I've traveled many places alone. This is just one of the episodes.

Traveling alone is far from my first choice, but I realized a few years back that if I didn't, I wouldn't see and do some things I wanted to see and do. Two summers ago I got a bee in my bonnet to drive myself to Oxford, Mississippi. The university wasn't the draw - it was Square Books, a well known independent bookseller. Sure, the motive was a bit quirky, but I'm a big fan of independent booksellers. I used to work at one on Forest Avenue in Laguna Beach, CA. Marriner's closed its doors many years ago for all the reasons independent booksellers have become precious relics of our times. Sadly, they've been swallowed by neutered consumerism.

I stayed in a hotel one block off The Square and was able to walk to many of my destinations.

I remember the heat of the three days I was there. It was hot hot hot. The type of heat that produces visible waves. Unknowingly, I'd chosen the perfect week to visit. The university was empty, so Oxford had somewhat reclaimed its tiny, unfettered origins. It had returned to a sleepy southern town with an old-fashioned town square with benches methodically dotting the courthouse perimeter. Though not the literary venue, I was so certain that on any given day I would see Atticus Finch stroll by and tip his hat toward me as I lolled on one of the benches. The heat was staggering, literally. It was the type of heat when people pick up a-n-y-t-h-i-n-g to use as a fan... a newspaper or scrap of cardboard or church bulletin or flattened hand. Though I'm making the heat sound like a big bothersome pest, it wasn't. It was an unexpected high point. I loved its realness - the laziness - the natural injection of serotonin as wave after wave of heat accompanied my strolls with a simmering jet stream. I felt like I'd finally arrived in The South.

Oxford is renowned as a literary hub. Lots of writers live there. Grisham hails from Oxford or landed there. Oxford's most famous resident was Faulkner. I did jump in my car to drive to his home which is open for self tours. That mystical feeling of The Old South wafted from the baked sod of his property. Like so many homes of that era, it looked rather mansion-like from the outside, but once indoors I discovered the rooms were quite few and quite small and the decor was frugal by today's standards. I got the feeling that it was a place of work - where Faulkner's complicated stories incubated.

Oxford, beyond its quintessential Square is an extraordinarily beautiful town - stately neighborhoods all proper and elegant with shabby-chic lawns with what one might call heirloom grass - none of the highly engineered stuff of today - the type of lawns rutted from squirrel caches, croquet divots, temples built by earthworms or ants, or bumpy tunnels created by anything the imagination wants to imagine. The type of lawns I grew up with - lawns for use rather than just for window dressing.

Much to my surprise, Oxford is a pricey town - very pricey. The Square is home to several world class restaurants with famous chefs, but I stuck to smaller establishments with smaller price tags and dined simply and well. The real estate offers mostly big-ticket homes. I'd have trouble buying a carport. And all the shops around The Square were stocked with highend items that must target a focus group of wealthy alum or visitors like me?

But getting back to traveling alone - I had a great little getaway, but it would have been so much more fun to have shared the experiences. I miss that very much at times - the not sharing of an interesting life.

After three days, I packed up and drove back to my beautiful mountain and read a book I purchased at Square Books - Light in August by William Faulkner.