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Size
of the
World
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"Unnatural Selection"
from The Size of the World
© 1995 by Jeff Greenwald
Whenever an 0 approaches in my life, I get an irresistible urge
to jump through it. The 'round-the-world overland journey I envisioned
was my gut response to a long-anticipated need - as March 6, 1994,
crept ever closer - to perform a worthy and appropriate ritual.
What better way to celebrate the circle, as cycle, shape and circus
hoop?
But there was something else, even more compelling. In Indo-Tibetan
Asia, performing a kora - a clockwise circumambulation around
revered shrines, holy cities or sacred mountains - is considered
a supreme act of pilgrimage. This, then, was my goal: To perform
a kora around the Earth itself.
The idea had looked great on paper. As I plotted my route, though,
and fathomed the lonely logistics of such a voyage (weeks at sea,
days on trains, hours on oxcarts), my heart sank. Six months was
a long time. It was a very long time. It was more time, I realized,
than I could bear to spend with myself.
Finding a less familiar companion proved difficult. Friends who
had money had no time, friends who had time had no money, and
everyone else had children. Also, I felt that my ideal partner
should be a woman. It seemed self-evident that a man and woman
traveling together would have access to a greater variety of people
and social situations than two men. A single man cannot always
approach single or married women in Africa, India or the Middle
East, but "couples" are acceptable currency wherever humans tread.
The frustrating thing was that I already knew who I wanted to
travel with. My consort of choice was Sally Knight, a beautiful
Australian who'd entered my life two years earlier, when Coriola
was off in Dharamsala. I'd been hired to edit a book about the
political turmoil in Burma, and Sally was assigned as my research
assistant. If intelligence is the ultimate aphrodisiac, a day
working with Sally was like an oyster banquet at a lingerie party.
As the project progressed we'd moved our chairs closer and closer
together until, one afternoon, she was close enough to bite me.
This appetizer was followed by a six-course meal; and though we
stopped sleeping together before Coriola's return, our appetite
for each other's company remained insatiable. We still got together
at least once a week to study Tibetan, collaborate on magazine
articles and compose, among other dreams, the proposal for this
very book.
I was sure she'd be perfect. For one thing, we had traveled together
before. The previous January we had met briefly in India, spending
a few days exploring the sights of New Delhi before journeying
off to meet her guru - affectionately known as "Papaji" - in Lucknow.
Though young by conventional standards (she was twenty-two), Sally
had been deeply immersed in meditation and Eastern philosophy
since her teens. Her centered and stable approach would be the
ideal complement to my manic-depressive psychosis. To ice the
cake, Sal was supernaturally lucky: If the IRS ever decided to
audit her, Stephen Hawking would show up to balance her books.
Unfortunately, like Coriola, she was dead broke. Sally's budget
for a big night out permitted Star Trek, take-out Szechwan and
a scratch-off lottery ticket.
As the weeks ticked by and a solo voyage seemed ever more likely,
I launched a desperate ploy. Ignoring the advice of my friends
("You'll be swamped by crackpots!"), I ran an ad in the Personals
section of the local weekly:
Writer with book contract seeks female companion for 'round-the-world
overland trip. I'm 39, and a seasoned traveler. My partner must
be fit, adventurous, adaptable and engaging. I'm looking for someone
who's always dreamed of making such a journey, and has her own
vision and motive for the trip. Some expenses will be covered,
but self-sufficiency is required. Note: This is not a relationships
ad! Sexual orientation or marital status are no bar.
I braced myself, expecting to be buried beneath an avalanche of
responses. There were eight.
During the next two weeks I met each of my potential companions
for lunch at King Yen - a bow to the old Jewish proverb that you
can learn everything you need to know about someone by ordering
Chinese food with them.
The first candidate, a professional storyteller at the Oakland
Public Library, was eager to collect local folktales from around
the world. I was intrigued until, to my horror, she ordered pork-flavored
gluten in oyster sauce. The second woman was the recently widowed
wife of a famous yacht racer, and a renowned carnivorous plant
breeder in her own right. We were having a great time until, allergic
to prawns, she accidentally blew her nose into our last mu shu
pancake. I actually did hear from one married woman: a feisty,
green-eyed pet liability lawyer whose husband had eagerly welcomed
the suggestion of a six-month hiatus. The comic potential of such
a tryst grew on me, but her fortune cookie - "You will soon survive
a great natural disaster" - compelled me to reconsider.
After six more episodes of trial by sizzling iron platter, I had
narrowed the field to two. The finalists had absolutely nothing
in common, except that (a) they had exactly the same birthday,
and (b) both had been crazy enough to answer my ad.
Lucy showed up for lunch in a ten-gallon hat and frilled leather
vest with a vintage sixties button pinned above her breast: Feed
Your Head. Blond and petite, she made a good living providing
manicures and conversation to bedridden elderly women. One of
them, a San Francisco art collector, had recently passed away,
leaving Lucy a small Degas sketch. The drawing had fetched a bundle
at auction, and Lucy had earmarked part of the money for travel.
And Lucy needed a change of scene. Her condo was stale with portraits
of Elvis, dog-eared Shirley MacLaine books and the pet-shop smell
of hamster droppings. She'd come home from work the previous evening
to find her ex-boyfriend changing the lightbulb in her bedroom.
He was standing on her pillow, in his boots.
"I knew then and there," she said, "that your ad was destiny speaking."
Her fortune cookie seemed to concur. "This marks the beginning,"
it declared, "of an unforgettable vacation."
Lucy had no qualms about circling the globe with a total stranger;
her main concern was finding her precise shade of lipstick in
Senegal or Tibet. This thorny obstacle was removed when, at our
third meeting, she located a San Francisco body-piercing salon
that would tattoo her makeup on for her.
"It lasts five years," she gleefully declared. "The savings practically
pay for the entire trip."
Zelda, on the other hand, was a professional magician. She'd been
performing since the age of twelve, entertaining audiences from
Tokyo to Madrid. Any doubts I had about her talent were dispelled
at our second encounter, during a heated argument about the "psychic
surgeons" of the Philippines (I believed, she didn't). To make
her point, she "extracted" a roll of breath mints from my spleen.
The Great Zelda had other impressive attributes as well. She was
a martial arts expert, with a street-tested ability to defend
me from irate rickshaw wallahs, drunken sailors and rabid temple
monkeys.
There was just one problem: We bickered. Warning lights flashed
at our very first encounter, when we nearly came to blows trying
to decide between pan-fried string beans and Mongolian chicken.
"I'm not a team player," she warned me, narrowing her eyes and
twirling her chopsticks like kung fu weapons. "I'm used to having
my way."
This gave me pause. Though the thought of roaming the globe with
a magician was nearly irresistible, I could imagine any number
of situations in which she might decide to make me disappear.
I told Lucy and Zelda that I'd make my decision by ten P.M. the
following Friday. As the hour drew closer, however, my doubts
grew. Both women had their attributes and idiosyncrasies. Both
had charisma and charm. Either would be a colorful character in
my book. And either one, Sally sagely pointed out, could just
as easily turn out to be a total nightmare....
Several minutes before ten I picked up my world globe, placed
it on the dining table and gave it a dizzying spin. I closed my
eyes, and pointed. If my finger touched land, Lucy would be my
companion; if it touched sea, Zelda.
La!
I looked down. My finger rested squarely on the Panama Canal.
Five minutes later the telephone rang. I hesitated, still debating
what I'd say to either of the hopeful candidates.
To my great surprise, it was neither. Sally was calling from a
restaurant in Marin; and I could tell by her tone of voice that
someone's wish, for better or worse, had come true.
"Pack your bags," she commanded. "I've just won the lottery."
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