Let’s face it, the world is getting smaller. And, although we love to travel, it seems that it’s getting more difficult to escape from home.
When visiting a small village in England, my husband, Bryant, and I were enjoying afternoon refreshment in the local teashop when the owner, with her powdery-white hair and beautiful complexion, inquired where we from. When we told her Dallas (the use of the word “Texas” is not required anywhere in the United Kingdom thanks to the late J.R. Ewing and the Dallas Cowboys), she became very animated and called for someone named Vernon on the other side of the room. It turns out that Vernon’s business had an office in Dallas only a couple miles from our home.
One afternoon while enjoying beachside cocktails in Destin, Florida, we struck up conversation with a young honeymooning couple. While telling us stories of their wedding, we discovered they were medical interns in Arkansas under the tutelage of Bryant’s cousin.
While my husband and I were in Hawaii, we went in search of a local winery, surmising a bottle of island-made wine would surely be more appreciated by family and friends than T-shirts. Our search took us down a winding, steep and very narrow road. I was getting more than a bit unnerved when, rounding the mountain, before us appeared one of the most-beautiful bays. The view was simply breathtaking.
Apparently, we weren’t the only ones who thought so.
On the side of the road sat a man in a small pickup truck. Bryant pulled over and started to get out of the rental car. I immediately questioned (in that voice every wife possesses that suggests her husband has gone temporarily mad and is about to get them both killed) what in the world he was doing.
“Asking for directions,” he said. Granted, most women would faint at hearing their man say those simple words, but considering the situation, I felt it more prudent to stay calm and conscious. What kind of man sits by himself in a truck in the middle of nowhere except for a serial killer?
I watched as they began to chat like old friends. At this point, I was considering it might be safe to resume my missed opportunity to faint, when my husband headed back to the car. The serial killer was actually a computer programmer from a Dallas suburb, wearing a Dallas Cowboys T-shirt and enjoying a view he’d never see in North Texas.
While visiting London, we went to Scotland Yard and naturally asked the guard on duty to pose with us for a photo. With our accents immediately giving us away as tourists (that, and asking for the photo in the first place), the officer inquired what part of “The South” we were from. When I said Dallas (again, sans the “Texas”), his response was immediate happiness. Slapping his chest, he exclaimed, “Ah, me best mate used to be with DPD!”
It seems we can’t go anywhere without running into someone with ties to Dallas. This should have come as no surprise. Honestly, what secrets did one expect to be able to keep from The Yard?