash, with a personal check, or with traveler's checks. Have a nice flight."

Twelve hours later, as our stuffed 747 cruised above the Atlantic at 35,000 feet, I asked Laraine why her father had picked me, out of all the other standby people, to tell about the remaining cancellation.

She pushed her long blond hair to one side, shrugged, and said with what I took to be a bit of English humor, "Why you were the only one awake..."

Steven

Posted by at 9:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (9)

Boston, Massachusetts
July 12, 1983

Dear Folks,

At last I'm in Boston, the final American stop on the first leg of my world walk. I'll visit friends here and on Nantucket Island this week, then be on my way to the Emerald Isle, Ireland, next week.

I think I could not have chosen a much better place than Massachusetts in which to spend my last weeks in America. The land and the people have exceeded my expectations in terms of scenery and friendliness.

Being one of the first areas in our country to be settled by the European colonialists, I expected crowded cities with all their modern-day suburbs, shopping centers, and highways. Instead, the state is mostly forested, with clean, well-preserved villages that still reflect their colonial heritage.

The heavily-forested mountains of western Massachusetts were undoubtedly the most poetic I have crossed thus far. The thick stands of maple, beech, oak, pine, and white and silver birches provided ever-present shade or birdsong, or just a secluded spot for a nap.

Surprisingly, traffic was light on the rural roads I traveled. Which is amazing, when one considers that western Massachusetts is but an hour or two by car from New York City, Albany, northern New Jersey, Boston, and Hartford, Conn.

Although I was told that many lakes and streams were affected by acid rain, they looked clean. And what a blessing that was on those humid and hot days, when I frequently jumped into the water to keep from boiling over.

From Springfield in central Massachusetts, I found much of the urban sprawl I had been expecting. But it was never as bad as in New Jersey. Wisely, the people of Massachusetts have incorporated parks and woods into their urban areas.

Thoughtfulness seems to be natural in the "Bay State." One example was on July 5. The Springfield morning newspaper carried a story about me in which the writer mentioned that I had lost 20 pounds on the walk. That morning I was to leave for Boston. I never made it past the suburbs that day. So many people, particularly the older folks, came to greet me on their sidewalks, to invite me inside their homes for something to eat. I never had the chance to get going.

By the end of the day I was stuffed with milkshakes, hamburgers, ham-and-cheese sandwiches, and cake and ice cream. I also had a nice, warm bed in which to sleep. And that bed couldn't have come at a better time, for it poured rain all night.

Steven

Posted by at 9:09 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Otis, Massachusetts
June 24, 1983

Dear Folks,

Boston draws nearer, and my heart beats faster with excitement. I am a few days walk from that seaport city.

In my last stop in the United States before Europe and the rest of the world, the demands upon my time will be heavy.

If I was just walking, everything would be simple. I would probably be well into France by now.

But, alas, no sooner do I get another 200 miles down the road than I find I have fallen behind in my journals, in the letters I need to write, in the growing batches of taped interviews I must carefully label.

I also interview people for the books I will be writing later, tape conversations for National Public Radio, do an occasional magazine article, search out interesting subjects to photograph, and fill three journals for each day. The first journal is for recording the mileage and places visited; the second describes the people I meet; the third sums up my personal feelings and adventures.

That's not all. I have almost daily meetings with the media and city officials. I take time to explore each area I visit. And then there are the "domestic chores"--the laundry, the personal hygiene, the feeding my never-quite-filled stomach, and, at the end of the day, the searching out a hayloft, an old building, or a cut field to bed down in.

And let's not forget about the walking part. I must walk at least seven hours to get in 25 miles. No wonder I go from 7 in the morning to 10 or 11 at night! Reviewing my mileage log, I find that for nearly every day I walk I spend another day "resting" and catching up on my work.

I'm not complaining. I'm madly in love with the whole project and falling more deeply in love with it by the hour. How can I not? Writing, traveling, and meeting people are three of my greatest loves, and--like some incredible dream come true--I'm filling each of my waking minutes with all three.

Even now I pinch myself from time to time to remind myself that this is all very real, that I'm not dreaming.

And now the magic of Ireland looms just over the horizon. How blessed can one person be?

Steven

Posted by at 10:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)