Way back in the yonder age, when I was an art student at Sonoma State University, circa 1976-78, Welsh travel writer Jan Morris came to give a lecture in Inez Storer’s art history class. That semester we met so many extraordinary artists, including artist and inventor, Don Farnsworth, whose grandfather invented the TV, and Sam Francis—who walked to Cotati from Point Reyes to meet us, as he was eschewing all forms of modern transport.
I don’t exactly remember the details or the lecture itself. But what I do remember is that Jan had lunch with us afterwards in a Cotati pub and the afternoon stretched out beyond the fringes of eternity, embellished with her amazing stories. Beer-in-hand, she was on a roll. The story I remember most vividly to this day is of Jan telling us when she was in Mongolia riding a horse across the vast plains. And something about red cowboy boots stuck in the back of my mind.
Of course, in those days, Jan may have still been a man (aka John Humphreys Morris, who was the only journalist on Sir Edmund Hillary’s ascent team of Mt. Everest). But, Mongolia! When John began his ascent toward the feminine gender and reassignment in 1972, in Casablanca, Morocco, it rocked the world. People couldn’t wrap their minds around it.
To this day, I don’t know if I imagined the story of the red Mongolian riding boots, or if I saw them in a photo. See, in those days, I was not yet a writer. It could’ve been a misplaced associative story fragment from Carolyn Leilani Lau, who followed Jan’s Mongolian path during the 1980s. I remember seeing the framed photo on her kitchen counter in Oakland. Celia Woloch too had a pair of red cowboy boots.
Maybe it’s a poet thing. Those red boots, whether real or imagined, whether they were Jan’s or Carolyn’s, or Celia’s—on her tsigani journey to Romania—became a powerful symbol for my own wanderlust, and the metaphor led me to the far corners of the earth including crossing the Andes, the Galapagos, and to the Russian steppes when it was still the USSR. Not quite outer Mongolia. Or inner Mongolia, but I caught the firebug of travel. And ignited my mind, and my writing.
And no, I’ve never owned a pair of red riding boots, but I did travel to some of those places with red Reebock boots. Not quite the same thing, but infinitely more comfortable. I wore them out a few times over. Duct tape was my friend. In Leningrad, I discovered the Cossacks, and the ancient Scythians also wore beaded red riding boots, so I was in good company.
But those red boots became a symbol within the distant vistas of my mind. Rest in peace, Jan Morris, and may the Elysian Fields of your mind lead you ever onward. And may you always wear those red riding boots as you travel the great plains of the great beyond.
From a Facebook note to Pamela Robertson-Pearce; rev. 11/21/21.
I finally got around to revising my original note. I wasn’t thinking about the date, per se, it was buried, but just now, when I was looking up her birth and death dates, I was stunned to see it was written a year and a day ago, just like in the fairy tales. I think Jan would be pleased. Thank you, Pamela Robertson-Pearce for being the inspiration behind this fragment. For without you, I would never have written this.
FIRST DRAFT: Wayback when in the yonder age, when I was an art student at Sonoma State University, circa 1976-78, travel writer Jan Morris came to visit— perhaps to do a lecture, I don’t remember that part. But what I do remember is that she had lunch with us afterwards and the afternoon stretched out beyond the fringes of eternity with her amazing stories. The story I remember most vividly to this day is of Jan telling us when she was in Mongolia riding a horse across the vast plains. Of course, she may have still been a man back then. But, Mongolia! I don’t know if I imagined the red cowboy boots, or if I saw them in a photo. It could’ve been a misplaced fragment from Carolyn Lau, who followed in Jan’s path some time after. Those red boots became a powerful symbol for my own wanderlust.
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