The Trip That Settled Traveling Again?

When I was four years old my grandmother dressed me in my best, drove me to the Los Angeles train station, tearfully handed me and my little suitcase to a Super Chief “nurse-stewardess.” The uniformed stewardess never left my side crossing the country, three times a day taking me into the train’s galley where the chef made a great presentation of my meal…each night, tucking me into my berth…in Chicago, delivering me to my beaming father. In 1939 little girls could cross the country on their own. Ever since I’ve loved to travel. Gene and I traveled considerably…after Gene died, I got myself to Africa and India on my own. Bill also traveled BM (Before Me) and we’ve gone here and there, been in the East a lot…Spain, Paris…sailed around the world together…

But for us travel ain’t what it used to be.

I loved it until this last trip.

We were planning—wrong, I was planning (Bill is happy to have me do most of the nitty gritty stuff in our lives as he is legally blind and very hard of hearing and I think it important he devote himself to his work—which he says wryly is “the dishes and the trash…”) our trip to Boise, Idaho for the wedding of my amazing second-eldest grandson and his extraordinary fiancée.

Now that was a sentence…did you get through it OK?

You know about planning for a trip. Concern for who’s going to care for the dog/cat/fish/bird/tortoise/ hamsters… The bonsai. The garden. The house.

Did I choose the right and enough wedding gifts?

Actually I was happy about what I’d settled upon. My incomparable hostess mother cherished her elegant Wedgwood soup tureen. It’s now about one hundred years old, I figure. I’ve kept it pristine all these years, and I liked to imagine that a welcoming dinner table in Boise, Idaho was the perfect place for it nowadays. I found a deep square “goes under the seat” suitcase—handsome little devil—and the tureen fit perfectly inside. I was so relieved (otherwise how was I going to get a Wedgwood soup tureen to Boise?).

Medicaments to be packed. We each have our battery of pills and essentials. Also the protective fundamentals.*

How about getting in food for the house/pet sitter?

What to wear was a big problem for me—although not for Bill. He was set in his elegant Dublin thornproof chestnut tweed jacket and the lovely blue silk tie he wore marrying me. But I had nothing at all in dressy clothes that weren’t hand-me-downs from my mother twenty years ago.

And all had patterns–for the ultimate in keepsake photographs, the couple requested we dress in nothing black or patterned. Lord have mercy. So I bravely ordered a long skirt and three simple tops from Eileen Fisher—way over my budget but I rationalized it to beat hell—“They’ll be perfect when we go to L.A. for Christmas…and besides, besides…anyway…” I promised myself I’d send back two of the tops. (Have I? Sent back one.)

We were to fly out on Thursday afternoon… Friday would be devoted to visiting Bill’s ailing cousin who has lived in Boise fifty years. The wedding was Saturday afternoon…fly home Sunday morning.

Saturday/Wedding Day was to begin with breakfast for twenty-five or so. I volunteered to be Breakfast Chef, offered to bring my omelet pan to make individual omelets (apricot jam or cheese or fines herbes). Offer accepted. That would be fun.

I packed Wednesday night, fell into bed, Thursday morning got up, started to put on my face…after the make-up base came my usual powdered blush…merrily wiggled the little brush in the small pink blush powder cup, deftly applied the blush to my nose…

And so…

But that afternoon for a wonder we did better than usual getting through the airport nonsense and onto the plane. Were met by The Dear Groom in his big van. It was going to be great.

Friday was a warm and rewarding day—Bill and cousin Keith have been close since childhood. Friday night we went out to dinner with another grandson—brother of the groom—his glorious wife and heavenly little boys, my daughter and son-in-law (parents of the groom). Greek restaurant. What more could one ask for?

Morning of The Wedding Day, at eight o’clock when Bill and I arrived at the celebratory house, the bride—a petite and beautiful and brilliant vascular surgeon–was filling baskets and bowls with berries, grapes, slices of apples and oranges. My grandson The Groom–former Coast Guard helicopter pilot and now intra-national business administrator–was making pot after pot and serving cup after cup of strong filtered coffee. Around the kitchen family from both sides were sitting or standing and schmoozing, kids were chasing one another around and through, dogs occasionally ran through barking. My idea of heaven.

I began by heating the double ovens. Started with the cornsticks—there were new cornstick pans and gluten-free cornbread mix (which I’d tested twice at home). Also set bacon baking. The bride’s brother helped keep the assembly line moving.

Soon it was nine o’clock, breakfast to be served, time to take orders for omelets. The cheddar cheese was grated…for fines herbes parsley and chives were chopped (I forgot to bring fresh thyme from our garden so I added a pinch of the dried herb). Great fun. I might explain that in my previous life, I made hundreds of money-raising omelets at grammar school Hallowe’en Carnivals and synagogue Purim Festivals… just two eggs, a bowl and fork, stainless steel skillet, electric hot plate, dollop of sweet butter, spread of best apricot jam, and powdered sugar sifted from a shaker. One dollar an omelet as I recall (an egg cost about a nickel then). Wow.

Later, for a wonder, for a mercy, several people from both families came up to me to say theirs was “the best omelet I ever had…” Whee-hoo.

The late-afternoon wedding was in an enormous park luxuriant with trees, flowers, birds, grasses, boulders. Vows were exchanged beneath a tall arbor next to a massive boulder…the marriage vows administered by a dear friend of the bride’s, a thoracic surgeon from Sloan Kettering.

Then we all were off to dinner at KIN, a restaurant unlike any I’ve been to. Our bride and groom had been dining there for weeks in anticipation of composing their Wedding Supper, the restaurant staff came to know them well, and the seven courses were extraordinary. Innovative/creative/beautiful/delectable. The chef/co-owner, Kris Komori, is a James Beard Award winner. I’ve experienced several tasting menus at super-fancy restaurants, none could touch the quality of Kris’s creations.

Best mashed potatoes of my life. I kid you not. Should you find yourself near Boise, I urge you to KIN for supper.

Thus ended a magical day. Worth the trip, as they say.

But returning home came close to being ruinous.

In checking in online I could not get the Alaska Airlines website to let me pay for the second suitcase I needed to check in. Tried to come in every whichaway. In desperation I finally called the airline, had to leave my number, and my call was returned at 2:10 a.m. But the lady couldn’t take my credit card payment…she was sorry…we just had to be at the Alaska Airlines desk two hours before the flight else our suitcase might not make it out of Boise. That meant 8:15 a.m.

Thus Sunday morning after five hours’ sleep I was a wreck facing the day.

Travel. Never again.

But then an incomparable grandson—dear younger brother of the groom–picked us up in his van…we got to the Alaska desk on time…they took the frigging suitcase.

Oy.

But for some reason I’d been foolishly vain and not ordered wheelchairs to the gate, which I usually do, and we walked the mile there. Then to get on the plane there was a metal ramp half-a-mile long from the tarmac to the plane’s door (our plane was a smaller airlines’ smaller plane, too small to reach the airport gate). Managed it, staggering, pulling the little square under-the-seat suitcase that suddenly weighed a ton. Dear arthritic Bill really struggled up that ramp.

What amuses me with my gray hair and being bent over (“Stand up straight, Sylvia!” was my mother’s constant plaint and I didn’t and I can’t tell you how sorry I am I was so stupid…) is that from time to time when I’m standing still somewhere contemplating the way of the world, a very kind stranger will stop, ask, “Do you need help?”

The Wicked side of me wants to respond in an annoyed vulgarism…

The Good side of me says pleasantly, “No, thank you.”

And I wonder what on earth I look like that people feel I need help just standing still.

So there I was on the ramp up to the plane, poised, miserable, wishing we’d never come. I had this request…I couldn’t say to the person, “Yes, for pity’s sake, I need you to pick me up and carry me onto the plane, please…”

“No thank you,” I said smiling my best smile.

We got home safely but now our bedroom is a wild and crazy mess because I must UNPACK!!!

The hassle makes me feel as though I really don’t want to travel again.

Except of course when we go to Los Angeles for the first time in years this Christmas.

It will be fine.

Right?

Right.

I love to travel.

Truly. Just have to stand up straight…learn my way around online checking-in…stop being such a twit.

 

*Euphemistically termed “Senior…Underwear.”