In Harvard Square, I sat on a ledge, eating a chicken-and-cheddar on whole wheat, and listened to a guitarist, in a berry tee shirt and khaki shorts, strum and sing folk songs. I felt sure the locals knew I’m an outsider, from somewhere else, an ordinary tourist skipping her beat on the streets.
To be a woman traveling alone, post-illness, has been an experience, even though last year I went to Montreal. In April 1987, in my last semester in college, I visited my cousin in San...
