Whatever their marital problems had been, lack of communication hadn’t been one of them. He hauled his BMW touring bike out of storage, gave it a tune-up, threw a few essentials in a bag and prepared to head south. Before he left, he made a point of spending as much time as he could with his son. It couldn’t compensate for the hurt he’d caused the boy, but it was all he could manage. He intended to travel down through Spain, maybe as far as Morocco, and set off on a direct route through Toulouse toward the Spanish border. In the pilgrimage city of Lourdes he spent an evening watching the procession of wheelchairs, walkers, and hospital beds snake its way to the famous grotto, everyone hoping for a cure. All these people praying for a miracle. My wounds don’t show, but I’m no different. He knew it would take a miracle for him to stop longing for Joanna. But he had to push on. The next day he veered north to cross into the Basque Country at San Sebastian. Except for a brief visit to the Guggenheim Art Gallery at Bilbao, he spent long days on the road, stopping only to eat and sleep.
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