As you may have gathered from my last couple of posts, the week Christopher and I were in Los Angeles was one of those lucky rare trips.
It's strange, though. As much as I knew we were going to be tramping around in many of the same places I'd been to when I was a kid, I figured that -- since I've been out there a bunch of times in between -- I'd just blunder forward and enjoy myself like I usually do. I really hadn't expected my past to play any real part in it except for some "Oh. We go that way" or "We ate there when I was a kid" comments I figured I'd make to Christopher.
Okay, so I was fully expecting to spend a lot of time saying "My grandparents liked this ride when we were little because it was a cool place to sit down" while we were at Disneyland. I knew I might be reminded of something while we were walking along Olvera Street. Heck. I was even contemplating a meal at Der Wienerschnitzel, just because there used to be one down the street from their house. (We did pass a couple Der Wienerschnitzels while we were out there, as well as on of my old favorites: an H. Salt, Esq. fish and chips shop!)
Strangely, though, I think I got hit hardest by memories on the trip to Catalina Island. That trip was something we only did a very few times when I was growing up and we were out in the LA area visiting my grandparents. I don't remember much about those trips to Catalina, except that we would sit on the top deck of the ferry in the spray and wind, wander around the island, have a picnic lunch, then come home.
When Christopher and I boarded our ferry, I found myself watching as a couple of women helped their parents onboard. They settled in and then waited for the trip to begin, commenting on their good seats, the view of the Queen Mary, and the proximity to the bathrooms. As we came closer to Avalon Harbor, people got up to move toward the front of the ferry, and I saw them banding together to get that first real glimpse of the island. There was something both personal and universal in what they were doing, and it made me wish I could have taken my grandparents there as an adult, and not simply been taken there by them as a child.
Another boat, another memory. Christopher and I were sitting and watching the schools of plaid Carp and orange Garibaldi swim back and forth under our Glass Bottom Boat, and I found myself also watching a multi-generational family grouping on the other side of the viewing windows. They were oddly disconnected, but also obviously together. When we were almost back to the dock, the Mother/Grandmother turned to the Grandmother/Great-grandmother and asked "When we get back, will you want a nap?" The response came quickly and familiarly: "Oh, no. I'm fine. But maybe you'll want to lie down for a while." She smiled through the years of sunlight-tanned wrinkles and went back to watching the kids. There was something in the older woman's tone of caring and "pish-poshing" which drew me back to my own family.
You know, I've actually heard of people who simply won't vacation in the same place more than once because they feel it's a waste of time. (I'm not sure if they feel the same way about not going to the same restaurant twice.) What I do know is that some of the strongest memories from my last trip were actually created about 30 years ago. And that, without taking that most recent trip, I never would have been lucky enough to find them.
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