Window-Sheild Vacation

A Story by LenaGrove

chronicling the many years of travel.

A Window-Shielded Vacation

My family loves to travel, my father especially so. We’ve been going on vacations every summer since I was a small girl. Dad always has every minute planned, scheduling as many tour guides, reservations, museums and hikes as possible, determined to squeeze every drop of culture available from whatever place we were visiting. We saw as much as possible, flying in and then driving as far and to as many places as our two weeks would allow. My mom and I often joked that we needed a vacation from our vacations. Hardly ever did we stay in a place more than one night. We started calling them windshield vacations, the rental car our avenue to experience.

We started with the United States, first venturing to closer places, family in Mobile, beaches on the east coast. I’ve always gotten motion sickness easily, but it was especially so as a child and with so much time spent inside the car, Dramamine came to be a good friend. Boredom was fought off with car games, and I was always armed with my notebooks. I have one from almost every trip, about 8 in total. Their filled with stories about magic potions and elves, and grumpy complaints about being away from my friends or whatever boy I happened to have a crush on. Complaints about being on some dumb vacation with my parents. Reading them now I wish I could shake that little girl and tell her, “Look around you! You’re missing it!”

One of our first big trips was to Arlington, Virginia. I couldn’t have been much more than eight. I still remember finally getting out of the car and seeing all those graves, forever running in neat lines. I was dancing through them, singing my silly child songs, and I didn’t understand why my father stopped me. Why he was angry. And even as he said, “these people are dead, they were soldiers,” I still did not understand.

In the next few years we saw the west coast, our biggest trip yet. We flew into Salt Lake City, saw the children singing in the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. When I was a child I was very small, weighing only eighty pounds till about the sixth grade, but I remember finally weighing enough to white water raft, to sit in the boat like a big girl.

We drove from Utah to Wyoming, our destination Yellowstone National Park. We stayed at The Old Faithful Inn, a huge hotel that still somehow maintained a cozy, rustic cabin feel. I played piano in the foyer; Jazz tunes and Beethoven, and with my black velvet dress and matching hair ribbons the guest would say, “so sophisticated for a 12 year old,” as they passed us by.

I remember the smell of the geysers, of rotted earth and sulfur. I interviewed my father next to Old Faithful, the biggest geyser of them all. Mom filmed us with our newest electronic device, a video camera. I pretended to be Barbara Walters. He was an awe-struck tourist. From then on we did the same on every vacation, out interviews becoming sillier and sillier, and soon it was a tradition.

When I was in seventh grade we went on our first trip overseas. We’d been to Canada before, but it wasn’t the same, didn’t provide that same foreign allure. Even the name sounded exotic: Peru. After an eight hour flight we were nauseous from the drastic change in altitude. We drank coca tea the hotel offered to all the guests. It was from the cocaine plants growing in abundance on the land. At first I was hesitant, but Mom and Dad said it was okay, and it soothed our heads and stomachs. When we went to Machu Pichu our tour guide ate the coca leaves like candy, a habit we found most Peruvians followed.

My dad and I climbed Wanu Pichu, a mountain adjacent to the taller Machu Pichu. After a three hour hike of steep rock and earth our shirts were drenched in sweat, but we had finally reached the top of the mountain. The only thing between us and the sky scraping view was a small cave. It was about 20 feet wide, its roof very close to the ground. It was obvious we had to crawl under it in order to see reach the very top. And that was when Dad’s claustrophobia set in.

He’s had it since as long as I can remember. Once we even had to get off a plane because of it. All the passengers had boarded, and the pilot was giving instructions when it happened. I was so scared and embarrassed, rushing off the plane like we were some kind of terrorists. Afterward the airline felt so bad they booked us the next flight first class. Now my dad takes Valium when we fly.

So Dad and I watched as the other climbers slipped their bodies low to the ground, crawling stealthily into the dark cave. I looked at him. His face still dripping. His expression dubious. “Let’s go,” I said. “We’ve made it this far.”

I took his hand and bent to the ground. “Close your eyes,” I told him, slipping in the dank darkness like I’d seen the others do, “I can guide you.” We made it through to the other side, a bright crack of light guiding the way and opening to the ancient, llama ruins of the Incan people.

A year later we were in Costa Rica and it happened again. We were zip lining, just me and my dad (we usually left mom home for the more adventurous endeavors). We’d taken a huge hummer to the top of the rainforest, and our instructors were serving us lunch before strapping us up in gear. The vests they gave us were so tight, the ropes so constricting. Again, his same panic. And again, my same reassurance. We’ve made it this far. We’re doing this.

We went to Europe the summer after my freshmen year in high school. I was fifteen. We flew into Paris, as usual staying only for a night or two. We rented a little black BMW and drove across the French country side. We spent about a week in France, then moved on to Switzerland and Italy, splitting a week between the two. Finally we drove all the way back to Paris, ready to spend our last three days “relaxing”, which to my father meant cramming in as many art museums and walking tours as possible.

We ate at a small French restaurant on the last night. My mother and father accidently ordered raw tuna, a huge slab of red meat that filled their plates. Mom sent it back while my father insisted it was fine. We were in Paris!

The waiter brought us all glasses of wine. And for the first time my mother said, “Go ahead”, with a slight nod, “you can have some.” I tried not to act shocked, tried desperately to deserve the maturity I knew she was offering me. I took a sip, the dark merlot swirling bitter in my mouth. I’d only tasted beer before, had tried vodka once or twice. Really, I thought it tasted awful.

Our last trip was about a year ago, and like all our trips I can’t believe the amount of time that has elapsed. We flew to Chicago to see Leonard Cohen, a favorite musician of my fathers. The concert was at the Chicago Theater, a dimly lit structure with red velvet curtains and murals of angels painting the walls. There were flamenco guitarists, harp players, and jazz drummers, but the best part was, of course, Lenard himself. His deep scratchy voice was just the same as when Dad plays his CD’s at home during dinner.

Afterward we went to “Andy’s Jazz Club”. Mom bought me a huge drink, something blue with lots of fruit and alcohol. It cost about 15 bucks. I couldn’t help but think how things had changed. When we left I was still dressed up in high heels, and I got the quick up-down from the numerous business men lining the wall, enjoying their nights off. “Hey,” Dad said, “I saw that.” Mom and I rolled our eyes; I guess he wasn’t used to it.

At the beginning of this year my parents spent two weeks in Turkey, and since I’m in college now, I wasn’t invited. I look through their marvelous photos, the markets in Istanbul, the tall hoodoos made of clay, their balloon ride through the Turkish countryside, and I’m reminded of the streams of photos from our family vacations. Their pictures are different from our old ones, a different background, different clothes, but they are also the same. And although I wasn’t there with them, I know what happened all the same (and also not just because my Dad showed me 1,500 photos with detailed verbal descriptions).

In their smiling faces I see the same tiredness, the days of hikes and packed itineraries. But I also see the awe. I can’t help but wonder if they felt a little girl sized hole in their troupe. I often think about her, sitting in the car and writing in her journals, passing by the wonders of the world without a second glance. Eventually she did looked around, and realized she was lucky to have been brought along at all.