Tuesday, April 30, 2013

We Are Always Getting Ready to Go Somewhere



 In April 2012, I went on my first trip abroad.  Having turned seventy, I was in no mood to delay anything. My sixtyish sister was returning to Bristol with her English beau; our mother had given us  money to visit Wales, the land of her ancestors; my passport was up-to-date. I said to myself, just go.

The most pleasurable part of getting ready for the trip was shopping for travel clothes. I wanted everything new and perfect.  I spent a lot of time thinking about how I wanted to look:  in the airport, on the plane, in London, hiking with my sister in Wales.  I bought a fuchsia raincoat, purple hiking boots.  At the time, I thought this rosy persona would blend with Englishwomen my age.  There’s a picture my sister took of me in Paddington station.  I looked ridiculous.  I should have gone with a Miss Marple style—tweeds and stout walking shoes.

That imaginary role-playing was fun and frivolous.  Actually, I took comfortable clothes in dark colors, only wore the purple boots while we were hiking, and they were soon covered with mud.  The cheery raincoat was easy for my sister to spot, a good thing when we were walking among the Easter holiday crowds in London.

The other part of getting ready was as if I were preparing to die.  I had to confront the urge to write letters with instructions on the envelopes:  open upon my demise.  What would I say in those heart-felt, hand-written letters to my husband, to my grown kids, to my unborn grandchildren, and all future generations? I gave it up, admitting that it would be things like, “A stitch in time saves nine” or “remember to floss.”

 I don’t think experienced travelers  go through this agonizing, “I may die en route or when I get there” feeling every time they go on a trip.  Furthermore, they know how to pack.

Well, I went on the trip, had a great time, sang “Streets of Laredo” with a group of Welsh folksingers in a pub in Knighton, came home to find my family alive and glad to see me.

 I have always loved this quote from a Grace Paley short story, “All it takes is an interest in life, good, bad, or peculiar.”  Turns out, an interest in life is my best accessory.