Those that fail to learn from history are doomed to repeat it.
– Winston Churchill
I apparently hadn’t thought things through.
Because when I asked my sister to walk the Camino de Santiago with me, the reactions I got were, well… bizarre.
First, Cheryl didn’t respond to my invitation. Instead, she left the question hanging out there like a giant mushroom cloud on the horizon: dangerous, toxic and looming. And since there was little either of us could do to avert the imminent nuclear fallout, she seemed content not to discuss it.
So, we didn’t.
When I told my other sibling about our sister’s odd silence, my usually reserved, noncommittal brother was incredulous. “Cheryl?” he blurted out. “You invited our sister, Cheryl to walk the Camino?”
Was there anyone else we both knew with that name? “Yeah, that Cheryl,” I deadpanned.
But his response made me worry.
From an early age, Carl instinctively understood the role of middle child and ignored the frequent squabbles erupting between his sisters. Over the years he never got involved, never took sides, seemed not to notice, and sometimes barely acknowledged that any of us lived under the same roof. So, you’ll understand it when I say I tend to listen anytime my brother makes an observation about our family.
But before I could make heads or tails of Carl’s apparent confusion, Cheryl responded in her own cryptic manner.
A week after I loosed the weapon that would shorten the war by five years and save millions of lives, she called to ask if I remembered inviting her on the Camino. But since I wasn’t recovering from a recent head injury, I assured her that I did. And after accepting, Cheryl explained she’d been too afraid to say anything in case I took it back.
Took what back? All the times she raided my closet without asking? Or every time she ratted me out to Mom and Dad?
Okay, I admit I have some unresolved issues when it comes to my sister, but who doesn’t? I mean, what few people understand is that Cheryl might look normal, but her mind works differently than the rest of us.
When I was a kid, humming a catchy jingle meant I suffered from brain rot bought on by watching too much television and required an ambulance to take me to the emergency room. Drinking orange juice on an empty stomach would result in ulcers and insect repellent was meant to be sprayed on the trees because the brand “Deep Woods Off” described how and where it should be used.
Growing up, Cheryl considered it her God-given duty to enlighten the less fortunate souls around with her unorthodox logic. And based on sheer proximity, that someone was usually me.
But two months on the Camino would give us time to hash things out now that we were older, wiser, calmer. Plus, there seemed no going back after my imaginary friend made me realize I was a lot more like my sister than I cared to admit.
The newsflash came during a trip to Rome. After a weeklong conference in London, I flew to Italy where Robie and I had plans to explore the Eternal City, Florence and Venice, three places I first visited on a summer backpacking trip with my sister.
After greeting Robie at Fiumicino Airport, I escorted my sleep-deprived husband onto the Leonardo Express train to town. And from there, I led us on a zigzagging, half-hour walk through the streets of Rome to our hotel in the Campo de Fiore.
Ten minutes in, Robie asked, “Couldn’t we have taken a cab?”
“A cab? Why would we do that?”
“Okay, Cheryl,” he murmured, a retort I chose to ignore.
Robie knew my sister and I had a complicated relationship. When we were little and moving around every other year, Cheryl and I were thick as thieves. But with six and a half years between us, she mostly thought of me as her pet monkey, a plaything she could make do stupid tricks usually designed to land me in trouble. But I didn’t care. I was happy to entertain her by making crank calls to the neighbors and stuffing grapes in my mouth to see how many would fit until I gagged. Then once she started high school, things changed. Suddenly, I became an improvement project only she could fix. And the more she tried to control me, the more I rebelled.
After Cheryl left for college, we saw each other only on holidays and occasional weekends. And when she announced plans to spend a summer backpacking across Europe, I reveled in the thought of three months without someone waking me just to lecture about how breakfast is the most important meal of the day. But when our parents refused to let Cheryl go alone, she figured I had the only two things that mattered: time to kill and access to Mom and Dad’s money.
The fact that she was 22 and a recent college graduate while I wore braces and wasn’t old enough to drive was deemed irrelevant.
By the time Robie and I reached the hotel in Rome, I’d mulled his question and wondered why we hadn’t taken a cab. But before I could come up with a compelling reason, I heard the unmistakable voice of my imaginary friend say, “Because Cheryl would not approve.”
“What?” I blurted out hoping the outburst didn’t wake Robie napping after the long flight.
And once the little, red-robed dude with goatee, horns and a pitchfork repeated himself, he added, “You’re still stuck in Cheryl travel mode.”
“Am not,” I disputed but mostly because I didn’t know what that meant.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he intoned, turning toward the nonexistent panel of my peers. “Allow me to present you with the facts of this case.” Then Tuttle, the imaginary imp who’d appeared on my shoulder in college began citing events from that long-ago summer.
He recounted the time Cheryl got mad after I used two pence at a pay toilet in Edinburgh and the three hours she strolled around Lucerne while I sat with our bags because she didn’t want to spend money on lockers. How she sent me alone to King’s Cross Station and saved 90 cents on a Tube ticket, and her silent treatment after I suggested a visit to Luxembourg. Because once there, we learned why the place wasn’t mentioned in our budget guidebook since the tiny duchy is Europe’s most expensive country.
When his speech ended, my imaginary friend looked around as though searching for something. “And what was it you wrote about the Eiffel Tower?” he asked, reaching for my well-worn travel journal and flipping his fingers through the pages. “Ah, yes. Here’s the passage. Allow me to relate the scene using your own words.
“At the base of the Eiffel Tower, Cheryl handed me a ticket. But when I turned toward the line of people queuing for the lift, she said, ‘Not that way,’ and motioned for me to follow. Unaware where she was heading, I trailed my sister toward the back leg of the steel beast until suddenly I froze. Straining my neck as far back as it would go, I traced the winding staircase spiraling skyward and knew I shouldn’t have left my sister to get the tickets because it was inevitable she’d choose the cheapest way to the top.
“Counting each step, I felt my heart thunder in my chest and tiny needles prick the balls of my feet. As my thighs filled with oxygen-laden blood, my lungs ache for more air. And when we finally reached the top, hovering seven hundred and forty-seven stairs above the City of Light, I took two weak-kneed strides and collapsed on a bench. Because as my muscles quivered uncontrollably, my legs would no longer support me.”
Tuttle closed my journal. “What’s your point?” I asked defiantly.
Sighing, he explained. “The point is you don’t give your sister enough credit.” Then with both hands tucked behind his back my imaginary friend paced across my shoulder recounting the trips I’d sacrificed comfort to save a few bucks, spent nights sleeping on ferries and trains, kept a grueling pace, went to every museum and stopped inside every church. But it was never enough, and I always pushed to go further, do more.
Though my mini caped crusader kept quiet about his role during those jaunts, I thought again about my lack of planning for a leisurely ride to the hotel (an oxymoron for anyone who’s ever ridden in a Roman taxicab). And suddenly all the pieces of my life magically fell into place.
Though I’d hated my sister’s relentless sightseeing and constant penny pinching that summer, she’d laid the foundation for all my wanderings since. And that meant only one thing.
It wasn’t my fault for not taking a cab in Rome. It was Cheryl’s.
And in that singular moment of clarity when the heavens part and angels sing, I knew I’d turned out exactly like my sister. Now, forty-odd years on, we were planning another two-month trek. Just the two of us.
What could possibly go wrong?
* It’ll be grand: Irish phrase meaning it will most certainly not be grand, but we will worry about it when it happens.
Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!
Reid & Robie 