Growing Older, Going Further

In 1977, when I was in my late twenties, my husband and I met an “elderly couple” (he was in his early seventies and she was younger) who impressed us so much that we recently coined a word in their honor. Their last name was Cornyn, and we have paid tribute to them with the word cornyng: when older travelers (that’s now us) are sufficiently adventurous to venture off the beaten path.

Neil and I were living in Paris at the time and met the Cornyns while we were traveling on the Orient Express — the real one, not one of the fancy re-creations. Nor was it the original, glorious symbol of luxury you may recall from Murder on the Orient Express with Albert Finney.

No Lalique glass and plush velvet seats on this one. No fancy dining car serving haute cuisine meals— in fact, no dining car at all. That’s because few people at that point still traveled the classic three-day journey from Paris to Istanbul, as we were doing. (But I digress — this isn’t the adventurous part.)

Consequently, the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits was preparing to officially end the Istanbul terminus. Neil and I were riding it one week before the run’s termination because we were planning to write a book about the legendary train.

We soon discovered that the Cornyns had traveled extensively, which was already impressive to young people who wanted to go everywhere. What amazed us, though, which we later learned over dinner together in Istanbul, was their plan after visiting Istanbul. They were going to trek across Turkey — and briefly into Iran to see a famous mosque, I believe — on public buses.

This was 1977 (so, before the Iranian revolution). Trust me, though, even if they’d stayed in Turkey, these were not Greyhound buses on four-lane highways they’d be riding. We were several decades younger than them but still couldn’t conceive of doing that.

We stayed in touch for a few years and then drifted apart. We thought of the Cornyns earlier this year when traveling in Greece sans group tour as usual. We were exploring a beautiful tiny island, Folegandros, and had taken a public bus to the other town. After hiking and walking for hours, we were hot and tired as we searched in vain for a place to eat — most things were closed because the season hadn’t opened yet.

Admittedly, this was hardly backpacking in the wild, which was never us. But we hadn’t booked a group tour or hired a local guide or even rented a car. We decided then that you could say we were cornyng. We just shared a simple willingness to take a chance, to bypass the easy route, to risk confusion and difficulty. The rewards invariably are memorable (good or bad) serendipitous experiences.

BTW, our search ended at a small, delightful cafe, where we had a delicious, inexpensive lunch and found ourselves chatting with two well-traveled American couples who had rented a car.

Even when we were young, though we never thought of ourselves as adventurous, we’d always been drawn to the road less traveled. Back when our New York friends might typically vacation in Puerto Rico or Jamaica, we chose to go to Haiti — a trip that left an indelible impression and a deep fondness for this poor hapless country.

Moving to Paris as freelance writers in the 1970s “for a year or two” (we stayed nine) was further evidence of that attraction, especially without benefit of an employer-paid move, not to mention Internet or email. And when I became pregnant while there, instead of giving birth “in English” at the American Hospital, we opted for the small clinic, in its Maternite Lamaze (named for its original medical director, Fernand Lamaze). Admittedly, our decision was not without trepidation.

People often become a bit more fearful as they get older and hesitate to venture outside their comfort zones, so we sometimes wondered if we’d be able to hold onto whatever “adventurousness” we ever possessed.

A few years ago when we were in Athens, making the arduous climb up the steps to the stunning Acropolis, we were shocked to see a tourist behind us using a walker. Reflexively, I thought “how sad.” It took just a moment though for the realization to sink in that this person was simply determined not to miss out on an extraordinary experience despite the obvious difficulties.

The pity quickly morphed into admiration. Neil and I both found it encouraging to remember that within reason, where there’s a will there’s a way. We hope to continue to find that way.

It’s nearly always worth the effort.