offering Pennsylvania Dutch cuisine there was now a spate of advertisements for fast food restaurants in a place called, oddly enough, Hamburg. If the ads offered health warnings I couldn’t see them as we sped past. At the next exit I pulled off and headed for the nearest gas station. “Where do you originally come from, at least?”
“Siberia,” he said, though he pronounced it Sigh-berry-ya .
“You’re Russian?”
“South Sigh-berry-ya. Skovorodino.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Very far,” he said. “Near to China. Near to Mongolia. Near to Tuva.”
“And you started a center there?”
“I run away from there.”
“When?”
“Twenty years. I was born there, taught there. My father was a great master there. I went to prison there. Run away.”
“You escaped from the Gulag?”
“No,” he said, in an unengaged tone that implied we were speaking of someone else, an uncle or neighbor, long-ago deceased. “Russia.”
On that note I got out and filled the tank. Gas prices were breaking records that summer; filling the tank cost me forty-seven dollars. I wiped the windshield clean with the rubber-edged tool, trimming the water off in neat rows as the Rinpoche watched, intrigued. He seemed to be studying everything—the landscape, the design of the gas station’slogo, the displays in the front window and the numbers on the pumps. Forty-seven dollars! If you made six dollars an hour, it took a day’s work to fill the tank.
I went in to use the facilities, and on the way out I noticed an old man in overalls sitting on a folding chair just outside the front door. Rotund in cheeks and belly, balding, past seventy, he seemed to be one of these local people the chains sometimes hire for minimum wage, a fossil-fuel Buddha doing odd jobs. He sent a shining smile up at me. I stopped and asked him where we might find a place to spend the night. “Not a chain motel,” I added. “Someplace real. I have a friend along, visiting from another country, and I want to show him the real America. An old inn. A B&B, something like that. Would you know of anyplace like that in these parts?”
“Lititz,” he said.
I thought for a moment that he was being vulgar. Uncle of the owner, down on his brain cells, he was offering commentary on the body parts of female customers.
“Say again?”
“Lititz,” he repeated, and waved his cane to the south, past the east-west highway we had just been on. “Little old town. Nice inn there. Feed you good, too, if you can afford it, and from the looks of things, you can. Go to 501, head south, and keep going. You’ll feel like you missed it. Go on and on, an hour from this spot right here. Inn is right on the road. Feed you real good.”
“But we’re heading northwest,” I said.
“Nothing that way. Go to Lititz, I’m telling you.”
I thanked him and had turned and started to walk away when he rapped me on the calf with his cane. I turned back.
“Listen to me,” he said, rather fiercely. “Go south. Lititz.And don’t eat too much there. Cut your life short. Chops the sex urge in half, too, you know.”
“We wouldn’t want that.”
“No, we wouldn’t.”
I smiled politely, patted my belly, and hurried away, erasing his advice from my mind almost immediately. I got back in the car and was clicking my seatbelt on and there he was again, hobbling toward us, then pushing his face practically through the window. He gave Rinpoche a big smile and a wink and said to me, “You don’t take advice good, do you, son?”
Rinpoche laughed. I mumbled something about being as open to advice as the next person, but that we had a schedule to keep.
The old man pushed two fingers into my left shoulder. “I’m telling you, Lititz is special, a special place for you. Look at my eyes.”
I looked. Cloudy, silvery, intense. I felt the stubbornness rising up in me. Back off, I was tempted to say. Go harass somebody else. But then his face softened, his fingers tapped my
“Siberia,” he said, though he pronounced it Sigh-berry-ya .
“You’re Russian?”
“South Sigh-berry-ya. Skovorodino.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Very far,” he said. “Near to China. Near to Mongolia. Near to Tuva.”
“And you started a center there?”
“I run away from there.”
“When?”
“Twenty years. I was born there, taught there. My father was a great master there. I went to prison there. Run away.”
“You escaped from the Gulag?”
“No,” he said, in an unengaged tone that implied we were speaking of someone else, an uncle or neighbor, long-ago deceased. “Russia.”
On that note I got out and filled the tank. Gas prices were breaking records that summer; filling the tank cost me forty-seven dollars. I wiped the windshield clean with the rubber-edged tool, trimming the water off in neat rows as the Rinpoche watched, intrigued. He seemed to be studying everything—the landscape, the design of the gas station’slogo, the displays in the front window and the numbers on the pumps. Forty-seven dollars! If you made six dollars an hour, it took a day’s work to fill the tank.
I went in to use the facilities, and on the way out I noticed an old man in overalls sitting on a folding chair just outside the front door. Rotund in cheeks and belly, balding, past seventy, he seemed to be one of these local people the chains sometimes hire for minimum wage, a fossil-fuel Buddha doing odd jobs. He sent a shining smile up at me. I stopped and asked him where we might find a place to spend the night. “Not a chain motel,” I added. “Someplace real. I have a friend along, visiting from another country, and I want to show him the real America. An old inn. A B&B, something like that. Would you know of anyplace like that in these parts?”
“Lititz,” he said.
I thought for a moment that he was being vulgar. Uncle of the owner, down on his brain cells, he was offering commentary on the body parts of female customers.
“Say again?”
“Lititz,” he repeated, and waved his cane to the south, past the east-west highway we had just been on. “Little old town. Nice inn there. Feed you good, too, if you can afford it, and from the looks of things, you can. Go to 501, head south, and keep going. You’ll feel like you missed it. Go on and on, an hour from this spot right here. Inn is right on the road. Feed you real good.”
“But we’re heading northwest,” I said.
“Nothing that way. Go to Lititz, I’m telling you.”
I thanked him and had turned and started to walk away when he rapped me on the calf with his cane. I turned back.
“Listen to me,” he said, rather fiercely. “Go south. Lititz.And don’t eat too much there. Cut your life short. Chops the sex urge in half, too, you know.”
“We wouldn’t want that.”
“No, we wouldn’t.”
I smiled politely, patted my belly, and hurried away, erasing his advice from my mind almost immediately. I got back in the car and was clicking my seatbelt on and there he was again, hobbling toward us, then pushing his face practically through the window. He gave Rinpoche a big smile and a wink and said to me, “You don’t take advice good, do you, son?”
Rinpoche laughed. I mumbled something about being as open to advice as the next person, but that we had a schedule to keep.
The old man pushed two fingers into my left shoulder. “I’m telling you, Lititz is special, a special place for you. Look at my eyes.”
I looked. Cloudy, silvery, intense. I felt the stubbornness rising up in me. Back off, I was tempted to say. Go harass somebody else. But then his face softened, his fingers tapped my
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