The New Yorker this week has an article "Semi-charmed Life: The twentysomethings are all right" that I was reading in a desultory fashion last night. It set me to thinking about my twenties, a decade during which I was waiting for my real life to start; ie, according to the family values of the period, to find a husband and have kids.
What wasn't Real Life? Well, going to Algeria as part of adelegation of Canadian students, to see the country after the revolution. There's a snapshot of the fifty or so of us striding along the Presidential allées beside Ben Bella, a very handsome man, who served us mint tea. Not the munitions dump that was blown up in Annaba/Bone while we were staying there, either. Maybe a little the nights spent on Saharan guest house rooftops rolled in wet sheets under a zillion stars... maybe a little the Berber villages, the M'zab, maybe a little the Roman ruins in Tipasa (read Camus).
I could go on...Ghana, Nkrumah's overthrow, hitchhiking around Nigeria during a civil war, NYC (King's assassination, the March on the Pentagon), Montreal...all those places, events: wandering around like Fabrice at Waterloo, not knowing what I was in the middle of.