In his book Spiritual Journeys of an Anarchist (Ardent Press, 2014), Peter Lamborn Wilson described “intentional travel” as a sufi tradition in which the traveler, to fix his itinerary, “waited for ‘signs’ to appear, coincidences, intuitions….” I read these lines sitting on the subway on the way to a Women’s Welsh Club in a church on New York’s Upper West Side.
I have been studying Welsh in honor of my great-great-grandfather, born in southern Wales, and his daughter, Mary, who traveled from Topeka to his hometown of Pontardulais in 1892, to visit relatives. Mary, 20 years old, had kept a diary, and I was thinking to go to Wales and find the towns she wrote about, the roads she strolled with her Welsh beau.
“You know, they speak English in Wales,” my husband observed.
“I know, but they’ll be impressed if I can speak some Welsh,” I answered. I don’t want to be seen as a tourist. I want people to understand that I’m a pilgrim, an intentional traveler, seeking a spiritual connection to my ancestors. But I keep procrastinating planning my trip. It’s a big undertaking, and I need a push. Meanwhile, I thought a visit to the Women’s Welsh Club might be a chance to practice my nascent speaking skills.
When I walked in late, there was a staged reading going on—a narrator and two actors reading from Samuel Beckett’s Happy Days. My theatrical friend Gavin, now passed away, once gave me a copy of Happy Days and said I ought to play Winnie some day (even though I would have to be buried up to my waist in sand). My daughter had recently urged me to read an Elena Ferrante novel in which it happens that a plot twist is evoked by a copy of Happy Days. Impressed by the coincidence, I settled down to listen.
When Winnie took out of her bag a music box that played “The Merry Widow Waltz,” I was even more impressed. When I was a child, I loved to open my mother’s jewelry box, which played the same tune.
Not until I was eating dinner that night with my friend Kristin, who had a Welsh grandfather and is planning to go to Wales with me, did those coincidences take on a meaning. These are surely the signs encouraging me to get cracking on my trip to Wales.
Okay, okay, I can take a hint. Pontardulais, here I come.