Category Archives: Travel

Community, Family, Parenthood, Travel

Back Home in Atlanta (Follow-up to Fun with Ground Transportation)

The worst part of the drive from the airport is now over, and Daddy is beginning to slow down. We’re in my old neighborhood, and I’m trying to soak it all in, trying not to miss any detail. Some houses remain unchanged for the last two decades, still in need of loving care. Others are in the course of being popped up to three times their size. Some invite repeated renovation; each year sees a new style, wing, or entry. Others have disappeared completely, and I try to remember what used to be on each bare muddy lot marked only by a Porta-Potty. Ever since General Sherman burned Atlanta in his March to the Sea, the city’s state of flux has been fast-paced.

My parent’s house, though, looks very nearly the same as it did when I was last here this summer. It remains essentially unchanged since 1929, when it was built, in a leafy in-town neighborhood of small brick Tudors and Norman cottages. We moved there in the late 1960s, after two years in a suburban rental. Our new house was a mess, but it immediately felt like home. My parents spent years uncovering its classic features–hardwood floors hidden under gold-flecked linoleum and lavender sculpted carpets, plaster walls concealed by wood-grained wallpaper. We gradually updated the kitchen, which still contained its original appliances, chrome-edged, simulated stone Formica countertops and metal cabinets. But we made no structural changes or additions. My mother’s interest in redecoration has not dimmed, but the alterations are smaller in scope now. My childhood room is just as it was when I moved away: the same wallpaper, the antique cherry furniture inherited from my father’s aunt.

I know every quirky feature of the house by heart: the sharply curving narrow driveway littered in the fall with acorns, the sound of the brass knocker rattling as the heavy front door closes, every creak along the center hall, the loud click of the light switch in the stair hall, the bathroom faucet handles that rotate the wrong way, the back hall steps lined with walking shoes and cartons of Coca-Cola, the old ping-pong table in the basement used for storage and craft projects, the view of the back yard from my old bedroom window, and the unique, inimitable smell of home.

It’s somewhat unsettling to be here without my daughter. I keep thinking she’s upstairs in the playroom, which has become a sort of toy museum. She’s probably unpacking the boxes of baby dolls, stuffed animals and Barbies that my mother lovingly maintains. Or maybe she’s setting up a tea party at the little pink table in the alcove, or rearranging the furniture in the doll house. But the table, the doll house and my girl are all at our home in Virginia. And if my daughter were here, the toys wouldn’t capture her attention nearly as much as my old Seventeen magazines and the wardrobe bags full of vintage clothes in the attic. (My mother has a great gift for design and sewing, and for many years she was possessed of a phenomenal energy that led her to make more clothes than we could ever wear).

It’s disorienting, as well, that there is no dog here. If I happen to see a shadow out of the corner of my eye, I think it’s the dog. And each time we leave, I look around instinctively to hug him goodbye. But I’m not sure which dog I expect. Is it my childhood dog, who has now been dead nearly twice as long as he lived? I often think I hear him, my sweet Popi, my stand-in for a sibling. He was a black and white cocker spaniel and chow mix, as aloof to other dogs and non-family members as Kiko is friendly. He often nudged open a partially closed door with his nose, a sound I hear repeatedly in my mind. Popi was so comforting when I was upset—he’d put his muzzle on my knee and look into my eyes with such compassion. Or is it my funny Kiko that I think I hear or see? But Kiko has never set one neat little paw in this house.

Returning to a childhood home is a bittersweet pleasure. The things of the past get confusingly jumbled up with those of the present. Old memories collide strangely with current reality. My brain is stretched in uncomfortable ways, and I feel young and old, happy and sad, at the same time. I guess it’s a good thing I don’t often go back alone to my old home.

0014

Popi, as a puppy, and me.  It was his first Christmas, and our first in the new house.  Of course Mama made my dress and vest, and my daughter wore them, as well.

003

Popi with next-door dogs Felix and Cocoa, outside our back door.
He didn’t like them, but he tolerated them occasionally.

002

Popi, not long before he died, at age 15.

Family, Travel

Fun With Ground Transportation

Arriving in Atlanta in the early afternoon, the airport is packed as usual. Is Hartsfield-Jackson ever not teeming with humanity? I wind my way through the slow-moving multitudes toward the train (formally, the Automated People Mover). I feel officially welcomed to my hometown when I hear the familiar electronic voice warning “Stop! Do not enter!,” followed by “Doors closing!” After exiting the train along with the herd and ascending the super-long escalator, I see my parents in their usual spot just outside baggage claim. That first glimpse is always a surprise—in my mind I guess I see them as thirty years younger. They probably do the same with me.

After hugs and greetings, my father begins his customary discussion of the unfortunate parking situation. The parking garages are, indeed, in a constant state of reconstruction. There is great difficulty securing an empty spot, and even greater difficulty returning to that spot. My parents never fail to disagree about the optimum route. Once the car has been located, the next issue is threading our way out of the garage. My father continues to be a confident and competent driver, but in the airport parking lot he has a tendency to repeat urgently, “Which way? Which way?,” and to be oblivious to all exit signs. Mama’s suggestion that he calm down does nothing to ease the tension. I’m relieved, though, that Daddy is driving; I wouldn’t want to do it.

In line at last to pay our parking fee, the car ahead of us never fails to be immovable. We watch with incredulity as the driver speaks at length to the attendant, as forms, cash and credit cards are exchanged, maps appear to be consulted and further conversation ensues. The number of documents passed back and forth befits a drive-through passport application office or a border crossing into a war zone. At long last, the car in front inches away, snail-like, but not before Daddy has tried (without success, due to the high volume of cars behind us), to move to another lane. Once at the parking booth, the ticket has usually disappeared under a seat.

Finally out on the highway, Daddy’s limited patience has been severely tested, making the ride to my parents’ house all the more harrowing. In an attempt to make up for lost time, he drives at quite a clip, frequently changing lanes, all the while glancing back to ask me questions about the flight. Mama is a reluctant driver and an anxious passenger (she grew up with older brothers who wrecked cars and racked up severe injuries on a regular basis). Whenever possible, she sits in the back seat, with Daddy chauffeur-like in the front. She strongly urges my father to slow down, advice he clearly does not appreciate. Next time, I vow (as always), to take MARTA and spare my parents (and me) this hair-raising drive.

Community, Family, Travel

Fun with Air Travel

This past weekend I did something I have rarely done: I went away alone. My daughter and I have flown regularly together over the years to visit my parents, but these trips have become less frequent with the increasing demands of school. When she was younger, the logistics of child and dog care were too daunting for me to leave home overnight. Once, years ago when my mother was hospitalized and very sick, I flew to see her. But, until now, I have never gone away without husband or daughter, just for fun. This trip to Atlanta was to be a celebratory reunion of old friends. 
Bad weather, bad luck, discomfort and indignity seem to be standard in air travel. Of course, in these days of underwear bombers and terrorist plots, any flight that arrives eventually and safely at its final destination may be considered a success. In my own recent flight experience, delay and frustration were caused by all the usual factors: interminable security lines, thunderstorms, snow, ice, hail, excessive heat, mechanical trouble, alarming noises, strange smells, missing crew members and heavy runway traffic.

A typical flight for me usually begins promisingly enough. The plane arrives at the gate, late but not exceptionally so. Passengers are boarded. We are set to go; all appears in order. The plane is picking up speed on the runway when it stops and the engines are cut. The pilot reports a situation that puts us in limbo. The wait on the concourse is extended multiple times, before we return to the gate and disembark. No information is provided, but we are advised to remain near the gate. On our last flight, the wait on the runway and back in the airport totaled seven hours. Accordingly, I did not have high hopes for this trip.

My low expectations, however, were far exceeded. Security was a breeze.  The flight departed and arrived on time, the weather was beautiful, and my companions were enjoyable. I had the window seat in a row of three. We were all strangers, but we began talking and continued for the duration of the flight. The near certainty that we would never meet again gave us the freedom to dispense with small talk and get straight to life’s big issues. We had strikingly different backgrounds and opinions, but the discussion remained courteous and pleasant. Remarkably, we all recognized that the real value was in sharing our ideas, not in trying to prove a point. To judge by the example of our political leaders and pundits, we would conclude that opposing opinions cannot be aired without stirring up contention, competition and bitterness. It was refreshing to see that this must not always be the case.