Postcard 1: A Charming Joy
"Let's immerse ourselves in the culture," I proclaimed to my parents at the dinner table when I was in fifth grade, planning our upcoming spring vacation to Southern California. "I have no interest in tourist sites; I want to meet the locals. Do as Los Angelinos do."
No Disneyworld for me. I'd been there. Done that. Show me the homes of the stars. Show me a movie set. Take me to where the sunglass-clad locals dine. I had every intention to figure out what made Californian's tick, and why they moved to Oregon with so much attitude.
We spent the week in L.A., driving around in our baby blue 1977 Chevy Suburban. "I'm just a Gigolo" wafted from the mono-dynamic speaker in the center of the dash. I sat between my parents and soaked up the essence of Southern California, shielded from the glare by my knock-off Varnet sunglasses. Of all the sights we did see, the story I brought back to my classmates was the traffic jam story. Perpetual tourists, we were surrounded by a sea of sleek, black stretch limos as we unknowingly inched our way towards the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion on the night of the Oscars. At least until the police spotted our baby blue Suburban and waved us a different direction. No celebrity sighting for us, just a celebrity traffic jam.
But travel has always been that way for me. We'd spend our summer vacation camping in the wooded hills overlooking Loon Lake nestled in a valley of the Coast Range along the Oregon Coast. I never once spotted a loon, or the black panther my Dad said lived in the forest just beyond the ridge. But I wasn't really interested in wildlife. I was interested in the people. I'd use my bike to patrol the campground, keeping tabs on who was coming and who was going. By the end of the week, not only would I know everyone who called Loon Lake home, but also I'd know where they were from, where they were going, and a synopsis of their life story. I'd know the park rangers and their schedules.
My hope was that someday I would find someone with a boat. And this boat person would find me such a charming joy, they would invite me out in the boat, where I would enjoy the lake with my new found friends. And maybe see a fabled loon or two. But that never happened at Loon Lake. Over the years I came to learn that the trailer people who camped at the campground were not the same as boat people. Trailer people stayed for the week. Boat people stayed for the day. Boat people didn't have kids, rather, boat people clustered in groups consisting of two guys with big bellies and four or more girls with big accommodating bikinis. Loud and boisterous, those boat people were. Trailer people could also be loud, singing "Koombya" in the thick of the dark night. In the morning trailer people wandered around, swaddled in blankets, pretending the fresh morning air made their heads hurt, as the boat people scurried around to get their boats in the water.
Twenty years later, waiting to board our flight to Tampa, a skycap parked a senior in a wheel chair next to me. His wire-rim glasses hung on the tip of his nose, his well-worn loafers able to tell stories for hours about his meanderings if they could speak. A green fishing cap warns, "Caution: Frequent Senior Moments." He sat hunched over and I wasn't really sure if he was asleep or reading U.S.A. Today.
"Ladies and gentleman," said the gate agent into the public address system. "The operations center has posted a departure time for 9:30 as we wait for two flight attendants who are on a plane delayed arriving into Atlanta tonight." It's the first day Mercury is in Retrograde and Mars is completely huge in the sky. I was concerned the flight delay would hamper our style, but given the cosmic conditions, the delay is no surprise to us. It will be 11:30 before we're on the ground for the weekend in Tampa, Florida.
We're on a mission this weekend. Visiting our friend Andrew living in Florida for the summer, we're determined to hit the ground running. By Labor Day, we hope to meet at least one person who finds us such a charming joy they feel compelled to invite us to their backyard Labor Day pool party.
"We apologize for any inconvenience," added the gate agent.
"Oh, for god's sake!" shouted Mr. Senior Moment. "Why do they need flight attendants anyway? It's not like the flight is full-service. They did away with that year's ago. The only thing they add to the plane is weight and attitude. Now a pilot missing-that I'd understand." He chewed on air for a moment. "Somebody wheel me to the god damn bar!" he exploded.
"Shall we go to the bar?" I asked Tony.
"What? Why?" He scowled.
"Um, we have an hour. There's nothing else to do. And Mr. Senior Moment needs a lift."
"I don't want to pay six dollars for a watered down fruit juice. And besides, he probably doesn't need a cocktail."
"Who are we to decide? Besides, we're on vacation and it's what you do in airports."
"We're on a budget."
"I'm sure I could get him to buy."
Tony rolled his eyes.
"Well, I'm going to the bar," I said standing up. "Watch my stuff."
I turned to Mr. Senior Moment. "I'll give you a lift to the bar if you'll tell me how long you've been having these senior moments."
"I'd tell you, but I'm having a senior moment."
"Well then, can you tell me some of the sights those well-worn loafers have seen?"
"Shove-off!" he proclaimed as I whisked him away too the bar, our journey about to begin.
8/29/03