Time Travel
I open my eyes, and I could be 5 or 15, 10 or 3. Every vacation starts the same way: my dad, freshly shaven and harried, calling up the stairs to his 4 bleary-eyed children. We frantically grab our overstuffed duffels bags, each with our first names written in all capital letters by our mother. It is usually about 5AM. To a kid, a morning that is still shrouded in darkness brings its own sense of excitement, of stolen intrigue. Am I up really late? What grown-up things will I get to see? Shoving our things into our tightly organized van, the pop-up camper attached to the rear, my siblings and I bicker over our seating arrangement. We could be 6 and 12 or 33 and 39. Vacation always feels the same.
Often, my dad chooses to do a “hard travel day” right away, to “get miles” and probably to feel the stress melt away. As a kid, setting up my area in the family vehicle felt like a sacred ritual, one that I often miss now that I grown. The headphones policy of my family vehicle, at a time when CDs were still a thing and iPods were just a twinkle in Steve Jobs’ eye, was dependent on my parents’ moods. Music was my reprieve, and there are albums that still feel inextricably linked to certain places: Joni Mitchell’s Blue means Key West to me, whereas No Doubt’s Rock Steady immediately brings me back to the Redwoods. Sometimes, travel becomes more than a place you went when you were small; it weaves its way into every crevice of your life at that moment.
I’m an adult now, living across the country from my siblings and parents. Now, I visit places in my new home that we all once visited together. I still play tourist, missing them. I still walk the Golden Gate Bridge, frowning at the cold blast of wind, muttering to myself that it’s JUNE, dammit. When I’m lucky enough to coerce a visit from my parents, their first day here always starts the same: my father, restless and smooth-faced, pacing the perimeter of my home, camera in hand. Coffee dripping and my mother sifting through her carry-on, with the letters of our last name crisply written. I have planned a day-trip, of course, but I always let my dad drive.
