Another from a Contributing Commentator

My family has taken a lot of very memorable trips. My Dad is a pretty creative vacationer, and outside his professional responsibilities, typically likes to do everything at the last minute. Sometimes that's a little scary, but most often a grand adventure to the flexible flyer. We have eaten Thanksgiving Dinner at Denny’s in Santa Fe, and had an entire Christmas celebration in the comfort of a hotel room. Though this may sound slightly less than appealing, I wouldn’t trade a second of it for anything, even a perfectly planned Disney Vacation. Traveling in my family requires that one be totally ready for anything. My Dad has a penchant for finding last minute deals and flights and we sometimes don’t know until the night before where we are going. A week before Thanksgiving break, he will start sending us kids text messages as he is surfing for online deals, “Several days in Hawaii or trip to Williamsburg?” they will say, always omitting unnecessary articles and making them sound seriously cryptic. Sometimes we’ll get one that says “Do you have passport? Can’t remember—found a great deal for trip to Paris.” And while we have not yet ended up in France, we have always had quite a memorable time.

My Dad has very specific traveling rules: carry on luggage only, and walk fast. As you can see, he is in a constant hurry even on foot which causes our vacations to always begin in the same way. We'll be walking through the airport like the avid multi task-ers who don’t like to waste time in the “getting there.” My seventeen year old rocker brother who sports long shaggy hair and braces he is not very fond of, usually walks about ten feet behind us. My Dad will be getting increasingly frustrated with this, so he begins to walk increasingly faster, causing my brother to fall increasingly far behind because he is a one of a kind brother. He is a free spirit, he marches to the beat of his own drum, he is never in a hurry like his sister or father and he also shares a trait common to the children of this family: we don’t like to be “made” to do anything. So as my Dad walks faster and faster, my brother walks slower and slower resorting to his own peaceful protest His quiet resistance to my Dad’s airport rules reflect not a desire to be disruptive but reflect rather a loyalty to his personal view of life, including one airport rule: “Don’t make me speed walk!” Inevitably, we stop, he catches up looking irritated and my Dad gives him a lecture we like to call “The Last Zebra” during which my Dad describes the slowest animal on the African plane being the first one to get devoured by stalking lions, and tells him to keep up. My Dad starts walking and the process begins again. This process is inherent to any trip we take and the first time my Dad and brother “outgrow” this habitual confrontation, I will be terribly disappointed; it will not be a vacation.

Typically, I am the one who makes it take thirty minutes to get through security (perhaps this is why my Dad likes to walk so fast). First, I hate the cold and we only seem to travel in the winter months to places that are even colder. So on a seventy degree day in Texas, I will be prepared for our landing wearing my jeans, leggings, two pairs of socks, fake (but very warm) Ugg Boots, t-shirt, shirt, camisole, jacket, scarf coat and I likely will have packed much more. Once we went skiing, please let me reiterate, skiing. My Dad and brother thought that because it was a warm November, they would just ski in normal coats and blue jeans. Of course I borrowed three pairs of long johns, a selection of ski pants, a state of the art ski jacket and every winter accessory imaginable. As usual security took me fourty-five minutes ( I was the random “luggage search” ) but no one skied in jeans that during that trip. So obviously, security checks are tough for cold natured people.

Before getting to the security check, I will have to take off thirteen pieces of jewelry because I completely forgot to take it off at home, my coat, my jacket, my camisole, my scarf, my purse, my bag and my bag of toiletries full of carefully zip locked bags full of toiletries; and each of these require its own bin. The people behind me are generally shuffling unhappily as I hold up the line with my eleven bins, but the lines are never bad because, if I didn’t already mention, we always fly on holidays (which I find to be a brilliant airport scheme of my Dad’s – no lines and better deals apparently). After getting my eleven bins onto the conveyor belt, and being reminded by the unhappy Christmas-day employee with his blue rubber gloves that I need to put this, this and this in three new bins on their own, I have to walk through the metal detector. Inevitable, somewhere between the leggings, the socks and the pants I am wearing I forgot to take out my keys. And then I realize I don’t have my ID because its in the pocket of my coat that is hiding away in my thirty-second bin that is just sitting uncomfortably close to the man in line behind me who I assume must be terribly strange because he is traveling on Christmas day! This process usually takes thirty minutes or more and I know my family is waiting ever so patiently for me, thinking what they would never say out loud “Why can’t a woman be mohre like a mahn?” Then when I get through, I have to reassemble my warmth-uniform and my thirteen pieces of assorted jewelry and put that ID in a safe place where of course I will remember it. We start the sprint once again, looking for Gate Number-Letter and we usually end up passing it in our hurry and walking back to find it which I find terribly amusing. This really happens. And it really happens one time every trip, especially at the other airports. To reward us for all that hurry, we arrive at the gate, and we sit. And… we sit. And sit. And then always, brother and I get hungry. And my Dad says, “Wait for the peanuts!” and then we have a debate about whether or not American has stopped serving peanuts or not. And we sit. And then too hungry to wait and see who wins the debate, brother and I stroll over to Burger King and get a yummy airport burger that cost $9.00 and race back to the gate convinced that we missed the flight. We never really do, but they are always boarding when we get back. As we get in line my Dad, forgetting we are little adults, whispers “Don’t say bomb” before they take our tickets, and then a moment later, realizes his mistake he will smile in a way that says, “…I know.”

On the plane, brother brings a huge pile of homework papers he never does, I bring a fat book I never read, and my Dad works. I am always really enthralled by the conversation of travelers who are on a plane Christmas Day or Thanksgiving Day. People don’t fly on these days unless that have an interesting story. You can always try to put the pieces together when they chat loudly on the cell phone, or talk to the stewardess. People never sit next to strangers on an empty flight so its uncomfortable to “chat” and then again we are traveling under very serious Golden Rules of Travel, to break one would mean we were certainly not on a trip with my family.

We always travel on the actual holidays because my Dad finds great deals last minute, and we don’t really care that much, and to be very practical it makes the trip really easy. While we are sitting, my Dad will always comment, very privately, in a very satisfied way, “I bet we are the only people who paid [however many] dollars for this flight, you should always book last minute.” Which always leads to a verbatim talk about how we always get great deals by waiting and of course, the inevitable, “who needs a plan” which always makes me giggle. As regimented as he has to be at work, on vacation, my Dad is always on a "Hemmingway Adventure."

We didn’t always enjoy this traveling routine, and don’t prefer it to dining room table Thanksgiving or Christmas with the cousins, but it came as a welcome alternative when the dining room table grew less and less populated, and Christmas was more a time of sadness than joy. I have years and years of fond memories of Christmas at my Papa & Granny’s with all the cousins, and turkey dinner, an annual Christmas pageant in which we each made our stage debut as the baby Jesus, singing, presents, family, laughing; it was everything Christmas should be. We had Christmas out of a story book at the San Antonio house, but as the years progressed one thing after another got stripped away. One set of cousins moved far, far away to Michigan. Then a few years later my Granny was diagnosed with a disabling disease, and every year we lost a little bit of the sweet lady. Soon after, the other cousins had their own babies and started their own traditions, and Christmas wasn’t a happy time all together anymore. But soon we figured out how to get away from the sad reminders that time marches forward by making our holiday celebrations uniquely our own.

My Dad is a rock, I have never seen him feel overly sentimental about the holidays and have never seen him express disappointed that we are not at Granny’s as little kids again. Knowing my Dad, I know he is not hard hearted, I think he is just a little pissed off about disappointments in life and I think he just decided a long time ago to stop being disappointed. I know once, he must have been just like me; we are too much alike for anything else. I know he must have been the type to trust people way too much and expect from them everything that you are willing to give. I find myself getting weary of learning that people are not everything they seem and working hard doesn’t mean life will be pleasant. I know he used to be that person, and that getting hardened is probably my destiny too. But I see a little vulnerability in my Dad during these holiday trips we take. He believes the most important thing about the holidays is being together, he doesn’t want me to bring my best friend or go on vacation with my boyfriend he just wants us all to be in the same room and doesn’t care where in the world it is. I think he likes to get away because he doesn’t have to be confronted with the sadness that holidays bring. I know he feels that sadness even when he doesn’t say it out loud, and I think just putting the sentimental part aside for a little while and focusing on what his family is now must be his own way of dealing with life. I must say sitting at the feet of the Lincoln Memorial on Thanksgiving Days helps me forget my disappointment too.

With all honesty, I can say that Washington DC on Thanksgiving Day with my dear family is one of the best trips I have ever taken. Especially when it took us two hours to navigate the three miles from our Airport to the lovely hotel in Arlington, Virginia (and another thirty minutes to find that). The arguments were the result of my crazy Dad being totally satisfied eating one meal a day while my brother and I are ready to gorge every two hours. The one moment in my Dad’s life when he broke his own golden rule of travels and talked congenially to a very creepy man who followed my dad to the rent-a-car counters and listened uncomfortably closely as my Dad received directions to our hotel (Dad was in an unusually good mood because he typical suspicions outlook didn’t cue him off to this rather shifty looking old, lonely man). The very experience of being in Virginia, the standing on the steps of the capitol, the cold wind in my hair wishing I thought to bring a hat and gloves, two things I don’t even own as a Texan. And most importantly, what my Dad loves the best, "breathing the same air" as the people I love the most. It was my favorite trip of my life.

Traveling with my nuts-o family is always unique sort of adventure, but I agree with my Dad and I am happy as long as we are together. We are really an odd little bunch but we love each other a lot, and even when things in life make me sad my weird family helps me enjoy it anyway.

copyright kec 2008