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Unexpected Encounters: Travel Goals
When I was a teenager, I went to the science center IMAX. There, on the giant screen, I experienced scenes from the Andes and heard about a plane crash that left people stranded for 72 days. Through footage of the wreckage, I imagined the horrors of trying to survive on the side of a mountain in temperatures of over 30 below zero.
As an adult, standing in Montevideo Uruguay, I ran across the Museo Andes 1972. It is an unassuming multistory building that is too hot and has way too many people inside. The exhibit is small, the text is mostly in Spanish, and it is hard to see over the crush of tourists surging off of the cruise ships. We pay admission, despite the obstacles, and visit this small space that was intended as a pop up memorial. The museum has endured and expanded as a remembrance , a place of mourning and celebration.
On Friday the 13th, 1972 a small plane with a Uruguayan rugby team, their coaches, a doctor, a young mother, and a few others left Uruguay for a short flight over the Andes into Chile. Standing in front of mangled pieces of plane, it is clear they didn’t make it. The cases of student identification, glasses, and other personal effects make this more than story. The coats and sleeping bags made out of airplane seat covers show ingenious desperation. The goodbye letters and final photographs tug at my heart. I am captivated and compare the reality of the items in front of me to the IMAX story of long ago.
Just as I marvel at how 36 of the 45 could have survived the initial crash, I realize that a few were horribly injured. Mangled seats and bloody garments tell a harrowing tale that needs no translation. I am taking that in. They had no food except some candy purchased for someone’s children as a travel gift, a little soda and some beer. One tiny radio that let them know the search had been called off. Desperation.… I can feel it ….. all these decades later.
And then on top of all the hurt, an avalanche sends the plane further down the mountain and buries them alive. Eight more die instantly. Others are starving. Tough decisions must be made. I watch a video of a man just a little older than my husband describe how he and other survivors made the difficult decision to eat the bodies of the dead. He shared the moral and ethical dilemma they faced and what the reasoning process looked like. It was heartbreaking to watch. There were a few photos taken inside the buried plane. It was hard to look and hard to look away.
There was a child sized pair of red tennis shoes in a glass case. How odd and seemingly out of place? They were purchased by the woman on the flight as a gift for child. Red shoes marking the way home. The men took turns walking as far as they could in every direction hoping to find help. The shoes were used as place markers since they were the only spot of color in the snow. Homemade snow glasses and improvised parkas sat in cases nearby. Such ordinary materials put to extraordinary use. Symbols of hope.
Just when I feel completely spent, I read goodbye letters from a man to his wife. I need to sit, whether from the heat or the emotional toll…. I am unsure. I stop and flip through a coffee table book of the Andes and imagine walking through the beautiful and terrifying terrain.
Finally, in the basement, photos of rescue. Two of the men encounter a cattle driver after walking for 10 days. They are saved. 17 survivors in a grainy video walking off a plane. They are walking skeletons with wide smiles. Parents and family members hug and cry. The video cuts away to scenes of survivors living life since the tragedy.
I stand for a long time in the dark basement room looking at the wooden beams and saying a prayer. I can’t form the right words but I want these 17 people to be alright. I want them to know they beat the mountain, that their friends forgive them, that 100s of people are standing here amazed at their perseverance.
An unexpected encounter on an unassuming street.
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Cruise culture: Travel Goals
We said we would never cruise, and yet I found myself on a Holland America ship for thirty five days in order to sail around South America. My hesitation for cruise travel had nothing to do with the ship, the sea, the time, or the money. I dreaded the people.
I didn’t want to feel crowded or to have to chit chat with strangers. I can be a bit of an introvert. I had stereotypes in my head of self-entitled travelers engaging in constant excess….the so called ugly Americans. Thankfully my fears were overblown and most people we encountered were lovely. Germans, Aussies, British, Chinese, Japanese, Canadian. Lovely people from all walks of life with wanderlust. Unfortunately when they were downright dreadful….people you wanted to avoid, they were almost always American (stories for another day).
People who cruise have a unique sub-culture. The questions started immediately upon boarding. “What deck are you on? Do you have a balcony? What mariner level are you? What did you pay for your package? Do you get free laundry? Did you get the drink package?” In St. Louis, people ask “where did you go to high school?” In the South, “who are your people?”
The purpose behind such questions is to sift and sort. To determine who is of like means. To figure out who is worthy. To help the one who interrogates feel a bit more control and confidence. Occasionally, people ask to just make idle conversation. You can recognize the queen bees and king pins instantly, for before you can answer, they launch into why their choice is better, more expensive, a smarter choice etc.
At dinner, the conversation turns to “where have you cruised?“ or “how many cruises have you been on?” My answer of “none but this cruise” was met with astonishment. Additional questions always followed. “What did you pick 35 days in South America as your first? Aren’t you afraid you’ll get seasick?” We felt a little like the new kids in school. Plenty of cruisers felt compelled to assimilate us and show us the ropes.
At port, the people would line off the boat and file onto land tours. We would get horrified looks when we said we were traveling by foot or public transport and seeing local culture. It seems our independent travel ways were in the minority. But we love to immerse ourselves in the life of a country and its people. That is hard to do with only a few hours in port. Nevertheless, we tried. The times we joined a tour out of need for transport, we remembered why we don’t usual join a tour.
Cruising definitely has its own culture, very different than our usual sustainable, local adventures. However, I was so overjoyed to see the number of elderly travelers. There were plenty of people in their nineties still out seeing the world. I was inspired by their moxy and I loved hearing their stories of adventure.
So while cruising, unfortunately, did have some of the elements that I had hoped to avoid, mostly it was a group of people trying to experience life in its fullest. From all corners of the Earth and all walks of life, people gathered to see the world and understand it a bit better. That is my kind of sub-culture. Still, we will likely put off future cruising until we are unable to travel independently as we prefer more localized cultural experiences. But it is very nice to know that our 80 and 90 year old selves have plenty of travel options. And we have new roles models of senior travel experiences.
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Travel Goals: Excess
I just saw an article on women overpacking when they travel. The piece also suggested that packing deterred some people from traveling.
I will admit that trying to decide what to pack for a trip is an exercise in self control. But I pride myself in being able to pack for a two week international vacation in one carry on. Our last adventure to Australia was five weeks and I checked one midsized bag that had plenty of room left inside.
To me, luggage is cumbersome and can slow you down. Give me a backpack and one roller bag and I am good to go. Seriously. . . Less is better when you are on the road.
The decisions of what goes into those two bags are sometimes difficult. I usually start by laying aside articles of clothing that match the weather and planned activities at our destination. Once I have a critical mass, I begin to mix and match clothes. Each item that goes into the bag has to work with at least three other items of clothing that are going in the bag. In this way, three shirts, three pants, three jackets can give me at least twelve different outfits.
I also carry a few very lightweight dresses and one piece garments. I can usually get at least three of these in the backpack. If we are doing a lot of outdoor activities, I have to select a hat that can fold flat, and sometimes gloves. A scarf is always a good choice. If it is cold it can warm your neck; if cool it can serve as a shoulder wrap. Everything is rolled tightly to save space and control wrinkles.
I don’t worry about jewelry. I carry just a few old, basic pieces that can work with everything. I don’t want anything flashy that draws attention. I really like to blend in with the locals if at all possible.
Hardest of all…..at least for me….is shoe selection. I am a shoe girl. In my daily life, I like high heels and shoes with character. Shoes make the outfit. If you know me, you know I am very particular about shoe choice.
Minimalist travel doesn’t allow for my shoe addiction. I usually only find room for four choices. The bulky boot or hiking shoe must be worn on all travel days (they don’t fit into the bag). I am left with uninspiring neutral colored ballerina flats, sandals, or canvas shoes that can be folded and shoved into corners and crevices.
The remainder of space is taken by a hair brush, and very small clear bag to hold essentials like toothpaste and mascara. Make up is minimal to nonexistent when I am on the go. And finally, the electronics which may include a camera, laptop, kindle, and phone (and all the cords).
One bag. One pack. You don’t need more. Besides you have to create room for travel souvenirs. Leave yourself some space. Don’t let life weigh you down. Get out there.
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Dreaming of a Spring awakening
This winter has been sluggish. I always struggle in the grey, dark days to find meaning and purpose. I get up and read. Slowly going through the motions of the day, I long to be outside and for sunshine. It is hard to be motivated when hibernation seems the best option.
And so I dream. I bury myself in work, if work is available. I plan new materials for use in my training sessions. I clean and organize. I make blankets, puzzles, and food. I think I will write, but find I have nothing to say…at least nothing of substance.
To occupy my time, I make photo books of our travels. It is an exercise in restraint. I take hundreds of photos when we are on the road. I briefly wonder why I am not so interested in documenting my ordinary existence. I discard that line of thought and move on to dreaming of our next extraordinary step outside of our usual existence.
It starts with a crazy idea. A glimmer of a future adventure in a new environment. The timing is uncertain until one day the stars align and we purchase tickets or rent a house on distant shores. I can’t pinpoint when or how that day will come. It just seems to happen when the time is right.
The dates are set for what seems like a long way away in the future. The days crawl by for until the excitement of planning wears off. Then I forget about it for a while. The trip becomes almost imaginary.
I read as much as I can about local culture and opportunities. It is like I am opening a window into another world. We seek an authentic experience away from resorts and tours. We want to live locally and immerse ourselves in another way of life. (In as much as that is even possible. I know we are still American tourists, but we hope to tread respectfully do our best to show respect and appreciation for the community we land in.)
But, sometimes the doubts set in. Will it be wonderful or horrible? Can I adjust to the environment? Will people be friendly or hostile? Do I have what I need? Will I be able to handle whatever happens? I quickly realize this is just fear of the unknown. My mood and confidence altered by the endless gloom of winter.
I remind myself that I have successfully handled many situations before and that sometimes bumps in the road make the best travel stories. (Someday, I will write about the six hours we spent trying to do one load of laundry in Portugal or about the night I was stranded in a dark bathtub when the fuses blew in our ancient apartment building). I smile when I think of how much richer my life is because of the experiences so very different than my origins. Mark Twain said “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one’s lifetime.” I believe that. And so I forge on.
So on this February day, I give thanks for the sunshine and bird song. Spring is just around the corner and so is another adventure. I don’t know exactly what will happen in the months to come. But I can say with certainty that I will push myself outside my comfort zone. We will seek new awakenings and will be richer for it.
The sun is shining. It is time to dream silly dreams and get out there.
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Relationships and the Common Good
To be human is to be in relationship. All that we are, all that we think, all that we do has been shaped by our interactions with other people. Neuroscience confirms that the pathways in our brain are wired by interactions with others. Happiness is linked to personal interactions that produce endorphins. It is no secret that to function well, we need each other.
The U.S. was founded on the principle of the common good. “We the people…perfect…general welfare….”, etc. Our collective images of a good life in popular culture include strong relationships (think Friends, Cheers, Mayberry….even Virgin River). Deep down we all long for a place where everyone knows our name.
Relatively recently, our society has made a subtle yet sudden shift. I’d like to blame it on technology, but that would be too easy. Technology is often helpful and nothing is simple. In America today, we are isolated and we have bought into the myth of the self sufficient, rugged individual.
Technology has made it possible to work from home, shop from home, bank from home. You can go weeks without having meaningful interactions with anyone. You can shop in a store and check yourself out having no eye contact or verbal exchange. You can get your news online and only visit sites that agree with your point of view. In fact, social media algorithms will make sure that you see more and more of the thoughts and ideas that conform to your preferences.
We fool ourselves into thinking that our online interactions are filling our need for relationships, but neuroscience tells us it does not. It takes more and more online interaction to derive any sense of connection until we find ourselves in the doom loop of scrolling aimlessly and constantly, even in the presence of our human friends and family. We can’t help ourselves..it is part of our physiology to want more novelty. And so we gravitate to things that stimulate, shock, and anger. The algorithms feed the internal need.
All of this isolation isn’t healthy. It leads us to a state of detachment in which we disconnect our thoughts, wants and needs from those others. We no longer associate our actions with the impact they have on others. All that matters is how I feel and how it impacts me. Modern society reinforces this instant gratification by offering even more individualization. And so it goes.
Individualism runs deep. Travel has forced me to look closely at things I take for granted. Transportation in the U.S. is individualized and requires a car. At least where I live, it is impossible to exist without one. I get in my car by myself. I drive to where I want to go, past thousands of individual drivers. I park as close to the door as possible. I get out, I go in. When I am ready to go to the next stop at the end of the block, I restart the car and drive to the next parking lot. I never have to be outside if I don’t want to. In fact, I can’t walk (even if I wanted to) because there is no sidewalk or pedestrian walkway across the highway.
I am on my own, but if I am honest, I love the freedom of my car. I love the open road. But what happens if I can’t drive? Public transport isn’t even available until I get to the city. There it is unreliable. It has limited access and is considered somewhat unsafe. Why spend money to benefit people who can’t afford a car? Let’s build more roads and parking lots instead. Asphalt doesn’t have to be mowed and conveniently runs right up to the air conditioning (I am getting carried away with my thinly veiled sarcasm and digress).
After spending several months in other countries, I’m pretty sure we missed something. When I am abroad, I still have the option of driving myself, but I seldom choose to. Instead, I ride buses and trams and trains and ferries. I walk on sidewalks and through parks, squares, and other glorious public spaces.
I am connected. I see other families in my neighborhood and quickly make connections. I give up my seat for the elderly, because they can go anywhere in the city (or surrounding towns) without having to drive. Their independence and walking stamina inspire me. They are part of a bustling community and are seen and heard by their neighbors.
Virtually everyone is in better shape, because they regularly walk and spend time outdoors. Cities and town spend money on sidewalks, bike paths, walkways, parks, gardens, and public art. Because community, health, and the common good is critical to well being. Ironically, everyone has more choices and independent options because they are collectively valued.
Don’t get me wrong. I am blessed to be part of my very American community. But the more I learn about what it means to be human, the more I understand that we have some corrections to make. We need each other. We must invest in each other. The common good matters.
Do yourself a favor. Put down your device today. Take a walk. Visit a public space and have a conversation with a stranger. Your brain will thank you. If we all did the same, we could stop fuming at how divisive the country is and focus on becoming more connected. And maybe, just maybe, we would create public policy initiatives to benefit us all. Relationships matter.
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Hibernation
The cold fingers of winter creep up on you. Wrapped in the post holiday glow, you don’t notice it at first. Still full and warm, you snuggle into a comfortable lull.
At first it seems cozy. Contentment radiates, until one day you decide to pack away the decorations. The house looks clean and bright. You blink and just like that, the January clouds descend. From merry and bright to grey and blight in an instant.
It is bone chillingly cold today, the holidays and the Spring both seem far away. It is tempting to fall into the fog and sleep the day away. And yet, the fire crackles and I am thankful for its warmth. I am grateful for a home to shelter against the sub zero temperatures. Not all are so lucky.
In the worst of winter, it is easy to feel listless. I miss the sun and long for woods. For now, I will have to be content to watch the birds sheltering in backyard trees. I will find beauty in the ice formations on the windows and the dancing flames in the fireplace. I will also likely become reacquainted with comfort food. Warm bread makes everything better.
Full of biscuits and bacon, I remember that I still have dreams to dream and things to learn. I have a wall of books and a closet of games. Spring will come eventually. Until then, I will be content and count my many blessings.
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Confessions of an Extroverted Introvert
Sometimes it just seems too “peoply” out there. Don’t get me wrong, I love people. I enjoy extended time with friends and families. I love going to work and encountering new individuals of all ages. But I am an extroverted introvert.
There is something in me that screams for alone time. If I am in a crowd with loud voices too long, I physically react. My senses overload. My ears ring, my heart races, and I feel incredibly anxious.
I have a very large extended family and as a child, family events were often challenging. If I could, I would hide for a while in a bedroom or bathroom, just to find a quiet corner away from the loud laughter. Sometimes, grandma would join me (apparently we were cut from the same cloth).
As a teenager, I learned to limit my time in indoor gymnasiums and other loud gatherings. (Outdoor events have never had quite the same effect.). As a young mother, I braced myself against the reaction to crying babies. I rocked and sang as much to calm myself down as to calm the children.
This past Saturday, we spent the most wonderful day with family. An hour car ride provided ample time to catch up. This was followed with a two hour Christmas concert to kick off the holidays, a pleasant dinner in a crowded restaurant, a few hours visiting and playing games, and another hour in the car riding home. Each segment of the day was fun. I love the people and I loved the activities.
Sunday, I woke up and went to church. We were greeters. I exchanged smiles and good wishes with dozens of people. After church, my husband asked if I wanted to go to the store. I answered, “no”. Just no. The extrovert had disappeared.
We made it home and all I wanted was to put on my comfy clothes and lay in a dark room. My people meter was depleted. I needed solitude like I needed air. My husband knew I was out of sorts and asked what was wrong. I answered “nothing”. He asked if I was sure. Each question made me feel like I was gasping for air. I found things to do in another room. He came into the room to be near me. He loves me and wanted to make sure I was okay. The introvert had roared to life and I desperately needed to be alone, to stop interacting, to not have to explain why I stopped interacting. Ah, the idiosyncrasies of the extroverted introverts.
When I need to be alone, I am like a drowning man thrashing in the water. I roam around looking for a place to be. Usually, I head to the woods for a solo hike or spend a few hours in the bath. Eventually, I can relax and reset. When I need to be with people, I seek connection with the same urgency.
I am currently sitting in my comfy chair and dreaming of the big family gatherings for Christmas. I can’t wait for everyone to be here. Once they are here, I know it won’t be long until I am looking for a quiet place to regroup. The life of an extroverted introvert is complicated.
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Decoration Day
My grandma always called Memorial Day by its old name…decoration day. It was a day set aside to decorate the graves of soldiers with flowers and to honor their memories. Eventually, decoration day became Memorial Day. She was adamant about honoring family with artificial flowers.
My decoration day celebration, however, is always the 48 hours after the Thanksgiving meal, No sooner than plates have been cleared, I am on a ladder decorating my parent’s Christmas tree with ornaments representing their life together. I love hiding the ugly, ancient bird that was passed down from my great grandmother. I reverently hand the teardrop ornaments purchased when mom and dad were first married. Artfully placing a lifetime of memories takes awhile.
The next day, after our drive home, decoration day swings into full gear.
All in all, I put up five trees, a full Christmas village, greenery, centerpieces, and numerous Christmas Santa’s. Excessive but not yet obsessive. Each piece a memory. A decorative display of love.
On the smallest tree, are memories of my childhood. There are crocheted socks and other ornaments made by my grandmothers. Tiny red velvet bells pinched onto branches sit exactly tilted as they did on grandma’s tiny tree. Some of the ornaments were ugly even then, but are now extra special. I remember grandma laughing when the misshapen felt snoopy that she attempted to sew was put on the tree. He gets a special branch just because he makes me smile as I remember how her whole body shook when she laughed. I also cherish tarnished jingle bells with colorful ribbon. I made them for grandma the year she wanted new ornaments but couldn’t really afford them. We bought a card of cheap small bells and pink ribbon at the dime store. I spent the whole afternoon making ornaments of bells. Only two remain, but the memories live on.
The tree also has several ornaments we received as teachers. My husband and I each are proclaimed world’s greatest teacher on brass ornaments nestled between branches. Since he stayed in the classroom almost 40 years, I will cede to him.
Upstairs, in our bedroom, I have a tree that belonged to my uncle Loyd. It is a small tree that is attached to a nativity. It has a collector’s certificate of authenticity and hundreds of ceramic pieces. Each year, I wonder if I have the patience to put it up and each year I think of the look on his face when I brought him a small gift. His only son died from childhood leukemia when I was just an infant. I know Christmas was hard for him. But I also remember his crooked smile each time he opened whatever token I offered. Each time I put up that tree, I see Loyd and my Dad driving around the neighborhood on Christmas Eve in a golf cart wearing Santa hats. Partners in mischief. Brothers with a more than special bond.
In the living room, things are a bit more formal. Antiques and heirlooms (at least to me). On the mantel sits the Christmas village. Grandma used to fill her tiny living room with a village that grandpa called “Marquand” after a small nearby town. When there was literally no more room for people to sit, she began to buy houses for me. “For your hope chest”, she would whisper. I hope she knows how often I think of her.
On the armoire, an army of nutcrackers stand at attention. Each a gift to our son across 20 years of Christmas. He used to love the soldiers, bakers, ball players, pirates, and other oddities. The idea was that he would have then to decorate his own home with memories of special holidays. However, my bachelor son says he doesn’t have room in his apartment and prefers they stay here in their usual place…waiting for his Christmas homecoming.
The side table is home to a herd of camels in search of a star. They have wondered from all over the Earth. A dear friend gifted a camel she had loved as a child growing up in Somalia. A caravan of camels were a gift to me as a child from my uncle Bob, serving in Turkey. I picked up two camels made from leather while in Fez, Morocco. My little caravan has traveled the world looking for the manger sitting across my living room.
The largest tree is filled with antique glass. Most are gifts from my mom. Santa’s and angels in colorful, delicate shells. There are long glass icicles that we purchased from a small town vender on cold night Christmas market. Several ornaments have unknown provenance. They have always been, a constant in my holiday memory. I suppose they must have belonged to someone first, probably gifted to me. This year, as I unpacked a long used apple crate (I have stored ornaments in it for 40+ years), I noticed my grandma’s handwriting. The note said to “use the ornaments and if I can’t store them to bring them to my shed. Love grandma.”
I remember getting that box. Grandpa was proudly holding a tree he cut. It was really just one skinny branch that could only hold one ornament out of the box. A Charlie Brown tree, cut with love. The ornaments now grace a 7 foot tree, but I would trade it all just to see my grandparents smile the way they did that day. Decoration day is full of remembrance.
The family room tree is full of family memories. Happy meal Dalmatians from the endless trips to McDonalds to get “the right” dog ornament. Dinosaurs and soccer balls. An ornament from each year of our life together. Early ornaments from wal-mart just have a year and some sappy, hugging snowmen. Baby years ornaments have diaper pins and buggies. Eventually, I began picking up an ornament from each of our travels. An Alaskan moose, a surfing Santa, an Irish leprechaun, and most recently a koala… all part of the eclectic representation of our family. Our pets are memorialized, as well as our hobbies. When I look at the tree, I am reminded of an amazing simple life.
Decoration day is exhausting. I am tired physically from the work. It also can be emotionally tiring. It is just the two of us in the house. So many of our family members have passed on or live far afield. But the memories are of happy days and more love than anyone deserves. Decoration day is an important tradition, a connection to the past and a projection to the future. As long as the decorations go up, I will remember and give thanks. Each night I take time to notice a memory as I impatiently wait for the family to be together to make new ones.
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Thanksgiving
The leaves have turned. The air has turned colder. The days are shorter. There is an urgency to make the most of any weather that permits outdoor living. Winter is coming.
It is the time of year that family negotiations begin. Where shall we meet? How many will come? Who will bring food? The coordination is almost like planning the d-day invasion as the large family grows ever larger.
We find a weekend ahead of the holiday to visit and eat with my husband’s family. We rotate houses each year based on a holiday schedule written on a napkin and copied for each of the siblings to follow. The schedule has eliminated at least one round of holiday roulette.
My family descends on my parents house each year for a large meal. With location set, the major decisions revolve around food. We are a family of cooks. There is always more food than we can consume. This is doubly true because mom gets so excited that everyone is coming that she also cooks what she told us to bring.
My children are forming their own households. They will attend the Thanksgiving festivities or have their own celebrations depending on travel costs and work schedules. It is sometimes bitter sweet to celebrate with extended family while missing my own kids. But I am grateful that they are thriving in their own corners of the world.
Looking back, when we were younger, I dreaded Thanksgiving weekend. As a working mom, I had to cook a lot of food for two different family celebrations (Thursday and Saturday). I also used the time off work on Friday and Sunday to put up the Christmas decorations and clean up from the weekend.
It was a lot of exhausting work. The men scarfed down food while watching endless football games as the women cooked and cleaned up. Even though I love cooking and I love decorating for Christmas, I began to hate Thanksgiving.
I was exhausted and yearned for a pause. I wanted a moment in time where we could stop and savor all we were working for. I wanted a Hallmark moment. As each celebration fell short of my longing, I worked harder to try to create one by making more food and more decorations. Meanwhile the NFL and college conferences added even more games to create a month of never ending football. I began to hate football for stealing family moments. I already hated Thanksgiving for making me tired.
At some point it finally clicked. Thanksgiving isn’t about the food, or the location, or who is in the room, or what we are watching, or whether people appreciate your efforts to make the day special. Thanksgiving is about understanding that what you have is enough. That in any moment, God’s provision is enough. That the moment as it exists is the gift and Thankfulness in that moment is an act of worship. I began to take joy in the acts of service instead of waiting for the imagined “perfect” holiday.
I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I still am supremely annoyed that I can’t seem to visit with any of my brothers without being interrupted with talk of touchdowns and interceptions. I still ponder the misogynistic society that normalizes women spending a third more time doing household chores than men (but that is down from one half…we should celebrate progress). I would also be lying if I didn’t share that I sometimes tell my husband to “get out of my kitchen” when I’m preparing the holiday meals. (Yes, I realize the irony.)
I can still work myself into a holiday frenzy. I still have anxiety attacks when things go awry and I don’t know how to fix them. I sometimes become sad when I haven’t seen my children or parents in a while. But mostly, I am thankful. Life can be hard, but each moment is a gift. God is great. God is good. I am learning to breathe deep and just say thank you. Jehovah Jireh. My provider. Your grace is sufficient for me.
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The Mother Road: Travel Goals
Standing under the sign that signals the beginning (or the end) of Route 66 on Santa Monica Pier, I feel the excitement and anticipation that a great road trip always brings. We are in Los Angeles to help my our daughter and son in law make a cross country move to Chicago. So for the next five days, we will be transporting a household of possessions, two dogs, four adults, a small car and a moving van along the “mother road”. We can’t afford to be purists on this trip. Time will not permit the wandering of each curve of the original Route 66. Since I will be driving and riding in the moving van, I am not sure my body could take the punishment. Instead, we will follow the highways that sometimes overlay the original route and sometimes parallel. We will take detours to roadside rests and tiny towns that wear the Route 66 emblem like a badge of honor.
But today, standing here on the pier watching children play in the ocean, carnival rides turning in the sun…it is hard to summon the image of the road. Looking to the ocean, all is serene. Malibu shines in the distance. We are far from the open road.
If I turn my attention eastward, the city has swallowed the highway. Skyscrapers, lights and smog cloud the landscape. The homeless are everywhere. A woman screams obscenities at us as we try to exit the train. A man pleasures himself on a park bench. A group of men light up a crack pipe on the train platform. The mother road has not been kind to her children. For these unlucky souls, the city of angels truly seems to be the end of the road.
So with extreme gratitude for our life circumstances (there but by the grace of God), we head back to the apartment to assist our children with a new beginning. The grand-dogs were confused with the emptying of their household contents. But after multiple trips to the moving van and an aborted walk around the block (they were afraid to leave sight of their humans), they were strapped into their travel seats. Even dogs need luxury accommodations to tackle the mother road. They have better seats for this ride than I do.
There is no time for California dreaming. The traffic is intense as we leave downtown Los Angeles and head toward the desert. Endless waves of cars create snarls of traffic each time roads intersect. We crawl along on roads that cannot accommodate the volume of vehicles. I know we are winding among and across hills and valleys, but the smog is thick and I can’t quite make out the horizon. I wonder what it was like when the road was new and only the lucky, brave few traveled this highway. It must have been so beautiful.
There is not much time to ponder days gone by, however. It is late afternoon and we haven’t had lunch. Maneuvering a large moving van in heavily trafficked commercial zones is not the easiest endeavor. We manage to park in the lower lot of a big box store where we can buy sandwiches and snacks for the road. I walk the dogs and watch the homeless men walk in and out of the tents they have set up in the shrubbery. They watch me, nervous that we are parked near their makeshift camp. We acknowledge each other. Strangers, just traveling through.
The afternoon turns to evening. At a rest stop in the desert, we are reminded to watch for rattlesnakes. We cross the Colorado River into a glorious desert sunset. Towns become fewer and further between. The desert stretches out before us and I see my first Joshua trees. They are fuzzy sentinels of both welcome and warning. The light fades into darkness, but neon Route 66 signs beckon us to a roadside motel, a refuge that has welcomed an untold number of travelers. It looks a little worse for wear, but it is clean and the mattress feels fabulous.
Arizona stretches before us. I ask to stop in Seligman and drive on an original section of Route 66. Vintage gas stations, drive in restaurants, and tacky souvenir shops line the road. The town is cashing in on the cache of the nostalgic avenue. There isn’t much else here. Dirt, sun, and an endless highway.
The Arizona road is in terrible condition. Each bump in the road sends a tingle up my spine until I am numb. The moving truck is also not forgiving. Each jolt sends a shock wave. But we simply chugs along between the thousands of tractor trailers moving goods along the highway. There aren’t many cars along this stretch of road. Empty desert spaces, semi trucks, and trains are all that I can see for miles.
We enter tribal lands. RVs and run down trailers dot the landscape. There must be roads between them. But the areas are vast and dirt roads in a sea of dirt are hard to visualize. We find occasional respite in rest stops with even more signs warning of snakes. It is colder in the desert. I am surprised. The air is crisp and clean. By the time we hit New Mexico, I am more than ready for bed. Just another weary traveler in a roadside motel.
New Mexico is surprisingly captivating. It is easy to see why they are the “Enchanted state”. Mesas, seemingly endless, stand tall off the desert floor. The high desert is colorful. Each vista is different. The clouds make moving shadows on the hard packed earth. The traffic is light so I can take it all in, even from the driver’s seat.
The Petrified Forest National Park is dissected by Route 66. Both dogs and their humans need a break. So for an hour, we ditch the moving van and pack ourselves into the car. We drive through the canyons of the painted desert until we find a place to walk the dogs. We all need the exercise and the mental boost that nature always provides. Even the dogs are impressed. Winston tries to jump over the guard rail to get a better look, while Piper assumes the commanding attitude of a princess come into her kingdom. I didn’t want to leave, but with miles left before bedtime, we really couldn’t linger.
In Shamrock, Texas I finally feel that we are having an authentic Route 66 experience. On this small stretch of the mother road, the past comes to life. Vintage buildings line the street. Donkeys frolic in the yard across from our motel. We sit on the porch and watch the chase. Sheep wander by.
We are directed to a local restaurant where for an hour I enjoyed Texas cuisine amid local society. A family teasing a small boy about his Texas sized appetite. Old men solving the problems of the world. Cowboy hats bobbing in greeting. Cool eyes surveying the newcomers and then deciding we weren’t worth the noticing. Old women complaining about the daughter in laws and bragging on their grandchildren. Sun is setting over farm country and all is well in the world.
The 24 hours from Texas to Missouri are unforgiving. I suffer serious burns on my hand and stomach before we ever hit the road when a coffee cup gives way unexpectedly. The kids are caught at a toll booth whose credit card reader is broken. Despite the poor start, my heart softens as we race across Oklahoma. It is a beautiful state, full of memories of childhood adventures with parents and grandparents. We stop for lunch near Vinita at the McDonalds built over the turnpike to regroup.
We feel rested, but the mother road has more unpleasant surprises. The motel in Springfield is uninhabitable. The bedding is filthy. Unidentified liquids run down walls. The bath mat is stained with blood. We scramble to find a new hotel.
As we relocate across town, the car breaks down. It will not go another mile. The mother road has been too much. We pick up the dogs, while the kids search out a repair shop. While we are waiting at the hotel and corralling the dogs, my chair flips backwards leaving me in a heap on the floor.
I am not hurt, but the car has a mortal wound. It can not be fixed (at least not in a way that makes financial sense). It is sold for parts. That leaves four people and two dogs in a moving van that can comfortably seat two. It is time for some fast thinking and overnight planning.
It is now almost 9:30 pm. The restaurant has unfortunately mishandled our dinner order and food had to be redone. So we wait. By the time everyone reassembles, it is 10 pm. Springfield, Missouri has been a disaster. We separate to eat our long overdue meal, lick our wounds (physical and metaphorical), and to regroup. The terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day has come to an end. But we are safe and we are together. That is blessing enough.
We are in the home stretch. Today’s journey is across roads we know well. Missouri is home. Muscle memory kicks in. We pick up a rental car at the Springfield/Branson airport. The kids are pleasantly surprised to receive a free luxury car upgrade. The grand dogs travel in style. I however am still traveling in a box truck. This does not improve my mood as I drive the stretch of highway to our home that is so familiar.
We pit stop at the house to eat a quick lunch. I change the clothes in my backpack. It is cold in Chicago and we anticipate freezing temperatures just in time for our arrival. California clothes are discarded for sweaters. My daughter collects tubs of winter clothes that have been stored in our basement. She hasn’t needed them living in Florida and California. She says it is like Christmas to open long lost favorite boots and sweaters. I smile at her excitement. Simple pleasures in what has been a very stressful time for her. Nothing beats the feeling of making our girl smile.
The dogs appreciate the break. Winston runs endless circles around the house. He has never been in a large house and he is overwhelmed with the possibilities that space affords him. Piper has been to grandma and grandpa’s house. She calmly follows me as I regroup. She is a princess and won’t let me forget it. She wants some time in the lawn, as she loves grass.
It is good to be home, but we are Chicago bound. Route 66 resumes just past our driveway. We head North.
It is cold and rainy as we cross Illinois. The interstate is flat and boring. Endless corn fields dot the horizon as far as the eye can see, broken only by exits to tiny towns with gas and fast food. We stop overnight about two hours from Chicago so that we can easily make our check in appointment at the apartment loading dock the next morning.
Closer to the city, windmills and oil refineries loom larger than life. Traffic picks up as the road winds through suburbs. At the intersection of the interstate and downtown, a homeless encampment is visible under the overpass. A homeless man waves us through the intersection with a wave. Apparently Chicago is also the end of the road for many. There but by the grace of God.
After a few attempts and misses, we find the road to the loading dock. Our son-in-law’s family are already there to help, thankfully. Dozens of trips up the elevator and we are finished. The mother road has delivered my children to their new home.
The iconic road-trip has come to an end. It was completed in five days. Four people and two dogs journeyed 2,448 miles. There was injury, exhaustion, boredom, and even the loss of a vehicle. But there was also laughter, beauty, bonding, and accomplishment. As long as we are able, I hope we always take the long road. Life is about the journey. The mother road has brought us home.
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Prisoner of Hopes 