Car troubles, deadlines at work, unexpected bills, little sleep. It had been a tough week. And, as I often do when life feels too heavy, I had begun entertaining thoughts of airplane trips to faraway destinations, of vacation, of places where no one speaks English or knows my name.
So when Saturday dawned bright and clear, my yearning to escape from it all got the best of me. I would fly down the highway instead; find someplace serene where I could forget things for a while. I have, after all, made the claim that Texas encompasses much of the world, so in theory I had little need to leave the state in order to get my taste of distant lands. I jumped in my car, leaving my husband asleep in bed, and headed toward Kerrville.
My quest? Stonehenge, that most mysterious of megalithic structures whose unique architecture, I hoped, might inspire in me some calm. Or Stonehenge II, I should say—the original, of course, is in Salisbury, England. (I visited that one when I was about twelve years old, but alas, my recollections of it are vague.) The