We've just stepped outside Fiesta, an ethnic-foods supermarket in
Houston, when my wife starts bawling.
"Jessica?" I ask. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," she replies between heaves.
"Then why are you crying?"
"I'm not," she says.
I stand there, uncomprehending. With my head at an angle like a
befuddled dog and my eyebrows knitted like a caveman's, I strike
the pose of the vexed husband.
"I know," she says. "It's silly."
As we stand on the sidewalk in front of the store, the
Texas sun is
fierce. But it is no match for the accusatory glare of some women
shoppers striding past us. "What did you do to her?" their
expressions say. Others register compassion, the tender look in
their eyes saying, "Poor girl, having to be with such a horrible
brute." Men tend to just steal a glance, then turn away and look
straight ahead, as if to say, "Man, dude. Bummer."
I consider making a little joke: "Price of lettuce can bring a
person to tears, huh?" But the caveman in me counsels against it.
"What are you," it says, "freakin' nuts?" I try the caring-mate
approach. "What's the matter, hon?" I say, hoping I sound caring
enough.
She waves, as if swatting flies.
This, of course, is the international language of wives for "You
know."
I throw up my hands, the international language of husbands for "I
have no clue."
I try walking toward the parking lot. If she won't stop crying, at
least I can get her off the sidewalk and into the car and get
myself out of the withering glare of public scrutiny. But she is a
planted flag in the soil of her despair. She ain't goin'
nowhere.
I gently take her arm.
She yanks her arm back.
"What?" I implore.
Her next sentence comes out in individual words as she sobs.
"I. Don't. Want. To. Go. Back. In. There."
I look at the store as if it has done something wrong to her.
"You don't want to go back into Fiesta? Why?"
"Because," she stammers, "you promised."
"I promised?"
"You promised we could leave," she says.
"Oh, sweetie," I say, hugging her. "I know. I know. I just forgot
to go down the Indian aisle, that's all."
"That's what you said the last four times," she says.
"We'll only be a minute."
Apparently, these were not the words she hoped to hear.
"Go."
"But …"
She stops crying.
"
Go."
Suddenly, I decide that I can live without hot lime chutney after
all.
WHEN IT COMES TO TRAVELING, the first thing you learn about
another person is that he or she is not you.
Jessica, for example, has these wacky notions about beaches,
museums, I don't know.
The second thing you learn about another person is that he or she
is wrong.
When in
Houston, for example, why go to the Menil Collection to
gawk at Surrealist works by
Salvador Dalí and Max Ernst or to the
Museum of Fine Arts to gaze at the Impressionist and
Post-Impressionist paintings or to the Space Center or the
Zoological Gardens when you can go to Fiesta?
The third thing you learn about another person is that he or she is
not going away.
These three things form a marital wisdom I like to call
Capitulation.
Jessica hasn't cried while traveling since that unfortunate visit
to Fiesta nearly 20 years ago. I say "unfortunate" for the obvious
reason: I never did end up getting the chutney. But that's
okay.
You know why? Because I’ve grown, that’s why. I’ve come to recognize that successful traveling depends on give-and-take. It’s not just me-me-me. It’s about the other person’s needs too.
For example, if she wants, Jessica can stay in the car and listen to the radio while I go to the local market. That’s okay.
Over the years, we’ve adapted to one another’s traveling penchants. Sometimes she’ll come with me to the market, and we will leave before I am ready but before she cries.
Of course, not all of them have hot lime chutney. And that’s all right.
Because maybe the most important thing you learn about traveling with another person is that you can’t always get what you want. But, if you’re lucky, you just might get some freshly made poblano mole at a sprawling mercado in Oaxaca, Mexico.