Romance—Count Me Out
I don’t have a romantic nature. I suppose the three best words to describe me would be cynic, pessimist, satirical. I do not swoon.
How then did I get married, you might wonder. Was it an arranged marriage? Well, yeah. We arranged it.
I met my husband on the Princeton graduate commons. I had moved to Princeton Junction for a job; he was finishing up his Ph.D. in electrical engineering. I was living in a house with five other women. The year being 1966, women’s liberation was in the future, I definitely hadn’t liberated myself from the idea that at some point I should be married. After all, all my friends from college were already married, while I had lingered on the shelf two long years. So I asked my roommates where one met men in Princeton. They suggested folk dancing on the graduate commons.
Off I went. I was standing by the stone wall, in truth someone had started talking to me, when I spotted this strange looking creature in white shirt and blue Bermuda shorts on the dance ground studying me. I sent up a silent prayer that he would not come over and ask me to dance.
Yes, he came over and asked me to dance.
We spent the rest of the evening talking. I thought at first he was from India, but it turned out he was from Israel. I was excited because my life had been changed forever not by a book but by a motion picture, “Lawrence of Arabia.” Was it just Peter O’Toole, he of the blue eyes, or was it the romance of the desert? From then on I was hooked on the Middle East and determined to get there.
A spattering of rain caused my dancer and me to move into an alcove. After a while, he asked if I wanted to go back to his room to see his stamps. What a line, eh? I sneered and said no thanks. (Dear Reader, this man came to the United States with two suitcases, one was indeed filled with stamps. My introduction to the mind of an engineer.)
The spattering of rain turned into a torrent. It wasn’t going to stop. Neither of us had umbrellas. At some point I knew I’d have to brave it and make a run for my car in the parking lot, not close by. We dashed into the downpour. I got into my car, safe from the rain. As I pulled away, I saw him drenched, waiting for me, waving goodbye. I knew at that moment I was going to marry him.
And that is the epic story of how I fell in love. We were married two months later and have been together ever since. I became a camp follower to his career, but at a certain point, I struck out for a career of my own. My passion was never for love. My passion was for adventure, something my marriage provided me. And my passion in books follows my passion in life—adventure.
I can remember bringing along a paperback copy of “Shogun” on one of our many trips to Israel. I should have been absorbed by what was happening in the country. Instead I was absorbed by “Shogun.” It was another “Exodus” for me.
Romance novels? When we were in Israel for my husband’s sabbatical, I found an old copy of “Gone With the Wind” in the university library. I had never read it and thought maybe it was about time. I found the book incredibly annoying. Scarlett O’Hara was a stupid, self-destructive woman. A romantic heroine she was not!
On the other hand, does anyone read “Forever Amber” anymore? Now there was a story of romance, combined with history and adventure, just the type of book I can become involved in. Plus, a real tearjerker and who doesn’t need a good cry occasionally. Poor Amber, and yet, she triumphed—in her own way.
Do I read romance novels, the ones with the trashy covers? No. The trouble is the plot is always the same. (A side note here about plots always being the same. Many popular authors write the same book over and over again. The publishing industry applauds this and probably so do most readers. I have read books by authors I like and then I have read the next book and the book after that and then I—stop! Because really nothing different is going to happen. This is sad but commercially successful.)
Back to romance novels, I made an exception with a certain Regency author whose books were quite clever. No, not Georgette Heyer. I just couldn’t get into her. I’m speaking about the late Marion Chesney. She wrote light, frothy novels, usually in a series. But then she stopped. Readers might now know her as M. C. Beaton who wrote the Hamish MacBeth series and Agatha Raisin. Sad, but it was a smart decision on her part, and she will be missed.
For me romance in a book is only a side issue. As Emily Dickinson put it, “There is no frigate like a book.” I want a book to take me away, to let me explore new countries, new customs, new everything. When I browse at the library, I check the setting of a book. (I will admit in my later years I also check the ending because I am sick of unhappiness, so the ending must be pleasingly upbeat.). To me adventure is the real romance, in a book and in life. As long as I can read, or even listen to a book, I know I’ll have my kind of romance, as I visit the far flung corners of our universe.
