I spend the winter months praying for summer to come quickly. Spring is beautiful here, but it’s merely a pleasant stop on the way to a more satisfying destination. I watch the trees turn green, white blooms float to the pavement, and I start counting down the days until I can take that first dive into the waves only yards from my door.
As always I am impatient and before the chill has left the water completely, I’m running down those weathered planks at full speed, bracing myself for the shock.
Summer weekends begin and end in the water. Before the sleep can be rubbed from our eyes, Hannah and I are shoveling down breakfast and tugging on swimsuits. She gets coated with sunscreen, dancing impatiently from foot to foot, chattering about jumping off the tall platform.
“I can do it all by myself, mom. I can swim without a lifejacket too! Please, can I?”
From the moment she steps outside, she turns as dark as an Indian. It’s in her blood, in fact. Dark brown eyes, brown hair and brown skin with just a hint of her white bottom peeking from the edges of her swimsuit – the opposite of her naturally fair mother, who has to work extra hard to become nothing more than golden and still burns her nose every other weekend.
Appearances notwithstanding, she’s a summer child just like I was – pouting as the sunset signals it’s time to go home and marching, red eyed and exhausted, up the hill with water dripping from her hair, wet feet squeaking loudly in rubber flip-flops. Stomping up the back stairs and onto the porch, she strips down and hangs her suit over the tall chair, our towels immediately following. Then, with a sudden burst of energy she runs into the house, the white parts of her skin glowing like another swimsuit and, giggling, announces to the household that she’s naked.
After bath and dinner, bed time comes quickly. She’s asleep as soon as her head hits the pillow and, though I no longer run bare assed and giggling through the kitchen (at least when people are home), I copy her night routine down to the open mouthed breathing. The sun can be draining, no matter your age.
And we do it all again the next day.
Instead of doing cannon ball after cannon ball and bouncing up and down on a tube full of other children, I spend as much time as possible floating on a lounger. But now I’m the voice that controls the mayhem rather than the one behind it. Chasing down reluctant children to apply more sunscreen, diving in to rescue this or that float, shooing away the stupid goose, toting coolers and arranging towels, docking boats and giving Jet Ski rides – that’s what I traded (most of) my cannon balls for. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
All grown up, my family and friends surround me like aptly placed buoys, clutching cold beers in colorful koozies. Their children run with mine and we laugh, reminded of old feuds and excitements that are being played out all over again, right before our eyes.
I’ve spent every summer since the age of two on this lake, in this little cove. It’s where I learned to swim, with an old fashioned belt around my waist. It’s where I held my first sparkler on the Fourth of July and where I nearly drowned learning to ski. It’s where I lost my best friend in the world and where I sat and cried every evening, watching the waves wash up on shore, until I found the courage to keep going without him. It’s where I celebrated every single birthday until the age of 16, when I became too cool to have parties.
I’m happy that I get to watch Hannah grow up walking the same banks, making similar but new memories with her generation of our family. I’m happy every time we’re gathered around the gazebo with our Papa, watching him smile and pick on her the way he’s always done, with every grandchild. I feel lucky that I have a place that’s so special to me and I hope that, twenty years from now, she’ll be looking back, just like this, and feeling lucky too.
Showing posts with label lake. Show all posts
Showing posts with label lake. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
Life, liberty, and the pursuit of fireworks
Yes, I’m aware that you all are still waiting on part three of the birthday beach trip. Or, I’m aware that you should be waiting, yet have probably moved on to greener, more interesting pastures and juicier cows. In any case, the next installment will go up later this week.
We’ve celebrated Independence Day the same way for as long as I can remember.
Every year the extended family gathers at my Papa’s house for BBQ and swimming. All of the aunts, uncles, cousins, and long time family friends whose names I can never remember come with their special dishes and touchy feely nature. The prize winning pies and baked beans I don’t mind, the touching I do.
I can only deduce that Southerners, in general, are a touchy feely sort. Everyone in this area is always hugging, patting, and holding. With strangers it’s easy to say, “Hey, motherfucker, touch me again and I’ll break your fingers off one at a time and shove them up your ass.” With family...not so much. I can’t very well say that to my Aunt that comes around three times a year, but who's name I can NEVER remember. It would ruin my façade of the friendly, slightly quirky relative that is so sweet she calls everyone “babe” or “sugar”.
Anyway, after a day filled with eating homemade goodness and diving off of moving water vessels to avoid the tender embrace of old ladies, we take the boats out to a big island and watch the fireworks. It’s usually the same old show – small bursts of red, small bursts of blue, small bursts of white, small intermittent bursts of other random colors and then – BAM! There’s a rousing five minute display of continuous color and noise, each one seemingly bigger than the last, until there’s nothing left but the tiny waving lights of boats on dark water and wisps of tell-tale smoke floating over the trees. And of course the unspoken musing – I wonder how much they paid for that shit? That finale would probably cover the cost of my car loan...
When I was a kid I loved watching the fireworks. Sometimes my dad would spend a fortune on poppers, sparklers, and huge kits instead of on the crack rock and we would set them off on the dock after returning from the island show. Sometimes we’d have contests with the Yankee neighbors two docks over and if they came close, a stragestically placed beer bottle with a rocket in it would send them scattering, securing the win and my father’s good humor.
As an adult fireworks lost most of their appeal. Every time a huge burst of color filled the night sky, I imagined a brand new Coach bag being set on fire. Such a waste. Yes they were pretty, but so are hookers if the lighting is just right.
Due to circumstances beyond my control (i.e.: divorce, home wrecking whores, and the possible contents of a suspicious plastic baggie) dad moved to Oklahoma. And somehow it became common practice to spend a week or two every year visiting him over the Fourth of July holiday. This never bothered me very much until last year.
See, spending the 4th in Oklahoma also meant spending my birthdays there. And after last year’s incident, I’d had quite enough of that. So when it was time to set our vacation dates for this summer, I refused to go until after the 4th.
This, of course, allowed me to plan my first real birthday celebration in three years (specifically: the beach trip I’m not through telling you about) and to once again be present for Pop’s Independence Day celebration. Yay. And of course, when Pop found out I’d be attending, he solicited my help with the grub.
Lucky for me though, a week before D day I was invited to join a group of friends on a boat for the entire day. I’d never been one of those people that could float around for hours at a time, swigging beer and doing the Macarena until I collapsed from heat exhaustion and/or alcohol poisoning, but who was I to pass up an opportunity to slip away from the touchy feely crowd.
Saturday morning I got up at nine and put together two pans of macaroni and cheese, covered them with tin foil, and took them down the hill to Pop’s. I was a little apprehensive about leaving the rest up to his Filipino girlfriend, but I was told to be waiting on the dock by 11:30 and that was way too early to stick those suckers in the oven. I gave her instructions and went back home to shower and change, vowing that if she ruined them I’d deny involvement of any kind.
At 11:20, right as the boat pulled up, I was on the gazebo in my bathing suit, shorts, and tank top – a case of Mic Ultra in one hand and a bag of lake necessities in the other. Claire and two others were already there waiting. Once on board I took inventory: 10 people, 7 coolers stocked with beer and snacks, 4 cases of beer to replace those already in the cooler, and an undetermined amount of red, white, and blue paraphernalia.
I was in high spirits as the boat glided away from the dock, leaving the touchy feely relatives behind and taking me to a place I’d only been once before (and never for something this big): Party Cove.
I sang along with the radio and chatted with the others for awhile, but soon I was staring out over the water, lost in thought. (I’ve always been more reflective in transit than I am sitting still, if that makes much sense. Maybe it’s the blurring scenery or the hypnotic rolling of the waves.) I wondered who would be at the famed cove. I wondered how I’d stay on the boat all day, until dark, and if I’d be begging to go home before it was over. And I wondered, just briefly, what Thomas Jefferson and his crew would think of the way we celebrated – in bikinis, swilling beer on a boat, wearing red, white, and blue Mardi Gras beads.
But reflective only lasted until the third beer and our arrival at Party Cove.
We tied up to another boat and started the chain. Three hours later we were in a row of nine and sporting a crowd of at least 50 people. And though our group didn’t have the flashiest boats in the cove, we definitely had the loudest. Rap music blared from one where girls danced on seats. Country music blared from another and a football was tossed back and forth over the chaos. People floated all around the row on fun noodles and rafts like scattered debris. And almost everyone visible had a beer clutched in their hands. I didn’t know half of the people there yet we all scrambled back and forth over those boats to get something or other, do something or other, and everyone was as friendly as could be.
When my cousin Dooby arrived around 4 with his wife, and my friend, Marie in tow, I’d managed to drink more beer than I ever thought possible. By 5 I was staying in the water as much as possible. I’d slathered on the sunscreen too late and could practically hear my arms sizzling. So when they decided to leave an hour and a half later, I decided to jump ship and go with them.
Sitting on their boat, on the very end of the row and pulling away, I looked out over the party still in full swing. Claire and the rest of my crowd seemed a little disappointed about my desertion, but they waved and promised to see me on the dock later that evening anyway.
The long ride home was fun and peaceful. Dooby did an impromptu dance, Marie and I took more pictures, then we all sat and enjoyed the breeze and the waves.
When Marie and I made our way into Pop’s in search of leftovers, we discovered that the touchy feely fuckers had hoovered my macaroni. We had to make do with ribs and squash casserole, but it was worth it because they were all already gone. My skin was as red as a baboon’s ass and throbbing worse than Fabio’s manhood in a Harlequin novel, but I’d managed to stay away long enough to miss them all and that was worth celebrating.
All too soon the sun was going down and we were piling back onto the boats for the fireworks display. I’d slowed down on the beer, eaten, and taken a brief nap – but I wasn’t necessarily in the mood for more boating. I was a bit cranky and whimpering in pain, actually.
We found a spot among the hundreds of other boats and dropped anchor. The sun was almost gone, the final rays casting just a tinge of orange and red on the waves, and I felt relief. I was glad it was gone, glad that I’d managed to survive the entire day without chickening out...much. And while we waited on the fireworks the waves got larger.
I love to swim out in the open, big water and convinced the others to join me. And that’s where I was when the first sparks shot into the sky – straddling an orange life vest, bobbing up and down like a cork, cooked arms blazing, with a beer in my hand and a smile on my face.
And they were as terrible as I remembered. But you know what?
I loved every minute of it. Especially the highly overrated ending.
Because some traditions, especially the kind that don’t involve touching relative strangers or getting up early on a weekend to make macaroni, are quite comforting. And definitely fitting.
**********
We’ve celebrated Independence Day the same way for as long as I can remember.
Every year the extended family gathers at my Papa’s house for BBQ and swimming. All of the aunts, uncles, cousins, and long time family friends whose names I can never remember come with their special dishes and touchy feely nature. The prize winning pies and baked beans I don’t mind, the touching I do.
I can only deduce that Southerners, in general, are a touchy feely sort. Everyone in this area is always hugging, patting, and holding. With strangers it’s easy to say, “Hey, motherfucker, touch me again and I’ll break your fingers off one at a time and shove them up your ass.” With family...not so much. I can’t very well say that to my Aunt that comes around three times a year, but who's name I can NEVER remember. It would ruin my façade of the friendly, slightly quirky relative that is so sweet she calls everyone “babe” or “sugar”.
Anyway, after a day filled with eating homemade goodness and diving off of moving water vessels to avoid the tender embrace of old ladies, we take the boats out to a big island and watch the fireworks. It’s usually the same old show – small bursts of red, small bursts of blue, small bursts of white, small intermittent bursts of other random colors and then – BAM! There’s a rousing five minute display of continuous color and noise, each one seemingly bigger than the last, until there’s nothing left but the tiny waving lights of boats on dark water and wisps of tell-tale smoke floating over the trees. And of course the unspoken musing – I wonder how much they paid for that shit? That finale would probably cover the cost of my car loan...
When I was a kid I loved watching the fireworks. Sometimes my dad would spend a fortune on poppers, sparklers, and huge kits instead of on the crack rock and we would set them off on the dock after returning from the island show. Sometimes we’d have contests with the Yankee neighbors two docks over and if they came close, a stragestically placed beer bottle with a rocket in it would send them scattering, securing the win and my father’s good humor.
As an adult fireworks lost most of their appeal. Every time a huge burst of color filled the night sky, I imagined a brand new Coach bag being set on fire. Such a waste. Yes they were pretty, but so are hookers if the lighting is just right.
Due to circumstances beyond my control (i.e.: divorce, home wrecking whores, and the possible contents of a suspicious plastic baggie) dad moved to Oklahoma. And somehow it became common practice to spend a week or two every year visiting him over the Fourth of July holiday. This never bothered me very much until last year.
See, spending the 4th in Oklahoma also meant spending my birthdays there. And after last year’s incident, I’d had quite enough of that. So when it was time to set our vacation dates for this summer, I refused to go until after the 4th.
This, of course, allowed me to plan my first real birthday celebration in three years (specifically: the beach trip I’m not through telling you about) and to once again be present for Pop’s Independence Day celebration. Yay. And of course, when Pop found out I’d be attending, he solicited my help with the grub.
Lucky for me though, a week before D day I was invited to join a group of friends on a boat for the entire day. I’d never been one of those people that could float around for hours at a time, swigging beer and doing the Macarena until I collapsed from heat exhaustion and/or alcohol poisoning, but who was I to pass up an opportunity to slip away from the touchy feely crowd.
Saturday morning I got up at nine and put together two pans of macaroni and cheese, covered them with tin foil, and took them down the hill to Pop’s. I was a little apprehensive about leaving the rest up to his Filipino girlfriend, but I was told to be waiting on the dock by 11:30 and that was way too early to stick those suckers in the oven. I gave her instructions and went back home to shower and change, vowing that if she ruined them I’d deny involvement of any kind.
At 11:20, right as the boat pulled up, I was on the gazebo in my bathing suit, shorts, and tank top – a case of Mic Ultra in one hand and a bag of lake necessities in the other. Claire and two others were already there waiting. Once on board I took inventory: 10 people, 7 coolers stocked with beer and snacks, 4 cases of beer to replace those already in the cooler, and an undetermined amount of red, white, and blue paraphernalia.
I was in high spirits as the boat glided away from the dock, leaving the touchy feely relatives behind and taking me to a place I’d only been once before (and never for something this big): Party Cove.
I sang along with the radio and chatted with the others for awhile, but soon I was staring out over the water, lost in thought. (I’ve always been more reflective in transit than I am sitting still, if that makes much sense. Maybe it’s the blurring scenery or the hypnotic rolling of the waves.) I wondered who would be at the famed cove. I wondered how I’d stay on the boat all day, until dark, and if I’d be begging to go home before it was over. And I wondered, just briefly, what Thomas Jefferson and his crew would think of the way we celebrated – in bikinis, swilling beer on a boat, wearing red, white, and blue Mardi Gras beads.
But reflective only lasted until the third beer and our arrival at Party Cove.
We tied up to another boat and started the chain. Three hours later we were in a row of nine and sporting a crowd of at least 50 people. And though our group didn’t have the flashiest boats in the cove, we definitely had the loudest. Rap music blared from one where girls danced on seats. Country music blared from another and a football was tossed back and forth over the chaos. People floated all around the row on fun noodles and rafts like scattered debris. And almost everyone visible had a beer clutched in their hands. I didn’t know half of the people there yet we all scrambled back and forth over those boats to get something or other, do something or other, and everyone was as friendly as could be.
When my cousin Dooby arrived around 4 with his wife, and my friend, Marie in tow, I’d managed to drink more beer than I ever thought possible. By 5 I was staying in the water as much as possible. I’d slathered on the sunscreen too late and could practically hear my arms sizzling. So when they decided to leave an hour and a half later, I decided to jump ship and go with them.
Sitting on their boat, on the very end of the row and pulling away, I looked out over the party still in full swing. Claire and the rest of my crowd seemed a little disappointed about my desertion, but they waved and promised to see me on the dock later that evening anyway.
The long ride home was fun and peaceful. Dooby did an impromptu dance, Marie and I took more pictures, then we all sat and enjoyed the breeze and the waves.
When Marie and I made our way into Pop’s in search of leftovers, we discovered that the touchy feely fuckers had hoovered my macaroni. We had to make do with ribs and squash casserole, but it was worth it because they were all already gone. My skin was as red as a baboon’s ass and throbbing worse than Fabio’s manhood in a Harlequin novel, but I’d managed to stay away long enough to miss them all and that was worth celebrating.
All too soon the sun was going down and we were piling back onto the boats for the fireworks display. I’d slowed down on the beer, eaten, and taken a brief nap – but I wasn’t necessarily in the mood for more boating. I was a bit cranky and whimpering in pain, actually.
We found a spot among the hundreds of other boats and dropped anchor. The sun was almost gone, the final rays casting just a tinge of orange and red on the waves, and I felt relief. I was glad it was gone, glad that I’d managed to survive the entire day without chickening out...much. And while we waited on the fireworks the waves got larger.
I love to swim out in the open, big water and convinced the others to join me. And that’s where I was when the first sparks shot into the sky – straddling an orange life vest, bobbing up and down like a cork, cooked arms blazing, with a beer in my hand and a smile on my face.
And they were as terrible as I remembered. But you know what?
I loved every minute of it. Especially the highly overrated ending.
Because some traditions, especially the kind that don’t involve touching relative strangers or getting up early on a weekend to make macaroni, are quite comforting. And definitely fitting.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Wanderlust
The South is famous for its sedate pace. Its inhabitants never seem to be in as much a hurry as the rest of the world. Even in the larger cities their bustling has an air of nonchalance. Their attitude often clearly says, “Yes I’m late. No, I don’t care.”
But ever since I was a little girl I dreamed of leaving this quiet place and moving to a big city – somewhere like New York or even abroad to London or Paris. I loved everything about being on the move and much of that was contributed to my ADD. As a child I was given Ritalin, but if they’d paid attention they would have realized that the same effect could be achieved without medicine - I could drool on myself just listening to them drone on and on about their dull workdays and interests. “She just cannot sit still”, they would say in the parent/teacher conferences. Silly, narrow minded adults. I would sit still for hours with a book in my hand or a travel documentary on the television. I didn’t need the zombie side effects of Ritalin, I needed stimulation. To my knowledge, there’s no drug for selective ADD.
I never minded long road trips. I was comfortable curling up in the backseat with a pillow, my portable CD player, and a book or two. I’d watch the landscape whiz by with complete contentment, happy just knowing we were getting further and further away from that dull place called home. Hotel rooms, no matter how rudimentary, held a certain charm. I was sleeping in a foreign bed, living out of a suitcase, and eating “continental” breakfasts. How exciting!
The first time I set foot in an airport I was fifteen. I was going to Spain for two weeks with a tour group and for a small town, middle class girl it was the traveling lottery. My birthday would come and go while we were away, so my father hired a limo to drive me and my friends from our house to the airport in Charlotte, two hours away, as an early present. It was a very strange gift, but at the time I thought it was wonderful.
The trip was a scant three months before 9/11 and getting through the airport was a breeze. Checking bags was free, carry on rules were pretty lax, and security was friendly. Completely different from flying today.
I spent the entire flight to Barcelona fighting to stay awake, to take every single bit of it in: the in flight movie, the peanuts I hated but was determined to eat none-the-less, the tiny bathroom I insisted on inspecting, storing my luggage in the overhead compartment, the noises the plane made. I loved it all, but perhaps the part I loved most was getting off: Gathering my things together and striding purposefully up the gangway, collecting my luggage from the carousel, standing in front of the terminal and looking out at the people and the cars...knowing that I was actually standing on the other side of the world.
And wouldn’t you know it – the first hotel we stayed at was breathtaking. It was small and quaint – crammed together with a bunch of other buildings. The outside walls were old and peeling and the street out front was steep and narrow, but when we ventured inside everything was immaculate, shiny, and new. Our room had a set of tall double windows that opened up to a small wrought iron balcony, vines weaving their way through its bars. I remember leaning on that railing, looking out over the crowded city and having the sudden urge to cry.
We went on a whirlwind tour across the country. If I hadn’t taken picture after picture to prove it, sometimes I feel as if I’d never been there at all. Barcelona, Valencia, Granada, Toledo, Seville, Costa del Sol, Madrid - I’d have to locate my old itinerary to do our schedule justice. It’s funny, the things and places I remember most aren’t the guided tours and planned outings (though the tour of The Alhambra was brilliant) – they’re the free nights and afternoons when we were allowed to explore. Dancing in a discotheque, strolling along the Ramblas, eating lunch in a crowded plaza, drinking daiquiris at a beach hut, buying a sword at the factory in Toledo, my first encounter with a taxi AND a subway (both of which left me just a tad scarred).
We took the ferry and did a day trip into Morocco which was a bit terrifying. It might have been the men with guns, the snake charmers in the crowded streets, or the camels. Take your pick. Our tour guide claimed his name was Michael Douglas. “Just like the actor!” I had a strange, and overwhelming, urge to punch him in the face.
The market places were interesting, but there were children everywhere, reaching out for you and demanding your attention, trying to sell tiny drums and fans. I suppose my favorite part was lunch. We ate in the strangest looking restaurant – very ornate floors and iron grills, men balancing trays of candles on their heads. Everything looked sort of faded and surreal. We ate couscous from giant platters in the middle of the table and drank Coca Cola from small glass bottles.
It was the trip of a lifetime. And when I returned home looked even less appealing to me than usual. I became even more obsessed with travel than I’d been before. Unfortunately I’ve yet to leave the country again. Oh, I’ve been to various places in the US and enjoyed it very much, but everything gets stacked against Spain and falls flat.
This past weekend I realized why that was. (You know, aside from the fact that it’s another country and that’s exciting and romantic.)
Sunday morning I slept late. The kid finally wandered in to wake me up, struggled up onto the high bed, nestled against me and giggled when I tickled her sides. We drank coffee and ate breakfast together in the living room while cartoons played in the background.
After dishes were washed and put away my sister and I agreed to take her swimming. As always, with that promise, a brief flurry of activity commenced. Towels were gathered from the hall closet, bathing suits put on, sunscreen applied, ice cold drinks made, and all other necessary items were stored in beach bags.
We spent several hours lounging on the dock and on floats, swimming in lazy circles, and drenching each other with cannon balls off the high dive platform. It was the epitome of relaxation. (With the exception of Larry the goose attempting to drown Air Hose in the shallow end. The poor fat kid squalled like a wounded cat until we rescued her. For some reason Larry has recently gotten in the habit of sharing our floats and was under the impression that Air Hose would allow him to perch on top of her life jacket/head. Not so, unfortunately. )
It was later, on a long leisurely boat ride, that I started thinking about Spain. Stretched out on a seat, towel arranged under me, I lay on my stomach and watched the waves. I listened to the engine, the splashing, the radio pumping out country music. The sun beat down on my exposed skin and my hair whipped out behind me.
I realized that one of the reasons I felt so at home in that beautiful country overseas was the attitude, the feeling of the people. They’re unrushed; they take siestas in the afternoon. “Yes, I’m late. No, I don’t care.”
The language might be different, the architecture might be older and more ornate, the food more interesting, the music exotic – but the feeling of contentment and happiness I had on that boat was the same as the one I had wandering the beautiful gardens of a Spanish palace.
I’m lucky. I haven’t lost my wanderlust, but if I never get to travel again, at least I’m finally aware of the beauty in my surroundings.
There’s something to be said for my little corner of the world.
But ever since I was a little girl I dreamed of leaving this quiet place and moving to a big city – somewhere like New York or even abroad to London or Paris. I loved everything about being on the move and much of that was contributed to my ADD. As a child I was given Ritalin, but if they’d paid attention they would have realized that the same effect could be achieved without medicine - I could drool on myself just listening to them drone on and on about their dull workdays and interests. “She just cannot sit still”, they would say in the parent/teacher conferences. Silly, narrow minded adults. I would sit still for hours with a book in my hand or a travel documentary on the television. I didn’t need the zombie side effects of Ritalin, I needed stimulation. To my knowledge, there’s no drug for selective ADD.
I never minded long road trips. I was comfortable curling up in the backseat with a pillow, my portable CD player, and a book or two. I’d watch the landscape whiz by with complete contentment, happy just knowing we were getting further and further away from that dull place called home. Hotel rooms, no matter how rudimentary, held a certain charm. I was sleeping in a foreign bed, living out of a suitcase, and eating “continental” breakfasts. How exciting!
The first time I set foot in an airport I was fifteen. I was going to Spain for two weeks with a tour group and for a small town, middle class girl it was the traveling lottery. My birthday would come and go while we were away, so my father hired a limo to drive me and my friends from our house to the airport in Charlotte, two hours away, as an early present. It was a very strange gift, but at the time I thought it was wonderful.
The trip was a scant three months before 9/11 and getting through the airport was a breeze. Checking bags was free, carry on rules were pretty lax, and security was friendly. Completely different from flying today.
I spent the entire flight to Barcelona fighting to stay awake, to take every single bit of it in: the in flight movie, the peanuts I hated but was determined to eat none-the-less, the tiny bathroom I insisted on inspecting, storing my luggage in the overhead compartment, the noises the plane made. I loved it all, but perhaps the part I loved most was getting off: Gathering my things together and striding purposefully up the gangway, collecting my luggage from the carousel, standing in front of the terminal and looking out at the people and the cars...knowing that I was actually standing on the other side of the world.
And wouldn’t you know it – the first hotel we stayed at was breathtaking. It was small and quaint – crammed together with a bunch of other buildings. The outside walls were old and peeling and the street out front was steep and narrow, but when we ventured inside everything was immaculate, shiny, and new. Our room had a set of tall double windows that opened up to a small wrought iron balcony, vines weaving their way through its bars. I remember leaning on that railing, looking out over the crowded city and having the sudden urge to cry.
We went on a whirlwind tour across the country. If I hadn’t taken picture after picture to prove it, sometimes I feel as if I’d never been there at all. Barcelona, Valencia, Granada, Toledo, Seville, Costa del Sol, Madrid - I’d have to locate my old itinerary to do our schedule justice. It’s funny, the things and places I remember most aren’t the guided tours and planned outings (though the tour of The Alhambra was brilliant) – they’re the free nights and afternoons when we were allowed to explore. Dancing in a discotheque, strolling along the Ramblas, eating lunch in a crowded plaza, drinking daiquiris at a beach hut, buying a sword at the factory in Toledo, my first encounter with a taxi AND a subway (both of which left me just a tad scarred).
We took the ferry and did a day trip into Morocco which was a bit terrifying. It might have been the men with guns, the snake charmers in the crowded streets, or the camels. Take your pick. Our tour guide claimed his name was Michael Douglas. “Just like the actor!” I had a strange, and overwhelming, urge to punch him in the face.
The market places were interesting, but there were children everywhere, reaching out for you and demanding your attention, trying to sell tiny drums and fans. I suppose my favorite part was lunch. We ate in the strangest looking restaurant – very ornate floors and iron grills, men balancing trays of candles on their heads. Everything looked sort of faded and surreal. We ate couscous from giant platters in the middle of the table and drank Coca Cola from small glass bottles.
It was the trip of a lifetime. And when I returned home looked even less appealing to me than usual. I became even more obsessed with travel than I’d been before. Unfortunately I’ve yet to leave the country again. Oh, I’ve been to various places in the US and enjoyed it very much, but everything gets stacked against Spain and falls flat.
This past weekend I realized why that was. (You know, aside from the fact that it’s another country and that’s exciting and romantic.)
Sunday morning I slept late. The kid finally wandered in to wake me up, struggled up onto the high bed, nestled against me and giggled when I tickled her sides. We drank coffee and ate breakfast together in the living room while cartoons played in the background.
After dishes were washed and put away my sister and I agreed to take her swimming. As always, with that promise, a brief flurry of activity commenced. Towels were gathered from the hall closet, bathing suits put on, sunscreen applied, ice cold drinks made, and all other necessary items were stored in beach bags.
We spent several hours lounging on the dock and on floats, swimming in lazy circles, and drenching each other with cannon balls off the high dive platform. It was the epitome of relaxation. (With the exception of Larry the goose attempting to drown Air Hose in the shallow end. The poor fat kid squalled like a wounded cat until we rescued her. For some reason Larry has recently gotten in the habit of sharing our floats and was under the impression that Air Hose would allow him to perch on top of her life jacket/head. Not so, unfortunately. )
It was later, on a long leisurely boat ride, that I started thinking about Spain. Stretched out on a seat, towel arranged under me, I lay on my stomach and watched the waves. I listened to the engine, the splashing, the radio pumping out country music. The sun beat down on my exposed skin and my hair whipped out behind me.
I realized that one of the reasons I felt so at home in that beautiful country overseas was the attitude, the feeling of the people. They’re unrushed; they take siestas in the afternoon. “Yes, I’m late. No, I don’t care.”
The language might be different, the architecture might be older and more ornate, the food more interesting, the music exotic – but the feeling of contentment and happiness I had on that boat was the same as the one I had wandering the beautiful gardens of a Spanish palace.
I’m lucky. I haven’t lost my wanderlust, but if I never get to travel again, at least I’m finally aware of the beauty in my surroundings.
There’s something to be said for my little corner of the world.
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