Education in Miles
- Jayne Lisbeth
- 4 hours ago
- 4 min read
I love to travel to distant places, neighborhood haunts and in my mind. Each place I visit is something to cherish forever or for the moment.
I was first bitten by the travel bug when I was five and presented with a pair of PanAm silver wings. It was pinned onto the collar of my Sunday best dress by the stewardess who settled me into my seat next to the window on a huge silver bird. She wore a pretty blue dress, heels like my moms, and a pert blue cap on her head. This angel in blue also gave me a coloring book and crayons. She was, at least momentarily, the pilot of my dreams. I was the co-pilot, flying above the clouds. The world was a distant quilted landscape beneath me. It was magic.
Since that day in 1955 I have flown frequently, from California to Hawaii, to Florida, to and from Tampa to Europe. Every flight, every sprint through an airport, every exhausting layover, every stay at a hotel from sleazy to luxurious has taught me something. Quick lessons: be polite, be gracious by learning even just a few words of the language of the country you are visiting. Por Favor and S’il Vous Plaît goes a long way. Even mispronounced, kindness and respect opens doors.
What else have I learned? In 1998 In Amsterdam Tim and I learned that after eating Space Cake to see there is a full roll of film loaded in your camera, before, not after, you realize you have taken over 60 shots on a 24 shot roll of film.
We learned that silence persisted in the Anne Frank House. We discovered this early one morning before any other tourists had arrived to share Anne's secret annex. The silence, the same White Horse chestnut tree that had Anne charted Anne's days and seasons and fulfilled dreams still waved in the breezes outside her window. It was one of the most moving moments of any of our journeys through time.
In Italy I found that women on the beaches of Cinque Terre don’t have to be young and beautiful to sunbathe naked. In Bavaria we determined the true meaning of breakfast: breaking a fast. We feasted on enormous meals of home baked breads and jams from the countryside, as well as delicious cheeses, dairy and meat products from mountain pastures.
In Germany we discovered the beauty of castles, cottages and churches built into the sides of mountains. We learned how many beer steins a buxom hofsbrau can carry (8-10). We took photos of ancient moats with the date of 900 engraved into the archway over the sparkling water, welcoming travelers, but not marauders, for hundreds of years.
In France we toured pink stucco mansions and the blue waters of Lake Como. (No, alas, we didn’t see George.) We reveled in the moonlight over the Alps when traveling from Germany to Italy. Or, at least I did.
Tim was passed out on the train after consuming too many of those Oktoberfest steins of beer.
In Venice we were saddened by the Bridge of Sighs and uplifted by the Guggenheim museum.
In Salzburg we met a stranger who became a tour guide and a friend, taking us up and down the cobblestoned streets, in and out of churches, bakeries and ancient grist mills, sharing all the secret places only the locals know.
Our greatest travel finds were what we learned setting forth across our own country, from Florida to Oregon. We learned spontaneity. We learned kindness and charity as we crisscrossed the country thirty-plus times. Along the way we took the roads not taken, the unmarked paths, trails and lanes. We unearthed places like Toad Suck Hollow and Vulture’s Roost, highways not on maps or marked by road signs. We ate wonderful fresh seafood right off the docks when we took a wrong turn in Washington and nearly ended up in the Pacific.
Strangers shared hometown secrets of places to visit. In Yachats, Oregon, we were given the gift of an enormous hollowed out ancient Cedar tree we sat inside of, looking through the hollow at the clouds scudding across the sky above us.
We hiked the red hills of Sedona and were frightened by an enormous Grizzly Bear protecting her cache over Crater Lake. In California we got lost on the Lost Coast and had golden moments under the Golden bridges of San Francisco and Sacramento. In Sutter Hills I was haunted by the ghosts of the first gold miners, endlessly sifting the sand and rocks. In Rocky Mountain National Park we woke to learn of 9/11, while I was buying postcards in a museum gift shop silenced by planes crashing into the Twin Towers blaring from the TV.
The words in my journals remind me of all the places I have visited, all the miles traveled and all the lessons learned. Every diary, every post-it note or postcard is my education in miles. All have contributed to my books. My latest, set to be released by my publisher in late 2026, Blind Birds of Youth, is the tale of my first emancipation on wheels. It is the adventure of a 1973 road trip with my two dearest friends as we journeyed from New Jersey to Colorado. The memoir is my earliest college degree in the craft and lessons taught by travel. My words have memorialized every step I’ve taken, every mile I’ve flown, traveled on a train or in a car, every hike down a trail. It is my road trip of life.
I learned that people in all countries are generous, kind, proud, argumentative and funny.
The miles have taught me how to find joy and contentment, wherever I may, or may not, roam. I’m not done yet, though. A new Viking River Cruise brochure has arrived in my mailbox. My biggest challenge is tempting my armchair warrior, Tim, to accompany me on our next adventure. Who knows what future travels might teach us?
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