Category Archives: Travel

Be a fountain . . .

. . . not a drain.

I had this terrible habit of writing down sayings that stopped me in my tracks and then not noting where I’d gotten them. Thus, I cannot attribute this particular saying, but I know I didn’t write it. And I give thanks to whoever did.

It’s good advice I am trying to follow.

Be a fountain of giving. Giving of my time to my youngest granddaughter. I have moved into her home for a spell. She needs me. I need her. She has astounded me with her vocabulary and her comprehension. At eighteen months old, I expected her to still be more of a baby than a toddler. Well, she’s having none of that. Her development is in fast forward.

Be a fountain of words. My work of course came with me. I even found a piece of luggage called “Office” to lug it all in. An office on wheels. The advertising copy promised it would fit under an airplane seat, but when I tried to stuff it in there, it wouldn’t go. Too tall and too wide.

Then I realized that the compartment under the aisle seat was narrower than the one under the middle and window seats. I had no choice but to stuff it in the overhead compartment. I’m short and the thing was heavy, but the worst part was that it had my laptop in it and I prefer to keep that with me.

We landed in New Orleans with such a bang that it would not have made any difference where my laptop was. It would have shaken, rattled and rolled wherever it was. The flight attendant joked, “Don’t forget to check the seatback for any belongings. In fact, check all over the aircraft for your belongings.” That was funny, but note to self: no more aisle seats.

Be a fountain of love. What else but love could compel me to leave the people I love to come be with the people I love. I will miss my other baby. I gave her extra kisses and hugs the last time I saw her and I lost track of how many I love you’s we shared on the phone before my flight. Her tiny little voice almost made me not want to leave.

Be a fountain of health. My personal pharmacy came with me as well. Have pills will travel. My hands are not happy that I’m not taking Prednisone anymore, the left more than the right, but since I’m right-handed, it’s not that bad.

And it’s really not that bad overall. I expected it to be worse, but I’m glad it’s not. If I keep moving, the rest of my body feels fine. It’s only when I sit too long that I feel stiff, but that might not be RA. That might just be me. One thing I know, having to chase after a toddler will inoculate me against sitting around.

And be a fountain of youth. Of course. I keep telling myself how young I still am. And nowadays, it is young. But I just have to keep reminding myself. Inside, I still feel 20. And outside, I’m glad I’m not. If I could be 20 knowing what I know now, maybe.

Hanging out at South Beach, obviously not missing Na at all!

Hanging out at South Beach, obviously not missing Na at all!

Watching Abuela work and ripping apart her Post-its.

Watching Abuela work and ripping apart her Post-its.

 

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What, Me Worry?

I had an epiphany this morning. I woke up as I usually do, with my youngest child on my mind. She is far from home and worrying about her comes as natural to me as breathing. She was hoping to come home for Christmas, but that won’t be feasible. That in itself is disappointing, and though I miss her dearly I can deal with it.

What I do have trouble with is the fact that she is living all alone in New York City. These past months I have made several attempts to get her to come home, but she is bound and determined to stay there and try to make it into the journalistic world. Free room and board is not enough to entice her; she’d rather rough it up there, working at whatever she can find while she keeps “writing on the side.”

I’m glad she’s writing, and though at this point the publications she writes for don’t pay, at least she’s adding to her portfolio. I suppose I could romanticize her present status and think of her as a starving artist, but the starving part doesn’t sit very well with me. Besides, she’s already tiny enough that a stiff breeze could blow her away.

I try to convince myself that she is all right; that she is an adult now, capable of making her own decisions. I tell myself that I don’t need to hear from her daily, that I don’t have to wait up for her to text me she’s safe in her room anymore.  I remind myself that I must keep my stress level in check, that RA loves any and all enablers. And RA has had its way with me for long enough.

And then this morning it hit me. Why am I worrying about her walking the streets of New York when she’s walked the streets of Casablanca, Tangier, Accra, Cape Town, Penang, Ho Chi Min City, Hue City, Hong Kong, Shanghai, Mumbai, Delhi, Tokyo, Yokohama and Puntarenas during her Semester at Sea voyage around the world? And before that were the streets of Paris and Amsterdam during her European trip, which seems so long ago I barely remember the other countries on the itinerary besides Germany and Norway.

Added to that are the four years she spent trekking up and down busy Commonwealth Avenue attending university in Boston. There was no set apart campus there; she was right smack in the middle of the big city. And how can I forget the months she spent roaming the entire country by car the summer she was twenty, accompanied by three other twenty-year-olds. If she could handle driving the L.A. freeways, something I couldn’t get myself to do when I lived there, what exactly am I worried about?

She’s logged more miles than the rest of her family put together and at this point only Australia, South America and the North and South Poles lack her footprints.  She has no fear of new places, meeting new people or of being alone. Her school teachers weren’t off the mark when they noted that she was self-directed and self-sufficient in her yearly reports.

She’s known to accomplish whatever she sets her mind to and her wish now is to become a travel writer. I suppose she has compiled more material during her 22 years than most people will in a lifetime. I have to say I don’t know anyone else quite like her.

“She’s different, isn’t she?” my son said to me while I visited him last month.

“Yes,” I responded. “She is.”

A little girl, a great big world.

A little girl, a great big world.

No matter how old she gets, she will always be 3 to me.

No matter how old she gets, she will always be 3 to me.

The feet that have roamed the world.

The feet that have roamed the world.