Travel

Edinburgh

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There are things that stand out in my mind, a quick memory that jumps to another, a smell, the feeling of a particular fabric on your skin.

My first trip overseas was to the United Kingdom. It was 1986/1987 and my college roommate was student teaching in England. She asked me to meet her there and then we would travel together for winter break and afterwards return to school together.

It came at a perfect time, that if any one thing had been different, I would have turned her down. Luckily for me the stars were aligned in my favor, and the trip literally changed much of my life.

She asked me what I wanted on the itinerary, and I believe my response was: Stonehenge and a Castle. Everything else was her choice. I didn’t care as long as I got to see Stonehenge and a Castle.

There is much to tell that happened during these almost-three weeks, but when I put my request for a prompt and I limited it to seven choices, and People: Edinburgh was chosen.

We barely spent any time in Edinburgh, but it truly was the people who stand out in my memory.

For one thing, I’m weak-kneed for a Scottish accent. And bagpipes…… Completely unrelated, but I visited a Gettysburg battlefield at the same time as Bike Week and one of the riders got off his Harley and started playing the bagpipes. It was one of the most moving feelings I have ever experienced. The memory still manages to choke me up. Sorry for the digression.

I’ve always been a tremendous fan of Scotland and the Celtic people.

In the summer before the trip, we both (my roommate and I) worked at a camp that had an entire group of British exchange students, and one of them was Clive A. Clive was the canoe specialist and he and I embarrassingly started a food fight in the dining hall. It was disgusting and we both got in serious trouble and I couldn’t drink orange juice for almost a year afterwards, but it was one of our bonding moments. And I was one of three people who could understand him through his thick Scottish accent.

Our trip from Pitlochry to Edinburgh was somewhat eventful, although not as eventful as Edinburgh to London, but still. The snow had begun falling before we got on the train, and once we’d arrived in York, the snow turned to mush in a country that didn’t know what to do with mush. Trains were delayed, but eventually we made it into the city to meet up with Clive.

On our way, we ran into an Aussie fellow we met on the train in Wales.

This was January and so the hostellers were a small group. We didn’t run into the same people, but we did meet a couple, stay a bit, change hostels with them, meet a couple more and then trade. It was neat. We met Peter in Bangor, went our separate ways. Actually we were ion the same train. At Perth, we went on to Pitlochry and he changed for Aberdeen. I was indeed surprised to find him later on that evening in Pitlochry, and the next morning he came with us to Edinburgh.

The Scottish hostels were a bit different than the English and the Welsh ones we’d been used to up until now. For one thing, the Scottish curfew was 2am rather than eleven or midnight. Scottish hostels also did not provide silverware; you were supposed to carry your own, and we did not know that. They were kind enough to let us borrow. Also in Scotland, we, as women, were not automatically served a half-pint like we were in England and Wales. In Scotland, we got a full pint, and for me who didn’t drink that much, but soon discovered the wonder that is hard cider didn’t really pay attention to the size of the glass other than to be marveled that I was given a pint in Scotland. It was very exciting.

Not to mention that by this time the drinking age in NY was 21 (raised on my birthday, the bastards!), so my first legal drink was received in the UK.

Clive took us to three places, but the only one I remember the name of was Preservation Hall. He’d said it was named for the one in New Orleans. *shrug* I didn’t know. He and my roommate seemed to be in charge and that was fine for Peter and me. We tagged along like wayward puppies, following as Clive searched streets for a working ATM. They weren’t on every street corner in 1987, and it took a little time for him to get some cash.

We laughed and talked and drank and three and a half pints later we stumbled out.

The next thing I knew Peter and I were put on the taxi queue, given an address to get us back to the hostel before the curfew and my roommate and friend left me there.

We stood for a moment or two and decided we could find our way back before curfew, and we didn’t need to pay for a taxi. Thinking back, that was probably one of the stupidest things I’ve done. I met this guy three or so days earlier and so we wandered down the streets.

By now it was snowing, and Peter, being from Australia had never seen snow, but this wasn’t just any kind of snow I told him; this was fairy snow. The kind that lightly dusted your hair, and sparkled in the lamplight. We sat on a snow covered bench beneath the Edinburgh Castle that was lit up for the evening and watched the magical snow glitter and glimmer, twinkling in competition with the stars against the blackness of the Scottish sky, the only light one or two lamps and the castle far above us.

It was sweet and cozy as we walked hand in hand, stumbling down one street and then another, not even knowing what we were missing by not having a cell phone or a nav system, but we made it.

Right before curfew. We came in as the warden was about to lock up, although he was kind enough to ask about my other friend, and I said she wouldn’t be back.

We found a warm spot next to a crackling fireplace and left drips where the snow melted off our woolens, our hair spraying water on each other like a dog might when he comes in from the rain.

Peter and I stayed up most of the night in case my roommate needed us to open the door for her, but he was right about that being futile and I didn’t see her until the morning when she woke me for the train back to London.

Peter and I said goodbye until our pen pal letters started up once he was home and that lasted several years.

A two hour delay, sitting on a moving train car that was only moving for me and my hangover, a crick in my neck from how I fell asleep on my rucksack, wondering why we weren’t in London, an amusing conductor who was much funnier than he should have been sober and snow, snow, snow, and wondering if we’d even get back to the United States because flights were being cancelled left and right.

Finally, we were heading to London, but we weren’t able to sit together. I ended up with a man named Kevin. Scottish, but he needed to show up at the military something in London to check in and then turn around and go home. Didn’t make much sense to me, but we had a nice chat the entire way to London. He was short and had very small hands, and I’m not sure why that stands out in my mind. We also talked about the Scottish money – the pound note, well all of them that doesn’t have a picture of the Queen on them. There was a shortened history lesson of Scotland, and my roommate and I were back in Bishop’s Stortford hoping to get on the plane the next morning, and Kevin and Peter were just happy memories.

 

Fucking Roundabouts

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We recently got a roundabout in town. It took the place of a traffic light that created more trouble than it was worth. The roundabout really helps. Unfortunately, a lot of people don’t know how to use it. It’s a one lane circle with four exits. That whole yield to traffic in the circle thing has them baffled.

Let me tell you a thing, townsfolks – this is the easiest traffic circle, roundabout, devil’s trap you will ever find anywhere in the world. It’s well lit, signs are posted, it is now literally the easiest intersection I have ever encountered.

As some of you remember, a few years ago I went to Wales, and I spent a week driving there. Having never driven on the left side of the road was bad enough, but the fucking roundabouts! Holy mother of Satan! I should warn you now for language. There is no language that is off limits in describing the Welsh roundabout.

It’s a rural country, Wales is. I almost never had a car behind me or was in any traffic to speak of. Unless of course, you are in a roundabout. Then, every fucking driver and his brother are so close up your arse that they should buy you dinner first.

There was one roundabout, just to interrupt; they call them roundabouts. Sounds civilized, doesn’t it? Much like the Scottish version of ‘hills’ which are really fucking mountains. (Look up Craigower Hill if you don’t believe me.) Cunting roundabouts! Traffic circles from Hell! This is no exaggeration. Driving in Hell would not be this bad, and that includes not having air conditioning down there.

As I was saying, there was this one roundabout; one of many really, but this one really stands out. Plenty of traffic; of course I’m the only one who doesn’t know what they’re doing.

First, you enter the roundabout when there’s a lull. There is no fucking lull. It is four lanes of fucking no lull. But wait, there’s more to ‘first’ than meets the eye. When you enter, you of course, enter to the left. The steering wheel is on the right side of the car and you enter from the left when there is a lull.

Good fucking luck.

You enter the circle and you look for your exit.

This fucking roundabout – did I mention that it has four fucking lanes?! This fucking roundabout has signs, but they’re useless. I don’t even see how native Welsh drivers can understand them.

All signs are in both Welsh and English. This isn’t a problem, but one example I’ll share that I ran into more than once is ‘men working’ in Welsh is something like five words. Construction ahead took two signs and that was just for the Welsh portion.

These signs for the circle, in the circle: do they say: Bangor, 10 miles with an arrow pointing the way? No, of course they don’t. They say something ridiculous like A4 with an arrow.

A4?!

Fucking cuntswallop! Is this Bingo?! I didn’t get my Bingo card when I entered the roundabout – who do I see about that?

So I go around again, hoping that the car riding my arse isn’t going to hit me even though I’m going twice the speed limit since I still don’t know if it’s miles or kilometers and I’m hoping for the best. (It’s miles by the way.)

There is a sign detailing all of the exits. There are seven spokes to this roundabout. SEVEN!

Four of them say Bangor. Bangor is about the size of Central Park. Alright, maybe that’s a slight under-estimate, but it’s a smallish college town with basically one road through the whole of it.

Now, the fun begins.

To exit, you need the left most lane. Or do you? When you exit, you are exiting from this four lane monstrosity to a two-way, two-lane, no yellow lines, bordered by ancient or at least medieval stone walls that barely give your side view mirror room to scrape by.

And scrape by I did now and again.

To digress, on a one way street, it’s even worse. And that’s assuming you’re driving the right way; you never know with the GPS piece of conCRAPtion. Modern compact BMW versus thousand year old wall? Scrape the wall. After a thousand years, that wall isn’t coming down. Trust me. Besides if I don’t scrape that wall, I scrape the church on the other side. St. Mary’s. Also about a thousand years old.

And now back to our regularly scheduled rant. Now you hope that this is the only roundabout, but it’s not likely. They like a series of them to keep you on your toes. I think it’s a Darwin test – survival of the fittest. Or the luckiest.

Roundabouts are the reason there’s a church on every corner. If you’re not praying while you’re driving, you’re clearly not stressed enough. Most of my time behind the steering wheel included my white knuckled clutching until the final stop when I could barely uncurl my fingers and heaved a sigh of relief that I was still in one piece.

Often I would burst into tears upon stopping simply at the thought of having to go back the same way, but there was also the release of tension with the tears. And then a deep breath.

For about three weeks when I got back, I needed a sedative to be a passenger in a car that went through a roundabout.

Roundabouts are the devil’s spawn.

I Remember – First Plane Ride

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I have a vivid memory, but I’m still not sure how much of it isn’t fantasy. I’m holding Dad’s hand and we’re boarding an airplane. We are standing in the aisle looking for our seats and I picture myself perfectly. White patent leather shoes to match my little purse, carefully placed Jackie O style on my arm. My jacket is all white and buttoned up to my neck, the collar properly turned down. I don’t think I had a hat. Although my hair is neat, as neat as a five year old’s can be anyway, but still sticking out over my ears, a little more than it does now. I’m not wearing the gold pin of pilot’s wings, but I must be clutching it in my small hand. I kept that for a long time after, but haven’t seen it in decades. I did get a replacement provided by my friend, but now you have to ask for your wings. They don’t think they let you visit the cockpit anymore either, although I don’t recall visiting the cockpit on this flight. We were on our way to see family in Toronto, Canada, and since we always drove and my mother and siblings weren’t with us, I can only imagine that it was for some kind of big event like a funeral. We always stopped in the duty-free shop when we drove, so I can only imagine that we did on this visit as well, although Dad could have only gotten half the normal allowance of whiskey and cigarettes, a staple of ours on our return trip to the United States. My parents didn’t drink, but this was a time when you kept alcohol in your house for guests; just in case. These little snippets of memory pop out at the least provocation. Sometimes, they don’t seem so far away.

The Grave Site of President Chester A. Arthur

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I recently took a drive out to the Albany Rural Cemetery outside of the New York State capital of Albany to visit the gravesite of President Chester A. Arthur, the 21st President of the United States. The cemetery is much larger than it appears upon driving through the gates. I’m told that the cemetery itself is 400 acres and I found it to be one of the more peaceful  places I’ve been to. It is spaced in a rolling way with hills and winding dirt/gravel narrow roads, large and small headstones and monuments, mid-19th century (some from before that had been moved there) to modern era as well as above ground burial areas. There is an abundance of nature with trees and creeks with natural stone walls, deep wooded areas and cool shaded spaces with benches and statuary. It felt a bit like some of the Gettysburg cemeteries for anyone that’s visited them, but I only felt the peacefulness rather than the spirits and ghost-like feelings reaching out that I feel in the Battlefields and Cemeteries of Gettysburg.

This cemetery began with 100 acres in 1841, and had its first burial in 1845, although some graves are from before that having moved from their original site at Washington Park. It is an active cemetery, and other than very famous names, I recognized my former Congressman’s father.

When I arrived at the President’s grave site, there was a groundskeeper trimming the grass. He chuckled and said to me, “My boss was right. Always weed whack over here first.” He then moved off so that I could get pictures. For all of the visitors you would think they get, there are no signs pointing the way. I did see one about the size of an interstate shield sign, but other than that, nothing. I ran into a jogger with her dog, and I asked her for directions to the President. She was not surprised that I could not find it on my own.

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Below is the Arthur family plot.

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Behind the monument with the angel and Presidential Seal is the actual grave where President Arthur is buried alongside his wife.

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It took me three tries to get the flag to wave just right behind the angel’s wings.

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I also have an affinity for taking pictures of things with a tree in the foreground.

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Some more photos from my day. The next two were where I happened upon the jogger. I saw a stone wall and flowing water and I needed to stop and get out of my car. I was really glad I did.

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This stone was under a copse of trees. There’s a stone wall layered behind it, the topiary plus a few statuary pieces. This person really liked frogs apparently. The bench right across from this has that little stone path and is under its own tree; it is also missing the seat. I can imagine that this person’s spouse or parent would come to sit and visit. Sometimes, I wish that there was a bench by my parents’ graves; something that my mother wanted to put in had she lived longer to visit my Dad.

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These last two are good examples of unexpected angles. Stand in just the right spot and it gives way to gobs of creativity and writing prompts. There is so much in the simplest photograph.

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Colonial Williamsburg

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These are some of my photos from my recent trip to Williamsburg, Virginia. I spent the day on my own, so I have a lot of photos of buildings and the re-enactors as well as the gardens and horses. I will write more about it, but it truly was a fabulous day with perfect weather. The one thing I would change would be to pay attention to the schedule. I didn’t buy a ticket, and therefore wasn’t allowed into the historic end by the Capitol since there was a performance. If I had realized I would have started at that end, and been gone before they closed it to non-ticket holders.

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Inside the Bindery

Governor's Palace at Colonial Williamsburg

Governor’s Palace at Colonial Williamsburg

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Gardens

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Burton Parish Episcopal Church

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Horse and Pasture

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The Courthouse

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The Courthouse. To the left is a cider stand. To the right, barely in view are the stocks

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Market Center

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Two women play traditional Colonial games at the market

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The Capitol

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The Town Crier…..on a Segway

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Sitting in front of the tavern

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Horse and Wagon

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The Armoury

at Colonial Williamsburg

at Colonial Williamsburg

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Bus stop in front of the Historic Information Booth, across from Merchant Square

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Behind the Information Booth

Security: Not as Easy as it Appears on TV

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Mt. Snowdon, Llanberis, North Wales

Mt. Snowdon, Llanberis, North Wales

 

In Tickets, Please! I hinted at other stories from my past, and thought I would take some of my journal entries and my old Live Journal and include them here. Some of them are not so dated that they are not relevant any longer.

Prior to my most recent trip to Wales in 2009, the only other times that I’ve flown were when I was five (with my Dad to Canada, and I can picture my cute little outfit and pocketbook) and when I was twenty (to meet my college roommate who was student teaching in the UK). Obviously, both of these occurred before 9/11 and security was definitely not the same then as it is now.

In fact, for the overseas trip in 1986, I carried a paper bag of wrapped Christmas presents for my friend that sat on my lap the entire time because it would not fit in the overhead compartment. I’m pretty sure this would be frowned upon nowadays.

So, to recap, I’ve flown in 1970 or 1971, 1986 and then again in 2009.

Not a very good track record of airline travel.

I may have also mentioned in previous postings here that I am very anxious. At the time of the 2009 trip, I had not been diagnosed with depression or an anxiety disorder and just put it off to the normal anxiety of traveling alone and the lack of experience. I can tell you that while I was still nervous (and still undiagnosed) in 2011, it was still a much better experience as far as my anxiety levels, and my recent train trip had almost no anxiety at all. All of those stories will eventually come if you stick around long enough.

Wales, 2009: The lesson in how not to go through security.

Three times.

I honestly thought I was prepared. I like to be prepared. If I am nothing, I am prepared. I usually have the extra diaper, the napkins or pack of tissues, the spare change; so when I was planning my trip to Wales, I did not want to wait until the last minute to get British pounds or wait until I had arrived in Manchester.

I also did not want to wait until my departure from Newark Airport, which I pictured as a large foreboding place and where I’d be sitting alone for hours on end and everyone would know that I had money and I would be mugged. Or some other crazy scenario that never happens but everyone still thinks does.

I do think of everything.

Our local airport is big enough – they call it an international airport after all, although I don’t believe that I could fly overseas directly from here.  I planned on popping in to buy British currency. The procedure is simple. You make an appointment, go to the information office, show them your passport, they give you a pass, you then go through security with your pass and your passport, and go to the business office to exchange (they call it buying) your currency.

Okay, no problem.

I do all that, and there’s a really long line for security. That’s okay though. It gives me time to get acclimated and get used to the procedure as I watch other people going through. I listen to the chit-chat. I reach into my oversized bag and feel around for Bob. (If you haven’t met Bob yet, he is my talisman, and he will make occasional appearances on my site.)

He’s there.

I feel safe.

I get to the front of the line, and I will have to recount about the elderly woman in the wheelchair with her identification problems at another time. After her, it’s my turn, and I hand the TSA officer my passport, and there’s this long pause.

Well, it wasn’t that long, but it felt like forever and I couldn’t figure out why. He informed me that the passport isn’t signed, and I think I said something like, “What do you mean?”

Apparently, you are supposed to sign your passport when you get it.

Laugh if you want, but I did not know that.

I thought they came like your driver’s license – already signed, but no, they don’t.

I was so embarrassed. I was lucky a manager was there and I had to sign it in front of them, show my driver’s license, get the manager’s approval, and then they let me in.

Bob was embarrassed by me too. It probably won’t be the first time.

Then it’s time to grab a bin, take off your shoes and put them and your liquids, jacket, purse into the bin. Or two bins. The woman ahead of me had three bins plus her luggage. Go through the metal detector and then you re-dress. Just to add that if you’re a man, you’ll need to also take off your belt.

They do not care that I’m not getting on a flight. If I’m going into the secure area, I need to go through security just like everyone else. I also needed the pass because I did not have a ticket, which is also required.

(At this time (and in 2011), they only had the traditional metal detectors; not the back scatter machines).

Okay, so now I’m through and I get my currency, which is cool, and I leave. No worries. I’m ready now for the next trip through security, which will be when I’m actually flying out.

Security, Take Two.

Newark is a bit crazier than our local airport. It’s bigger. It’s enormously bigger. The parking is color-coded. It’s expensive. My husband and kids leave me at the really long line to check my bag, and this is where I meet a lovely Scottish couple heading home to Edinburgh. We chat, we check our bags, we leave our bags in a corral where anyone can take them, but alas, that is a different story that I may or may not get to later on.

I’m looking for security now. Once I’m through security, even though I’m two hours early (the recommended time for international flights), I want to get through security and then pretend to relax. They have shops and a place to buy drinks and bathrooms on the other side of security. It’s really like a whole other world and I’m kind of looking forward to that part of this adventure. After all, eating and shopping isn’t anxiety laden like going through a metal detector.

I know I’m ready for security this time. I grab my bin. I take off my shoes. I very knowledgably explain to the German lady behind me about the shoes and the jacket, which I’ve laid under my bag in the bin. I give a quick look to Bob and send him and my other bags through.

As soon as I heard it, I knew it was me.

“Bag check.”

My heart began to race, and my mind was repeating over and over again, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, the laptop.”

I not only left the laptop in the bag (they must be taken out and put in a separate bin), but I also forgot the bag of liquids in the carry-on. Bob was the least of my problems, although I’m sure that after the nonsense that was the laptop/liquids, Bob would have kept me off the plane.

I apologized. I got eye-rolls times two. I did feel bad, but they really should be more instructional. I’m a first time flyer for all practical purposes, and I was in the first time flyer lane, but apparently those lane distinctions don’t really mean anything. I get through, but my heart is still racing, and believe it or not, the first thing I did was slip Bob in my pocket and then tie my shoes.

Security, Take Three.

At the end of my trip, upon leaving Manchester Airport, I, of course, went through security. This time, I was determined to be successful. I had put all of my liquids in the checked bag, and this bag did not go into the corral available to any passer-by. All I had was toothpaste in the plastic baggie in my carry-on. I remembered the laptop and even had the carry-on partially unzipped so that I would remember to remove it from the bag. I had asked the first security person if we’re supposed to take our shoes off, and they said no. I threw away my bottle of soda (500ml – too large to carry through.) I was home-free. The man asked for my passport. No problem. I put everything in the bins. I walked through the detector, and…

Beep.

Oh, no, I didn’t.

I looked at the security woman, mouth agape, thinking, “What did I do to deserve this?”

They move me just slightly out of the way, ask me to put my arms out (like a cross) and then a woman security officer starts patting me down. (Wasn’t I put behind a screen? No, I was not. She didn’t even say anything except to extend my arms. She really should have bought me drinks.) I was lucky I didn’t take a step back in startlement. I also now need to take off my shoes and they pass through a separate scanner. That was it really. I think it was actually my passport that set it off – all that new technology crammed into that little book. I hadn’t carried it through any of the other metal detectors. I always replaced it into my purse when it was returned to me.

Now I know for my next trip, I will either sail through or be arrested and my best friend will have to rescue me from a federal prison.

You will rescue me, won’t you?

Here are some hints that I discovered, and not just because of my mistakes.

1.       Keep your pockets empty, including money and change. It’s just easier to get through security and then put that stuff into your pockets or just leave it in your pocketbook or briefcase.

2.       Know that in the US, you’ll need to remove your jacket, shoes and belts.

3.       Don’t wear clunky, metallic jewelry unless you really do want to get friendly with the security officers. Going, I had a really nice necklace, but I put it in my purse until I was through and then I put it on my neck.

4.       Put your ID/passport away in your purse before you walk through the metal detector. There is also a detector that blows air on you. I did not go through that one (by choice).

5.       Your laptop needs to be out of your bag and in its own bin (apart from your shoes and purse, etc.)

6.       Your purse goes in a bin. Your carry-on does not.

7.       The liquids need to be in a bin (with your other stuff except your laptop.) The TSA in the US allow 3 ounce containers inside a quart sized zipper bag. I found Ziploc brand travel bags. I think they were $0.99 for seven bags. I was also surprised by the amount of little bottles that fit in there. On the way over, my liquid bag was filled with things I would normally keep in my purse. Liquid, for TSA purposes includes gels and creams as well as solids (like deodorant) in addition to actual liquids. It’s 3-1-1. 3.4 ounce containers, 1 quart bag, 1 bag per passenger. I found the TSA website to be very useful.

8.       The UK requirement to return is slightly less, so check with the airport security or online for the place you’ll be leaving from, or check your liquids in your suitcase.

9.       Do not joke in the line. It annoys people, and you really don’t want to annoy security.

If I think of anything else, I’ll be sure to add it with another posting.

Tickets, Please!

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In a couple of weeks I’m taking a trip, kind of spontaneously, and I’m a little nervous, but I’m trying to look at it as an adventure. I don’t have many of those.

I travel very rarely. As a kid, my family took yearly, sometimes twice yearly vacations. I went with my college roommate to the UK in 1987; alone to North Wales in 2009; to visit friends in Denver in 2011. As an adult, three trips in three decades are not very much.

I’d like to travel more, but money is certainly one issue. I’ve also only recently begun to enjoy some of my own time alone. I always hated the aloneness, but I started taking random ‘field trips’ and where once I thought eating alone in a restaurant was sad and lonely, I kind of like it now. I have time to think. I have space to write. And lunch in an actual restaurant is about the same price as going to McDonald’s or getting an actual meal at Starbucks without the noisy, bustling background. I also like libraries and parks with trees, but that’s me.

I am also a very nervous traveler. I couldn’t get on the last two airplanes without a special talisman to calm my nerves (as well as a prescription pharmaceutical). I travel so seldom that it churns up my stomach and I hate all of the things you need to do for travel with the packing, security, where to put my bags once I get onboard, who will I sit with and a million other anxieties tied up into what amounts to a fifteen minute procedure.

This upcoming trip is by train, and I’m excited (mostly); I haven’t been on a train since my first trip to the UK on BritRail. This journey will be twelve hours between onboard and changing trains in NYC with just enough time to buy breakfast. Is it wrong that I am really, really looking forward to a real NY egg bagel with cream cheese? On the way back, I’m hoping for a knishe. Oh, it’s been too long! And of course, another fifteen hours back including a five hour layover.

I always feel that I need to bring everything but the kitchen sink just in case. What if I need X, Y or Z? When I travel by air, I have the need to buy a bottle of water and a Time magazine. I’m not sure why that is and I don’t know if that little ritual will hold up for Amtrak. I should be able to bring my own water and save three dollars. I always bring a snack that I almost never eat and my journal which was missing for a while. This trip, I also have the luxury of a Kindle Fire, which will most certainly be welcome.

Although after much searching, I’ve finally found my special journal that’s gone with me to Wales and Denver, been to Tea Tastings when I was notating the experience, and my Fall Writing Retreat both in 2012. I will be sad when this journal is all full. I should have enough pages for this trip, possibly one more, but no guarantee of that.

The main reason for this trip is friendship with a side of fandom. I was supposed to visit my best friend before the summer, but that fell through so when he suggested coming for the fandom party/dinner/viewing of the finale of this season’s Supernatural, I rearranged my schedule to be there. There will be good friends, committed fans, good food and of course, the finale.

I haven’t done one of these types of things since the days of Star Trek: The Next Generation, possibly Deep Space Nine. Yes, my family does make a big deal of Doctor Who night and my son got the dinner he begged for: fish fingers and custard, and our weekend schedule does revolve around Green Lantern: The Animated Series, and this weekend is Free Comic Book Day, but I haven’t been to a convention (maybe soon, though – *crosses fingers*) in about a decade. For the weekly watching of Star Trek, we would head to our friend’s house and we would get chicken parm heros and drink soda and eat ice cream and laugh loudly and cheer and gape at the wonder of the Enterprise and her crew.

Now, it is a new group, a new fandom, very Supernatural-type Americana/diner food and I’m excited for it. Apart from my best friend, I have not met anyone who will be there. To begin a friendship with a base already in place is one of the wonderful things about fandom. Hey, I know your name, and we like this thing and yes, I think we can be friends, pass me a chip.

There is something so brilliant about people and food and traditions that are continued by new people and while it’s different, it’s the same or at least similar, and in some cases it’s better, and it’s really comfortable. We don’t know each other, but we kind of know each other. I am a tiny bit nervous, but that’s just my personality bleeding through. It’s not at all like going to my sister’s and explaining what fan fiction is or how I know that Misha Collins’ wife just published a book on stewardesses or why I care or why I laugh harder than everyone else when a Moose shows up on the local news in someone’s swimming pool or confuse her by rattling off my own personal canon for Harry Potter.

My sister is a fan of many things, but she is not in fandom and that is sad.

The second part (or first….) of my quick trip is visiting friend; good friend. We talk often but see each other infrequently (sadly) and I’m looking forward to this very much. We only get one day together before the fannish things begin and the good thing is we are both in better places since we last saw each other and he gets to show me around his town and his animals and his space and we get to talk and talk and catch up on and store extra hugs and make more plans, and it gives me time to breathe and remember how to do that and not worry about this school thing or that financial thing and I’ll gather ideas and prompts to occupy my second ride on the rails for the trip back.

I would love to travel more; just get up and go.

This little thing has been just an introduction. I hope to have more stories about my trips, past and future wanna-be’s, things I’ve learned, things I’ve forgotten, places I want to see and things I want to do. My mind yearns to take my kids places but it also yearns to go out into the world by myself. My most recent visit to Wales was that. I traveled alone, did things that I would have refused if you asked me first and I learned how to be by myself, which is always a good thing.

We all need that time to ourselves, to find ourselves and be available to the others in our lives and that is the one thing that I want when I travel; to come back a slightly different person.

If I know, I’ll let you know who I am when I get back.

West by Sea

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west by sea cover

I wanted to promote a friend of mine. I’ve known her for over twenty years (I hadn’t realized until I did the math).
Her name is Michelle and seven years ago she was diagnosed and received treatment for a brain tumor. She goes for her check up in a few weeks and after that, she and her husband are sailing around the world, and inviting us to vicariously be a part of this.

I love this idea! I can’t wait to follow them along on their journey. For me, I am not a fan of the water or boats, so this will definitely be vicariously.

I’m including links to the website, the Facebook page and the Kickstarter if any of you are able to donate monetary funds.

I will probably add a couple of more posts when I have more time, but I really wanted to get the word out.

In addition to their story, preparation and Michelle’s health, their sites include many helpful tips and organizational ideas and information about traveling, which I’m finding both useful and fascinating.

Visit West by Sea and enjoy the trip.

Bon Voyage!

West by Sea Facebook
Kickstarter

Snowbound

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The blizzard that wasn’t. December 2009. My friends were waiting for me in DC. It was a quick hop; get on the plane if my legs would carry me, although it’s not so much the legs that were the problem as the will. The want was there, but sometimes that’s not enough.

“I can’t take the train?”

“It’s only two days.”

“I don’t want the little plane.”

“It’s a jet.”

“It’s not. I googled it.”

Silence.

“Fine. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

Happy messages appear on my voicemail while I slept.

5 AM comes way too soon. It seems silly to pack the kids just to drop me off, but –

There is practically no one at the airport. It’s 5AM.

I kiss everyone goodbye and they pull away from the curb.

Can’t I change my mind? It’s dark and they say the weather will be bad. How will I even get home tomorrow?

Inside I hand the ticket clerk my papers and she smiles.

“That flight’s cancelled. Three feet of snow.”
I look out the window at the bare ground, the sun coming up and look back to her as if she’s crazy.

“DC. Three feet of snow. Airports are closed.”

“But it never snows in DC.”

She shrugs. “Do you want a refund? You were coming back tomorrow anyway.”

“Sure. A refund is good.”

I call my husband. He hasn’t gotten too far and he comes back. I guess we’ll have breakfast.

I leave messages. Sorry, can’t come. I don’t tell them that I am grateful not to get on a tiny airplane in December to land in the snow.

“Oh, poor Karen. What will you do snowbound with the little ones?”

“Snowbound? No. That’s just DC and Virginia. We have no snow. I’m going shopping.”

My shovel is dry.

I think Virginia got almost if not more than 100 inches of snow that year. Actually, I do know. Because I got every whiny phone call with each flake landing. I think he cried once. Record breaking snow.

I think we broke records here too – for least amount of snow.