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Keeping the Wings On
Despite the fact that he surely ranks right up there among the world's most experienced travelers (134 countries, an estimated 2,000,000 miles), Fielding on the road is the epitome of the insecure U.S. tourist. When he heads for the airport, he literally jingles with good luck charms: his World War II dog tags, a St. Christopher medal, a brass taxi whistle from Cartier, a gold medal that was presented to him by Pope Pius XII, still another that was a gift from Haile Selassie, a gold-plated English penny and a charm in the shape of a naked lady. "I'm not afraid of flying," he says, "but these things are what keep the wings on the airplane."
He boasts that "we have never missed a plane or a train in our life"—and why should he have, since he invariably shows up at least an hour ahead of departure time? At an airport, Fielding's baggage check-in is a laughin.
Airline Clerk: Ah yes, Mr. Fielding, will you please put your suitcases on the scale?
Fielding (with a flourish): See, not an ounce overweight!
Clerk: That's fine, sir, but what about those things you're carrying in your hands?
"Those things" are an immense raffia shopping bag and a calfskin briefcase with more compartments than the Queen Elizabeth 2. In them, Fielding carries enough of home to prove that you can take it with you when you go. One nickel-plated ice bucket. A container of U.S.-made Tribune vermouth, for U.S.-style martinis. A silver flask of Fernet-Branca bitters (ugh!) for queasy mornings-after. Small cigars. A pocket edition of Ecclesiastes. One tube of Epernay mustard (for breakfast he only eats ham sandwiches because "I'm so sick of croissants that I'd rather eat my shoes"). A tiny Swiss alarm clock, three pairs of glasses and a fistful of toothbrushes. Plus, of course, a portable radio (for music to shave and shower by), decaffeinated instant coffee, sleeping pills (two strengths), and a plastic bag of dried, unsalted peanuts. That is only a partial inventory. On a recent British European Airways flight, Fielding ordered a Manhattan cocktail. "Sorry, sir," said the steward, whereupon Temp dug into his briefcase and produced a miniature Manhattan bottle of his own. "I'm sorry, we don't have a cherry for you, sir," the steward sweetly countered. Fielding dug in again and found a whole bottle of maraschinos.
Doyenne of Shopping
Life on the road sounds sybaritic, but to those who live it, it is hectic and wearying. Except for occasional weekend rendezvous, members of the Fielding "family" travel separately, and when they straggle back to Majorca, the tendency is to collapse. Temp collates his notes in bed. Nancy balances her checkbook in bed. For days they type in bed and eat in bed and only get out to shower, change pajamas and do situps. Fielding has ordered a custom-built electric bed that bends and unbends at the touch of a button.
Not until he feels fully restored does Temp move his base of operations to his office—a sort of travel-trade city room. There, surrounded by 93 framed certificates and photographs, he sits at a U-shaped desk, pounding away at a typewriter in indefectible isolation: his incoming phone calls end at the