TRAVELING IN STYLE : Why Did the Comedian Cross the Globe? : A noted comic dreams of shedding his professional persona, but wherever he treks, he finds that fame is anything but fleeting

Once in a while, like most people, I like to get away from it all. However, unlike some people, part of the all from which I want to get away is most people. To truly relax, I need to go somewhere where no one will recognize me and no one will ask for my autograph.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I deeply appreciate my career and am dedicated to all my fans who helped me realize my childhood dreams. And because of all the wonderment that has exploded into my and my loved ones’ lives, I accept fame gladly.

Autographs are part of the package and I have never turned down anyone’s request for one. My only rule, which came after years of not being able to eat until my food turned cold, is to ask the autograph seeker to please return after I’ve finished my meal. I don’t think that is unreasonable, and I do make exceptions for children and veterans of the Spanish American War.

But when it’s vacation time, I want to leave the career and the fame at home. I want to escape to places I once dreamed about while lying next to my big brother in our unheated and barely furnished closet/bedroom in our row house in Philadelphia. I especially want to escape from David Brenner, the comedian, and all the baggage that goes with him, including--and I repeat that I appreciate and love them--the fans. Far, far away to places where the only time I write my name is on a traveler’s check. Ahhhh, free at last. Or am I?

I am standing silently on a cliff at the border between Israel and Lebanon. I am lost in thought about the profound history of the place, from biblical days to bitter armored battles of recent years. The warm winds of the hamseen seem to carry with them the voices of the men and women who have lived and died on this hallowed ground.

Suddenly, my thoughts are broken by a voice--a grating, whiny voice, a distinct call native to the Bensonhurst region of Brooklyn.

“Whatcha doin’ here, David?”

“I live here. I only go to America to do TV.”

“Dat’s nice.”

I sign her kibbutz cap and seriously consider driving my Jeep deep into the Negev desert, never to return. “Salaam, Bedouin Brenner.”

On another visit to the Middle East, I approach the registration counter of a Cairo hotel. The clerk looks at me, widens her eyes, opens her mouth and screams. My first thought is that the Camp David peace accord has been revoked and she is signaling the arrival of a Jew. It turns out she once lived in Washington, D.C., where she became a die-hard Johnny Carson fan. As requested, I fill the entire page of the guest book with my signature.

In a small, remote Arab town, I am walking through the marketplace, where Arab men and women sit in front of cubbyhole- sized shops and hawk their wares. I file the sights, sounds and smells into my memory bank. Then . . .

“The Philly Kid!”

I can’t believe my ears. Someone with a thick Arabic accent calling out the name of my birthplace?

Impossible.

“The Philly Kid!” the voice repeats, louder.

I turn to see a dark-skinned face smiling from inside his Arab headdress. The man is squatting in front of a small stall containing thousands of brass items.

“Yes, you are he. You are the Philly Kid. I lived in your hometown for two years with my brother who is going to the University of Pennsylvania and my sister who is married to a policeman.”

Then, without taking a breath, he adds: “Would you like to buy a pot?”

He settled for my name written with black marker on the side of a large brass kettle, which I’m sure he’s since sold to another Philly Kid.

Some years ago, my older brother and I left Dublin and drove to a desolate spot far up along the Irish coast. We got out and strolled along the water’s edge, tossing stones into the sunlit sea and ideas into the air. After we had walked about half an hour, a young couple appeared atop an embankment 30 yards or so ahead of us. They climbed down and started walking towards us. Obviously young Irish lovers walking hand in hand, whispering intimate expressions of love, I thought. Now they were directly in front of us.

“Excuse me, David, we are students from Michigan State. We saw you in concert two years ago and would love your autograph.”

“What a wild coincidence that we should meet here,” I said.

“Well, actually, we followed you from Dublin. I hope you’re not angry.”

How could I be? I have often wondered if those young lovers ever married, and if they did, if they still have the flat stone from the Irish coast that has my name written on it.

Probably the place I dreamed most about seeing was the Great Wall of China. From the moment in grade school when I saw a picture of it and read of its history, I wanted to stand at the top of one of its towers. I wanted to let my mind race back through 5,000 years of time. I was wildly jealous when I once called my father on board the Queen Elizabeth II during one of his world cruises and was told that my brother wasn’t on the ship because he had gone to see the Great Wall.

A few years later, my day in China finally came. Most people’s hearts pound from the exertion of climbing the wall. Mine nearly exploded from the mere first sight of it. I ran to purchase my ticket and began a climb that I had climbed so often in my mind.

I had gone only a few steps when a woman spun me around violently, screaming at the top of her lungs.

“Harry! Harry! Look who’s here. David Brenner! Can you believe it? Look everyone--David Brenner!”

Everyone? Of course. Why limit this discovery to just Harry? Let the whole tour group share in it.

“David, I swear to God. I should drop dead, if this isn’t the truth--and who wants to die in this God-forsaken Communist country--if I didn’t say to Harry when we were watching ‘The Tonight Show’ and you told Johnny you were going to China, as God is my witness, on the lives of my three children and four grandchildren, God bless their hearts, if I didn’t say to Harry, ‘Harry, wouldn’t it be something if as soon as we go to that wall place, we bump into David Brenner?’ And here you are!”

Harry pumped my hand. The tour group surrounded me. I could no longer see the wall.

My identifier cried out, “Don’t worry everyone, I’ve got enough autograph paper for everyone!”

And she did. And everyone used it. Everyone except the Chinese, thanks to the same God she was thanking, because there are more than 1 billion of them and I had only two hours to see the wall.

Wherever the private me goes, the public me goes. I cannot escape from myself. When I stepped off the ship’s gangplank in Costa Rica, a local camera crew ran up to interview me; the TV newsman covering the ship’s arrival had lived in New Jersey for a year. He translated my jokes into Spanish. As soon as I came off the plane in Rhodes, the TV news crew doing a documentary charged after me; the producer had spent a summer in Boston. A Turkish family in Bodrum recognized me; they had once stopped in Las Vegas during their vacation in America. The hot-air balloon landing on an estate outside Siena, Italy, was owned by a woman who knew me from the month she had spent in Los Angeles. In Marbella, Spain, my waiter had been a waiter in Manhattan. Stopping at a lodge to pick up bottled water during a safari in the Masai Mara Animal Reserve in Kenya, a woman at the counter remembered me from TV when she had visited the United States to explore the Grand Canyon.

Was there no escaping? An idea: As a sailor, I know that about the one place on this earth that can provide me with the few days of privacy is the deck of a sailboat.

Free from fame at last in the Caribbean. I sailed from St. Maarten into Gustavia in St. Barts and tied up at the dock. It was time for a glass of Champagne and a sunset. As I sat on deck watching the sun dip into the sea, I heard a very familiar voice. Mine. My voice was coming from the sailboat next to me. Twilight Zone time. A young man came up on the deck of my neighboring sailboat, looked at me and screamed “I don’t believe it. We taped you on the Howard Stern radio show and brought it with us and we’re listening to it right now and here you are. Unbelievable!” It certainly was.

Our 61-foot Swan settled into the small harbor off the most magical island I’ve ever seen--Santorini, in the Aegean Sea off Greece. It is an island steeped in mystical history, and steep in mountain. The only means of getting up the sheer cliff etched out during violent volcanic eruptions are by tram or donkey. My friends and I chose the four-footed mode over the mechanical one, but this turned out to be more adventurous than I anticipated.

My donkey, named Marco Polo, was insane. He refused to tolerate any of his brethren beating him to the top. In Marco’s insatiable, maniacal need to be No. 1, he repeatedly slammed me against the cliff wall. Whenever he would pass another donkey, he would announce his triumph by braying loudly and depositing a few donkey droppings.

As we passed our 10th or 12th donkey (I lost count) and were rounding a bend, a group of about 20 tourists on as many donkeys was descending. Upon seeing my mad ass charging right at her, the first tourist screamed. Tourist No. 2 screeched, “Oh, my God, everyone, look--it’s David Brenner.” Tourists No. 3 through 20 waved and yelled terms of endearment as I whipped by them at Indy 500 speed, slowing down only when my body crashed into a wall. To those who called out requests for autographs, I replied that I would wait for them at the top.

Another solution hit me: Never get off the sailboat, never touch land. Fish don’t watch TV, and even if they did, they wouldn’t ask for autographs.

Somewhere off the coast of France, I had been at sea for little more than a week when--on the horizon--I spotted a gorgeous schooner under full sail. A magnificent sight. She had to be 160 feet. I decided to try to catch up to her.

It took about three hours before I was able to pull alongside. Up close she was even more gorgeous, perhaps the most beautiful boat I had ever seen. “Ahoy, Captain,” I called when I was close off her starboard side.

“Ahoy,” waved her salty master.

“You are the queen of the seven seas, Captain,” I yelled, as I turned in closer to the schooner.

The captain smiled proudly, knowing that it was true. As he waved his thank you, a head popped up from the deck. It was a woman’s head, complete with large, gold-hoop earrings and lots of makeup. Who wears jewelry and makeup on a sailing vessel? I wondered. As a possible answer gripped me with fear, the sunglasses came off the face, and the red mouth parted.

“It’s David Brenner! It’s David Brenner!”

Heads, male and female, began popping up from all over the deck.

“Quick, George, get the camera!”

Before you could yell “Fans Ahoy,” dozens of people were now lined up along the railing. Camera shutters were clicking. Soon friends at home would be seeing pictures of the celebrity they spotted while enjoying a day sail during the free vacation they had won for being the top salespeople in their company. My luck, a floating convention.

Since that glorious day in the 1970s when my career catapulted me into the public eye, I have had a vision of the future. In it, I cast aside my life onstage, which I have so deeply loved and appreciated, and I cast off in my sailboat to cruise the world. After a couple of years, I settle down in what will be my private nirvana. I see myself, barefoot and bare-chested, in cutoff jeans, walking lackadaisically on a sun-drenched, white-sand beach, stopping only to inspect a uniquely beautiful seashell, or to gaze admiringly at another painted sky, bidding goodby to another tranquil day. I see a young couple approaching. They stare at me and one of them asks timidly, “Didn’t you used to be David Brenner?” And I smile warmly and answer, “Yes.”

The only question unanswered in my dream is whether they will ask me for an autograph and, should they not, whether I shall be disappointed.