 With the words, “The Lakes” etched onto a scrap of
cardboard, I managed to hitchhike my way down the open, lonely roads
of England to the small, tourist town in Cumbria called Keswick. As
I strolled through the town, I found myself wondering how a place so
small, so remote could be the home of the world-famous car museum which
I sought. The museum was nestled within the humble, cobblestone streets
of this English town as if it were a well-kept secret. I joyfully paid
the 3-pound entrance fee and strode through the museum, until my anticipation
was met by the dark seduction of the most beautiful Car ever formed.
My eyes had seen the glory, but my other senses were screaming with
jealousy. Simple sight could not satisfy the deeper yearnings of my
soul. I approached the counter and pleaded that they allow me a closer
look, explaining that I had made my journey from America. A man graciously
walked me over to the car, followed me over the barrier, and onto holy
ground. I floated around Her in awe, taking it in, lovingly caressing
Her flares, spoilers, Her gentle curves. Then, to my sweet surprise,
the man invited me to sit inside. So I opened the door, and seated myself
in Her war-torn cockpit, on the Warrior’s throne. I held Her wheel,
healed by Her burning touch. I was soothed, comforted, made complete.
And I could almost hear Her sigh and shed a tear, as She once again
dreamed of His touch, in this alien land. |
a viewer's tale of a journey - pictures and text contributed byand ©
2000 Karol Bartoszynski
