Well, getting up at 3:30 to catch a 6:00 plane (boarding at 5:25) is for the birds. Since readers and others know I am neither a jolly or well-seasoned air traveler, this was a challenge I was intent on meeting but with a bleary-eyed whine. I kept my moans on low the rest of the day; why annoy my traveling partner (Marc) further? He’s a good guy and he has to go to work all week. It is not an actual vacation for us, and for me it is a little getaway for a few days. I’ll take it!
We got to the hotel around 9 pm. I was awake until 3 am, sadly well into morning. It took that long to sink into a level of semi-drowsiness, then heavy sleep after a long day flying from Oregon to East Coast. This, however, followed my research of free phone apps to find one that promoted nature’s (doctored) soothing sounds so I might settle down to rest. Ended up with rain falling on a lake (I think)–more pleasing than a fan’s loud whirring, a metal wheels-on-track train ride or night’s city shenanigans, or even frogs croaking that was more froggy gossip fest with burps interjected. Well, it takes what it takes for us all. At that time in the dark (although only midnight in Pacific Time…) after a numbing day, nothing quite seemed as it should. I also was battling the usual allergic response to recirculated airplane air. Sneeze, blow nose, sneeze, cough, repeat. Apologized to the stranger on my left, assured him I was not sick in a conventional sense. But today I am less allergically waylaid and rested a bit; all feels much better.
This is a view from one of the hotel windows.
It was a lark, really, to accompany Marc on a business trip to an area where there isn’t anything for me to do within walking distance. I am not renting my own car, not driving him to and from work 45 minutes each day. We always stay a distance from his place of work as the manufacturing town is very small–he prefers to keep distance when day is done. And I preferred a hotel with an indoor pool and exercise room as it is surprisingly colder here than in Portland– despite North Carolina being the mid-South. Marc said there could even be snow later. Egads, I am not quite prepared for that scenario.
I occasionally travel with him as sometimes I like a little break from usual routines, enjoy refreshment of life here and there. (I might prefer Mexico, another of his business destinations but lately various political and other events have not encouraged risk taking…)
I began my respite after breakfast with a short walk to get a better look at the colorful trees noted from my high window. Nice start to wake up my mind and senses. It was freezing wind and with no hat packed, it was wide-eyed I went into the world. But here is a bit of what I found:
A twenty minutes walk did me good. On return, a lingering spell by the lobby fireplace, a look at the fine pool I will dive into before long and then the quietness of a pleasant if anonymous room… I admit this has restorative potential, wandering, writing at a cleaned off desk, gazing through a window at the November blue sky and last of autumnal trees. And the simple anticipation of strong side strokes for a few laps is a boost as later my energy flags some again. Must rest better tonight!
Tomorrow is my usual fiction post day; I will try to stay on schedule. At end of week we will be visiting daughter Naomi, a sculptor primarily. Her 5 foot tall art installation “Boundings” as well as a photograph entitled “Personal Space Capsule” are exhibited in South Carolina’s Biennial Part II, in Columbia. A pretty two hour drive certainly worth taking!
I meant to have an adventure or two in Colorado and so I did; I had little idea what was ahead.
I am chock-full of images absorbed, moments shared. The first motivation was a desire to visit my oldest daughter and her partner– in his element, a place she has been visiting awhile (she lives in S. Carolina). But close behind that was a fascination with one of our Rocky Mountains states. I hadn’t traveled there in decades and not to the same area. I always have loved mountains–anywhere, any sort–as they draw me with their magisterial presence carved from fierce wildness. Intrigued by geological history and flora and fauna that have claimed mountains as home, I am also just a sucker for beauty in its plethora of origins and designs.
I will let my photos show the way I first saw Colorado Springs, the Rockies surrounding it. I knew they would be there–I just didn’t know they would be that upclose and personal. I was forever craning my neck, tilting my head to see even better, farther. And I adapted to the 6000+ ft. altitude in a couple of days–a small ache in my head, a little breathlessness at first. (I felt fairly confident since I have been to Banff in the Canadian Rockies, visiting Lake Louise at 5249 ft., as well as Crater Lake in OR. at over 6000 ft.) Fun to experience were the different architectural style of older neighborhoods and good downtown shopping, an impressive art museum and delicious meals– and a sweet evening visit to the famous Broadmoor Hotel. Artist Naomi also taught me a bit about Shibori indigo dying and we created squares of cotton prints together, a satisfying and fun afternoon.
But all that can wait for later posts. Instead, we will go on the short trip I felt quite ready to undertake by my 5th day. I was excited about it: an off-road trail exploration of mountains in a refurbished older Jeep with Naomi, with Adam at the wheel. He has lived in Colorado for over 25 years so knows all about the terrain and adventuring. This is a man who has climbed 14 of 52 mountain peaks 14,000 ft. or so–not just famous Pike’s Peak that can be seen in some of the photos below. A person of many enthusiasms, as is Naomi.
Come follow along to see what I saw and learn what I experienced that was entirely new in my 68 years of living, thus far… The highest peak seen in the last 4 photos is Pike’s Peak. (Sorry, these are not the best clarity, taken late afternoon/evening with rain clouds gathering and some smokiness. One of many Western summer forest fires was burning not far away; wind carried the smoke in a bit the week I was there.) Naomi and Adam goofed off and posed here when I asked for a picture with mountains behind them downtown.
I’m going to skip a few days to move on to the Pike National Forest off-road trail trip. Smoke wafted about as we drove through groups of people exploring a famous city park close by, Garden of the Gods with unusual sandstone formations. These are only a few views of the place as we didn’t stop; it was quite congested. People come from all over to hike, horseback ride, cycle and climb. As we left the worthy attraction and climbed up, the air cleared.
A slide show reveals gradual changes in terrain as we drive higher and higher in the Rockies toward our destination. Upon arrival at Pike National Forest, amid lots of exclamations of astonishment at the mind-boggling panoramas, I noted a slight headache and the sun was searing in the sparkling air. But not to worry, I thought, we had plenty of water and I was ready to move on and embrace whatever was next!
We continued on, looking for the off-road trails Adam had mapped. The air fairly crackled with dryness; it struck me how easily a devastating wilderness fire could flare and take immediate hold of the quite arid landscape. We passed also through private ranching country at times, yet for miles and miles there seemed to be nothing but mountains, scrubby plant life, scatterings of tree groupings. It is solitary land, and feels like verging on a great emptiness but for the immensity of sky and grandeur of the mountain range. I was aware of being separated from common civilization, felt the immediacy of the environment scoured by heat and clarity of air, and not uncomfortably jostled by the Jeep navigating rougher dirt roads. Elemental, intense, this territory is transfixing. And I felt a bit off-kilter from what I knew was decreased oxygen. It was a sudden sort of “high” not experienced before, a light-headedness not quite unpleasant as we bounced along. I snapped my pictures of this great American West, was made smaller, more humble by such immensity.
But in the back of my mind I wondered: how much higher. By the time we got a couple of miles down the rougher trails, I was burning up. My daughter switched seats with me so I had more shade and thoroughly wet a bandanna for my face and neck which cooled me nicely. I kept drinking water often as instructed. But I knew it was something else that underlay my body’s discomfort; I suspected it was the elevation and we had quite a way to go. I asked Adam if we were going to descend any time soon and he assured me we would. (I’m not sure how high we were then; I never asked.) I watched the land go by in a daze and finally we started to wind down the mountainous trails and then onto a road. We passed several others having fun on their ATVs. At Wilkerson Pass, amid miles of wide openness at 9504 feet, we got out to eat (I nibbled at half a sandwich) and stretch a bit. I took a “selfie” there, but can you tell I’m feeling a bit out-of-body and thinking: Hold on, Cynthia, you will be alright one way or the other…?
But I really wasn’t. I got blasted with altitude sickness in a couple of hours. Oxygen deprivation. I felt poorly enough that when we got into the city and stopped at a bookstore I had so wanted to visit, I just wanted to lie down. The headache had begun in earnest and I felt queasy. And then the headache got far worse and the nausea did not abate all day and night. It was as if my body had been hijacked; there was nothing to do but surrender to it. “Drink more,” I was urged. How on earth to drink on a bad stomach…but it was constant sips, all night long. I was lost in limbo, caught between the worst full body pain I had felt in a long while coupled with a peculiar disoriented state of mind. I moved awkwardly, feet and legs not working well, to bathroom and back from a living room couch–I never got to my bedroom– body resisting. No pain or stomach pills helped. Symptoms got worse, not better, as hours passed. In a distant way I heard Naomi ask if I needed more medical intervention, and once or twice considered the emergency room. But it seemed too hard to do. My heart felt, miraculously, as if it was beating decently. I could breathe well enough. I simply hung on in the faith it would only more time. A long time…but the damaging night passed into a hallelujah day.
My daughter said I didn’t sleep until around 6 a.m (neither did she)–well over 15 hours since the beast got hold of me. Naomi was a Godsend watching over me; calm, efficient, kind, I would have been lost without her aid. When I awakened around noon the next day, the pain was receding and my stomach had settled. Not yet up to dancing speed, but I felt more safe and sane. My body felt wrung out as if it had been boondoggled, but there was gratitude that it had about run its course. Hunger was aroused. Not thirst; my very cells felt waterlogged from the constant imbibing of fluids. It seemed as if my flesh and bones had run a marathon through a bad alternate reality, a sort of trial by fire. But I have had those trials before–different but also challenging.
The important thing was, all was ending up alright; there was a quiet giddiness underlying that. The human body vigorously fights for a renewed homeostasis so it can heal so I’d held on for the ride. Truth is, altitude sickness can strike anyone when above 8000 feet, no matter their fitness, health, age or expectations. Adam and Naomi felt badly it happened but so it goes, I pulled the short straw that time. Until I got up around 9000 ft., I had felt hearty and ready for anything. Honestly, it was at first more aggravating that I was waylaid: my first off-road Jeep trip in the Rockies at age 68–well, I wanted more!
I had to cancel that evening’s flight at a cost, but the next day I felt much more able to return home. I took a last congenial stroll in the lovely neighborhood with Naomi, then packed my bags. I was not glad to leave, only relieved to be recovering. Sad no time was left, to share laughter, conversation, jaunts and good meals with two lively, bright, caring people. I’d discovered joyous experiences plus instructive ones. I would sure go again. Just not likely above 8000 ft.
As my plane descended to Portland International Airport I was delighted to gaze upon our own mountains, the Cascades, as they showed off in a sunset. Mountains, the geography I always will love! Wild, breathtaking (in a true dual sense), daunting and mesmerizing, oddly elegant in their rough-hewn complexity. I am ever confounded by ancient beauties on/within our earth. Count me lucky to be alive another year, another day. The earth has many golden passages that open us to greater illuminations.
(As soon as I disembarked that last trace of headache vanished…at 30 ft. elevation.)
Sometimes we have to be flexible even if we don’t feel quite up to it. Our lives are altered despite out attempts to keep control, an elastic experience based on the one constancy of change. I didn’t expect to be flying out so soon again but events continue on a surprising trajectory. One adapts; humans excel at this, I remind myself.
In this case, we are soon to attend a memorial gathering for my recently deceased sister-in-law in Michigan. (My deceased musician brother has one, too, the end of July but that consists of driving to an area pub in Portland to enjoy great tunes and good words.) Of course, I had expected this MI. travel at some point, just not coupled with an immediate business trip that Marc deemed necessary. And it was cheapest for me to use reward miles to get anywhere and just go with him. So within a day we were booked on flights spanning the country’s width to North Carolina. By end of this week, we will be driving a very long day to be with family in MI., then back again for more days for his business agenda.
After sleeping maybe three hours the night before, we headed to the airport–wasn’t it still dark out?– for tedious hours in air and during a beastly layover in one airport. I shortly entered that state wherein the mind turns to grainy putty and the body moves into a mild but critical endurance mode. As I steadied myself during the 9 hour layover it came to me that this is why I don’t adore airplane travel. In fact, I am not very good at it which is surprising since as a youth and young woman I loved flying about. But that was a different time, a safer and simpler time. And I was an adventuress with a lingering naiveté about striding off toward a blurry but glorious horizon. And in search of my soul mate at every stop, on every plane. Ah, well.
In airports I bring forth adequate patience. I roam about, read; we converse, munch sandwiches and sweet or salty snacks and sip lukewarm coffee or water to slake our thirsts. Make up life stories about complete strangers slyly observed. I may talk to them sometimes; Marc hides in phone or computer. I felt for the guy who has moved from Newark, NJ to Jacksonville, FL (and was headed back there) because housing is no longer affordable in NJ but worse, government is, he says, crooked and who the heck even cares? Nobody, not even him, anymore. But he has hope for Florida, still. Or at least his neighborhood and new friends. He is impatient to get out of Newark again, yet he smiles back and offers me his chair. I decline. I preferred to stand and stretch after far too much sitting, something that makes me a little mad after an hour or so.
It’s the “puddle jumper” we next board that gives me the most pause. I watch many passengers duck their heads to get inside–it is that tight in there. Required for the hour ride to the final stop, we taxi down the runway. It creaks and sways from nose to wing tips to tail. It shimmies and cracks. I find myself quite unashamedly clutching Marc’s arm, trying to blot out sensory input as we lift into the air. All those squelched thoughts–just what holds us up? why do we pay to get on these? what about just hitch hiking next time?–assail me, then I give up and doze, exhaustion slackening my mouth. Until I begin to sneeze. That’s right, when the air cooling and circulating system is activated to loosen and offer its hidden dust, mildew and old air, I begin to sneeze and blow as if a gigantic cold has arrived. I can see people turning away from our seats, sinking into their books and computers. I always feel I should stand and shout, “Really, no virus here, it’s dust and mold allergies and you can’t catch those!” There are rarely enough tissues to get through these bouts. It’s embarrassing. It’s necessary to manage the situation but hold onto a shred of decorum so I try to blow discreetly, softly.
By the time we arrive I am too tired to appreciate the attractive rental car. I want to stay alert but it is after midnight. Even though our point of departure’s time zone is three hours earlier so my body theoretically should be okay, it feels as if I have migrated into a surreal time zone. Landscape is black-blue-yawning grey. My husband, even more sleep deprived, seems immune to this state, but I know better from trying experiences. I have to keep him between those faded white lines on the freeway for at least an hour. We make it safely and tumble into bed.
Well, “tumble” is far too generous a verb. This is the cranky nighttime part though I well know these are a fortunate person’s complaints. But there are temperature and fan settings to fuss with, a hard bed with a vast amount of pillows and I forgot to bring chamomile tea for pre-bedtime. Traffic noise. At 3 am I re-stuff the ear plugs and take a small amount of drugged-sleep-inducing OTC sleep medicine. It takes a day or two for this body to re-calibrate. I also have some chronic health matters that require attention anywhere I am; decent rest is necessary. Marc of course has to adjust but with less discomfort by far. He operates on fumes, almost believes sleep is optional–he maintains out of necessity and habit, of course, but I sometimes suspect he may be from another planet. Then I think of pilots’ travel and regenerative habits. Not so reassuring as I try to relax. Finally consciousness gives over to sleep’s powerful pull.
The next day we move to a quieter room with a balcony. But we’ve had freeloaders there as the photos indicate.
It is a weird lifestyle, travel and living in a hotel, and I wonder over how Marc can cope with it since he loves familiarity and his set ways. He has always had to travel often for work. Since we arrived I have determined to make do: no car and no access to anything but a small fitness room and outdoor pool, my computer, a TV, a hotel restaurant of sorts. I have not yet gone swimming. Each day I have slept in too late, eaten my bagel, drunk my Decaf Chai. When out on the balcony it feels as if I have stepped into a sauna. My hair droops even as it frizzes. But I can hear and see pretty rusty-orange-with-blue birds as they trill and flit about. And there are gently waltzing treetops. I have been watching wasps create a hive underneath the metal railing, and they are so meticulous and focused they have so far ignored my camera and me. Fascinating labor to see up rather close but I may not go out, anymore. I have been bitten before; they’re not easy bites as they grab a small chunk of flesh. Best are the singing/buzzing katydids at night; they remind me of soft Missouri nights, where I was born and my family often visited.
After sweating in the exercise room, I visit with friendly staff with their lilting southern speech patterns and later report the wasp nest which will be dealt with tomorrow (which makes me a bit sad but I can’t imagine outmaneuvering wasps trapped in a hotel room). Now as I write I keep one eye on the weather report re: possible thunderstorms today, maybe tomorrow. Well, I have trusty Netflix. And my bright floral swimsuit is at the ready as soon as the sun shines hot and clear of dense clouds for at least an hour.
And in two days what will the trip to Michigan bring? Funerals and weddings and other such reunions are often fraught with complex emotional eruptions–like beautiful, well designed pinatas that are poked and prodded until surprise innards explode forth and, thus, provoked upwellings of excitement, appreciation and/or dismay. So I don’t know what is next. I am doing all this travel out of respect for Sherril’s memory and love for her bereft husband and his brother, Marc my husband. But I do know relationships and the known order of things change, like it or not, when someone passes on. A human life is that deeply meaningful–that when it is no more on earth its essence hangs here while the absence is yet keenly felt. Yet his or her disappearance creates a real vacuum, too, and we scramble to find our way about it, and not be tossed into the dark well of grief. To not flail about, at odds with the remnants of memory or this breathing, beating life for which we yet need to be present.
So I am travelling unexpectedly in many ways, as we all do. In fiction I can orchestrate things, flesh out skimpy parts and design a new scene and even as characters whisk me along it is an exhilarating thing, a finely tuned way of perceiving, envisioning and being. I know we–yes, the characters, the story and myself– are in concert on some level. In real life it is harder to track the slippery truths and the end is not always nearly heroic. It just comes, and I had better embrace it and live with it in all its mystery or revamp my attitude. As I noted, it may yet storm tonight but tomorrow my swimsuit will remain optional attire. And I feel excellent–strong, happy– as I splash and slice through cool, calm turquoise water, as I float with face to the sky. In fact, I feel pretty good now as sun dips below trees– so when all is said and done, I am thankful once more, God-Who-is-ever-with-us.
(I will not be able to post this Friday. Next week, I plan to post after the US holiday of Fourth of July. Be well, wherever you roam or gather!)
Well, my apologies. The firm plan was to write a short piece on Sunday evening for the usual Monday posting. But each hour and minute faded away and before long it was bedtime and then the alarm went off. And then I found myself on a plane. Those who know me realize this is not a prime event for me, in itself. I do love to watch the clouds and landscape– until I remember where I am.
Folks who enjoy my blog are well versed regarding my spouse, Marc, who travels for his work. He has always done so. The last few years more than usual. I have had opportunities to go with him on some business trips but frankly, sitting in a hotel room doesn’t seem too appealing. And if he must entertain customers and cohorts in some packed steak house with lots of alcohol involved (by others as we don’t imbibe spirits) at the end of the day, you can see where that might leave me. Dying to get outside for fresh air, quietness and then a good book while propped up in bed. I mean, I’d happily go to a concert or take evening stroll by a lake, garden or even a tinkling creek. Or a fun venue where we could dance–but this is work time for Marc, not time to hang out, have a blast with his wife. No, travelling with him is like being at home but in another place–he goes to work, returns tired and full of work talk where I pretend to advise him, we eat meals, and so on. I pick up his socks, tidy up the bathroom after he shaves. It can actually be fun, anyway, once past the mundane.
But let’s face it, going to a certain area, say, in Mexico where one needs to be escorted by a Mexican citizen from airport to hotel to manufacturing sites and back again–well, this rules out leisurely meanders along fascinating streets. Not to mention the uncertain water issue, since I would not be ensconced in a luxurious tourist resort. Oh, I wish. (Trust me, in all likelihood I’d be stricken; I have an unpredictable stomach as it is.)
Marc used to go to Japan frequently. I have few excuses for not going although I was working full-time back then. And way before that I was tending to a slew of kids. His European trips elicited some envy from me (Italy, Scandinavia, Germany, England, etc.–how I longed to shrink and stow away in a pocket), but quite likely that company would’ve declined to send me along. This despite my most invaluable business sense, as well as always balancing a budget and schedules for a family of seven. Imagine! (Perhaps oddly, I do enjoy business talks with my spouse and do try to figure out a game plan figure out co-workers. It’s like making up a story plot wherein I get to save the company millions and insure fair employment practices and am finally the heroine.)
No, he travels alone or with coworkers, even in the USA. It is a lifestyle so many must undertake due to career requirements. I have my family and friends, my daily priorities (plus my own job until four years ago) in Oregon. I am comfortable with solitude as well since the last adult child left 15 years ago. But his side of the story is that he asks me to travel with him and I do not desire to go. For example, two or three weeks ago he asked me to fly to Ohio with him. The Midwest, just a state away from Michigan where we grew up. It was to be a short trip, about 5 days. I declined. I had things to do, I said. Maybe another place. Like Chicago or New York City or Miami or San Francisco, anywhere in Hawaii or Alaska (the last two states I have not been to yet). Not Chillicothe, Ohio, not that week, despite a couple of historical attractions. I’m sure it’s a pleasant town–he told me so.
Do I sound a tiny bit petulant or sadly, worse? But I am truly not ungrateful for his offers. I just have my own preferences. For the most part they do not include flying, then digging in for days of hotel living, even well decorated hotels.
And then a little over a week ago he asked me for the tenth time if I wanted to accompany him on a trip to North Carolina. I’d always had one reason or another to decide against it. The small town he visits holds little allure for me. And it has been starting to heat up out there, the sort of hotness imbued with moisture that builds all day until you move through a veil of heat. Even if it doesn’t rain, one’s skin and hair thinks it has. The very air can seem oppressive to this Northwesterner; walking fast and long is out of the question. Good reason why Southerners speak and move more slowly. We once lived in Tennessee so I offer that opinion from experience. It was inexorably, deeply relaxed.
But I said, “Okay!” A trip is worth taking to try something new, I reminded myself. And to see one’s spouse somewhat more. Marc was surprised and pleased. We found a good hotel in a more metropolitan and interesting area.
I then noted the weather: thunderstorms off and on most of the week.
I began to visualize the following: me sitting or pacing more likely in a dinky hotel room–okay, it’s a roomy and pleasantly appointed suite, but still–and watching television and reading and maybe writing if I got inspired despite jet lag, chronic thunder and lightning with drumming rain and a bed pillow entirely unlike my own. I contrasted that with my daily power walks, writing at my desk, talking to neighbors and friends, music I love on the stereo, eating what I like to eat, going where and when I like to go…That is what happens to people who are not natural travelers, I guess: we can easily imagine less than the most satisfying scenarios. We even might catastrophize. But I kept my misgivings to myself a few days.
On the day before we were to fly out, I told the truth.
“What?” Marc said. “We have everything arranged. But if you really don’t want to come, then don’t, of course. But think about it a little more.”
I wanted to forego any further discussion and back out, period. I then did think of my husband, how often he must be out there working, ever working even during meals, how he goes back to a lonely hotel room. Falls asleep with television on, then sleeps restlessly.
And I also talked to Naomi. I neglected to mention earlier that my oldest daughter, artist and assistant professor, lives in South Carolina, about two hours away from where we would be staying. That meant we could visit her at least for a day. But she sounded so busy–she is working on art for an exhibit, she is doing some summer work at her university, and preparing to sail soon to…Greenland. She travels.
We also have a daughter, a chaplain who lives in Virginia, but it seemed she could not get away at all. Scratch the ole meeting halfway idea.
I have to put the following in quotes to feel like it’s a real conversation.
“I don’t know, Na, I’m now thinking I won’t go this time.”
“Why not this time? You haven’t come out yet with him in five years.”
“I’ll get too antsy in a hotel. Nowhere to really go without a car. Way too hot to walk far.”
“Rent a second car and explore.”
“I’m not so great at driving all over a new city. And it’s added cost for us–the company won’t pay for that.”
“It’s not that much, make sure there’s a GPS for the car, then take him to work! It’s only 30-40 minutes to his job.”
I’m thinking: she always has a solution. This kid has always had answers right and left, and she loves to travel, anywhere at all. I start to feel a bit pressured. I resume my defense.
“It’s supposed to thunderstorm most days.”
“Yeah, it does that off and on out here–remember Tennessee?”
“Yes, I do…I’m a good bit phobic about such thunderstorms, remember that? And I’ll be stuck inside and will get bored out of my mind. Well, I can at least write…but I do that here.”
“I think I can meet you this week-end, we’ll figure it out if you come.”
“I don’t know, Na.” But she about got me on that last sentence.
Naomi sighs, I can hear it despite the texting.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Mom. Just go– just for somewhere new to check out!”
I consider this. I do like new places once I get my internal (and reliable) compass realigned and a little sleep. I think of seeing Naomi, too. It has been six months; it will be another six, likely. She is sailing the sea to Greenland to see glaciers and unknown stuff!
I want to see her.
“I need to go with the flow, right, have a little adventure. I’ll let you know.”
And Monday I was on that plane to Marc’s delight. I also used to not like flying; now I’m better with it and that’s a good thing as it took us all day to set feet on ground in North Carolina.
About when we landed, Naomi texted me:
“What did you finally decide?”
I answered: “We have arrived!”
I drag my huge suitcase (I do not pack like traveler, no) and we find a rental car. It is so humid my wavy hair starts to curl right up but much fuzzier, I can feel it.
What have I done since arrival? Not much so far. Walked for short periods in steamy weather that can take my breath away, though I feel oddly adapted after four days. Read and wrote a bit. Even found a leafy, delightful shopping district so naturally hot-footed it over there and had fun an h afternoon, even though my water bottle emptied too soon and it felt like I was crossing the desert but with a damp wind at my neck.
I also listened daily to bullfrogs or spring peepers and who knows what all that make a happy racket at a nearby pond. Are there cicadas somewhere in there? There must be; we are in the zone for those cool, weird bugs. And I also wondered about snakes and bird songs. Mockingbirds, perhaps?
But I also packed my swimsuit and after a couple of decades of not once swimming, I eased in, felt that cool water gently cover me and was thus transported. I have worked on my side stroke and breast stroke and just floated about every single day. It has been heavenly to do that whenever I desire. (I need higher SPF protection, however…) We’ve had good meals, with more to come, and evening strolls. And tomorrow Naomi will drive up to meet us–I can’t wait! Then comes the week-end and Marc will be free a couple of days. We’ll explore the region, absorb experiences while catching up with our usual banter, debate and sharing. I will take my photographs, happy to let eyes roam over new landscapes and people.
The trip is not yet half over. Alright, I’m glad I came. There was a thunderstorm already. It was gusty and somewhat ornery and happily brief. There are more forecast near the end of each day, when it swelters. Can’t change that but my attitude is always another matter. So far, that outlook is open and good. In fact, I am appreciative that I get to do this. Marc was saying last night that he slept so much better with me around. And it’s good to hear that, to be here with him, see where he has been coming for so long. It’s pretty countryside with many deciduous trees for a change. And I have slept like a summer’s dream, too, waking up right and ready to check out more.
I’ll be back next week with a new post. Time to head to that sparkling aquamarine pool!
When a person has a family that travels but you do not (not the way they do), it’s a big deal to finally organize suitcase contents and not break zippers closing them, get in the car or board the train or plane without a crisis of memory about the mints I must have at the ready. (Did I pack snacks in my carry-on? Lactaid for the lactose-intolerance?) To finally, breathlessly, embark on a trip.
My blithely globetrotting kin would be appalled that it can take me a week to get ready. I daydream and read about the destinations. I worry about variable weather (is there any other sort?), what shoes and jackets to take, which medicines to include (can I pare down to a critical three?). If I will remember to leave a couple of lights on. To close and lock each window. My family can pack for a six-week trip in a matter of an hour. Or less. My husband is ordering me at the last minute to just leave on what I already have on, quite fetching enough, and stuff those tennis shoes in a suitcase pocket. Pronto. And he’s the one who I usually have to beg to hurry up. But Marc is a veteran business traveler who finds my fussing humorous until I am about to make us late (his idea of late is arriving at the airport an hour or less before the flight). He is Mr. Confident and I am an adrenaline-charged Ms. Greenhorn in this matter.
My parents, now residing in the Great Beyond, had a deep fondness for Europe. They weren’t wealthy but made travel a priority, even if it was a trip across state to visit historical markers. They visited museums of all sorts; composers’ birthplaces and haunts; every possible cathedral. They attended concerts often, Dad being musician and conductor. I turned down a chance to go with them after high school; I had more important things to do though I can’t think what now. An older sister went along, instead, and reported with laughter that my father drank a mug of dark German beer, which appalled my mother–they both appeared to be teetotalers. I couldn’t imagine it–but travel clearly called for different choices now and again. I looked forward to their informal presentations with slide shows and admired lovely objects they added to their home. But they were also campers well into their sixties. My mother kept journals of their trips wherever they went.
One of my brothers and his wife are just returning from a five-week photography trek around South America and environs. They last emailed the rest of us about the Falkland Islands which I haven’t yet located in my new huge atlas (one way to mosey about is studying maps). They seem to embark on at least three longer journeys (interspersed with shorter ones) yearly since retiring. And one of our daughters, Naomi, is heading out on a clipper ship with various crew and creative types in early summer, sailing somewhere between Scotland and Iceland–there are islands out there they’ll stop by. This makes me want to hold my breath and say ten thousand silent prayers already. I can’t keep up with my daughter’s itineraries; she takes off somewhere or other any time she can. But they are impassioned about living like this–and it’s clear there is a huge population that does if WordPress travel blogs are an indication.
I admire that my family members have been so many places and later share their fascinating adventures with me via photos and stories. But it would be a lie to say I don’t find travelling alluring, as well. As a youth, one of my top five dream careers was to be a photojournalist, roaming worldwide. I had enough courage and stamina, as well as more than enough risk-taking impulses. It wasn’t to be, however, so now I sample the world’s remarkable offerings from a comfy armchair. But in real life, too, in smaller doses. And just for the record, I once shared the family’s intrepid travel trait. I bussed halfway across America at fourteen and flew about with ease. Heck, we all hitchhiked around back then. I have tented in deserts atop scorpions and coyotes (or were those wolves…) howling, among other locales. Laid out a sleeping bag and made campfires by the great Lakes. Moved to Seattle from the Midwest at age 19, lured in part by majestic mountains. And much later, when raising five children, we liked to take off for new places–to visit or to live.
Then in 2001 my mother died. On the way back across the continent I had my first (hopefully last) panic attack on a plane that was not about to descend and let me off. Something changed at that moment. I didn’t like feeling so powerless, strapped inside that oblong hull of metal and heavy gears and engines, speeding at some unearthly rate through dense clouds and thinner atmosphere. Somehow grief and that acute awareness got mixed together. And I was alone. It created a near-phobia for a few years. If I couldn’t get to a destination within a couple of hours’ flying or a leisurely road trip, I was apt to have many second thoughts. Trains are marvelous if risky as well and I’ll travel on one again–I can see the good earth outside my window, at least.
I do favor smaller journeys. They’re less demanding and less uncomfortable. One has more choices during those forays. Such trips offer a window on life not yet experienced, each moment a blossoming of surprise without being overwhelming. I perhaps appreciate travelling by car the most as I can pause any time, hop out to explore fresh sites and chat with people of all ilks. Even if it is only days, I am satiated by random conversations, visionary vistas. Quite generous writer’s input. The anticipation of more surprises–if not this time, next time–is the magnetic compass that directs me both here and away.
One motivation for my travels is a visit with family. So that’s what I did last week. There was a bit of repacking after readjustment of expectations (it was to rain the first couple of days; I’d planned on blinding sunshine)) but I was all set to go on time for once. Marc and I flew from Oregon to California to visit our youngest daughter, A., and her husband, D., on the Monterey Peninsula. It was a two-hour flight each way, so that was easy. It was defined by love and beauty and each day was fun. The fact that the adult kids are engaged in the arts is a bonus we enjoy. It was seven months since we last saw them; voluminous sharing was a hallmark. It was one of the best trips we’ve taken together and though it was just a week-long, it will remain with us a long while. I felt stirred up, poured out and reassembled a little at a time throughout our stay. Reclaimed by a greater sweep of life and thus transformed in even imperceptible ways. It was a commendable result of another small journey. I enjoyed several restaurants (not my favorite activity though one of Marc’s), slept well enough in a foreign and colorful room, breathed deeper in that salt sea air. The clear and warming sunlight was illuminating in multiple ways. My heart was sprung like a trapdoor to set musty Northwest cobwebs free, let more good and simple happiness in. I feel replenished, ready to spread more around.
The final report is that I’m grateful I still board airplanes and do step out of imagined comfort zones (challenges occur no matter where one is), if even for shorter periods and closer destinations than some.
Come along, take a look at part of all we enjoyed. There were so many choice moments, it was hard to choose. But I hope you find glimpses of the Monterey Peninsula area enticing, too.
(PS My oldest daughter just suggested I might travel with her throughout New England this summer. Since she has the nerve to embark on a sailing adventure, then manage an upcoming move to new university for another teaching position, I should be able to step up and do that small trip with her. Despite a long plane ride. Despite a reluctance to leave behind daily work at my familiar desk. So let me study up on that. I’ll keep you posted.)
Note: Another post you might enjoy re: my hesitant, overall happy travelling: https://talesforlife.wordpress.com/2014/07/31/becoming-bolder-disclosures-of-a-somewhat-reluctant-adventurer/
An imperturbable demeanor comes from perfect patience. Quiet minds cannot be perplexed or frightened, but go on in fortune and misfortune at their own private pace like a clock during a thunderstorm.—Robert Louis Stevenson