I love coming back to my California home town and biking around on my Mom's old English three-speed Raleigh. It is getting here by air that is the problem.
Air travel is so dreary these days I won’t even be able to double you over with laughter when I tell you about the travails of flying from Orlando to San Jose via Atlanta this week. Unlike the CEOs of the Big Three Automakers, I live my life without my own personal fleet of jets. And, in an effort at economy (so I’ll be able to continue to afford Marc Jacobs handbags) I got myself a super discount seat in coach, flying between Thanksgiving and Christmas on travel days no one else wanted.
Nowadays the coach seats have become so small and the passengers have become so fat, I have begun to understand why the airlines have decided to charge extra for luggage. The weight allotment of years past for passenger + suitcase is now being more than taken up by the gross weight of just one average passenger. Everybody in coach on my flight weighed at least two hundred pounds, and those were the slender people. The woman next to me was a really pretty young lady who weighed at least three hundred pounds. Her left elbow, when her arms were nestled snuggly on her abdomen, hit me about mid bosom and I spent most of the flight trying to sit on my left hip to avoid the unwanted intimacy.
I did have a friend waiting for me in San Jose, but the airport is so torn-up she had to circle several times before she could figure out how to reach Passenger Pick Up. Then, headed out of the airport, we accidentally got on the freeway headed to Los Angeles, not Los Altos. No matter. We managed to exit on another freeway loop, also under construction like everything else in California, and I dragged myself into the folks’ house at 11:10 p.m.
My father had been asking my mother about seventeen times every day for a month when I was arriving. And when I walked into his bedroom he was awake, but he stared at me for about five seconds before he smiled, threw his hands in air and said “Robin’s here! Hooray!” That was definitely worth traveling three thousand miles on Fat People Airlines to hear. By the next day my father’s muddled mind had transformed our reunion, and he was telling people a different story altogether about our meeting. He said he had been traveling on a bus and couldn’t believe he ran into his daughter Robin on the very same public transport.
“And then,” he told our friends, “I discovered my wife was on the bus too. It was amazing.” My Mother just rolled her eyes, but I’m always fascinated to learn what his brain does with these events. I think when they happen at night, they are especially confusing because he gets them mixed up with his dreams. While he waited for me Wednesday night he dozed and dreamed there had been a big air accident, and when I arrived he asked me how I had managed to get to Los Altos safely without getting involved in the “disaster.”
I thought for a second he had read my mind and agreed that being forced to sit for five hours with all those Plus Size and Big and Tall Fashions was somewhat of a disaster. But it was not the kind that had troubled my father. So he was relieved.
The next morning, since I was visiting, he was convinced it was his birthday, though his actual birthday is still ten days away. He’ll be 89 years old and that is also something that is a little vague in his mind.
“I’m 90 years old today,” he said that first morning. Looking at his usual bowl of Cheerios he said: “I think I deserve a better breakfast than this!” He wanted me to take him for pancakes, which I often do when I visit—but my sister is coming and the two of us are going to take him in a few days. Since he is completely deaf it is sometimes hard to make complex points such as: Not your birthday. No pancakes today. Sis and I will take you in two days. Mom took over and wrote him a note telling him that it was NOT his birthday.
But throughout the day he continued to think it was. Mom likes to go to the commissary at Moffett Field when I visit, so she can get those cut-rate groceries, and my father as a retired officer is eligible for this. I play the role of chauffeur. When Dad saw we were headed to Moffett Field he thought we were going to take him to the Officer’s Club for a birthday party, and later he said he had been practicing the speech he would give. When we parked the car he looked at me and said “I don’t think this is the right hat.” I didn’t know what he meant until he told me later he thought it would be a military party for him and his ball cap wouldn’t be right what with all the military headgear that would be on display. He’s forgotten that Moffett is no longer a Navy base and the Officer’s Club there is defunct. Not to mention it wasn’t his birthday and even if it were we weren’t planning a big military ho-down in his honor. The good news is that he was relieved when he found he didn’t have to give that speech.
California is a land all its own. When I ride my mom’s old bicycle to the coffee shop at the Rancho Shopping Center so I can use the Internet there, people always comment on the bike. It is a vintage English Raleigh (a garage sale find I am sure) and it looks quaint next to all the fancy California bikes ridden by gaggles of cycling club members. Once on a visit I told my parents I was arrested and charged by the police with Not Wearing a Complete Outfit While Cycling, and it took them a while to tell I was joking.
Today at the Los Altos Bakery (“Free WiFi!”) two fit-looking gray-haired sinewy gents in cycling gear chatted me up about the Raleigh bicycle. The guys were so muscular and trim, so California Silicon Valley, I wanted to think it was me they found attractive. But it might have been my Raleigh. Even sex appeal is different in California.
Mom and Dad on their matching Raleighs in better days.
Air travel is so dreary these days I won’t even be able to double you over with laughter when I tell you about the travails of flying from Orlando to San Jose via Atlanta this week. Unlike the CEOs of the Big Three Automakers, I live my life without my own personal fleet of jets. And, in an effort at economy (so I’ll be able to continue to afford Marc Jacobs handbags) I got myself a super discount seat in coach, flying between Thanksgiving and Christmas on travel days no one else wanted.
Nowadays the coach seats have become so small and the passengers have become so fat, I have begun to understand why the airlines have decided to charge extra for luggage. The weight allotment of years past for passenger + suitcase is now being more than taken up by the gross weight of just one average passenger. Everybody in coach on my flight weighed at least two hundred pounds, and those were the slender people. The woman next to me was a really pretty young lady who weighed at least three hundred pounds. Her left elbow, when her arms were nestled snuggly on her abdomen, hit me about mid bosom and I spent most of the flight trying to sit on my left hip to avoid the unwanted intimacy.
I did have a friend waiting for me in San Jose, but the airport is so torn-up she had to circle several times before she could figure out how to reach Passenger Pick Up. Then, headed out of the airport, we accidentally got on the freeway headed to Los Angeles, not Los Altos. No matter. We managed to exit on another freeway loop, also under construction like everything else in California, and I dragged myself into the folks’ house at 11:10 p.m.
My father had been asking my mother about seventeen times every day for a month when I was arriving. And when I walked into his bedroom he was awake, but he stared at me for about five seconds before he smiled, threw his hands in air and said “Robin’s here! Hooray!” That was definitely worth traveling three thousand miles on Fat People Airlines to hear. By the next day my father’s muddled mind had transformed our reunion, and he was telling people a different story altogether about our meeting. He said he had been traveling on a bus and couldn’t believe he ran into his daughter Robin on the very same public transport.
“And then,” he told our friends, “I discovered my wife was on the bus too. It was amazing.” My Mother just rolled her eyes, but I’m always fascinated to learn what his brain does with these events. I think when they happen at night, they are especially confusing because he gets them mixed up with his dreams. While he waited for me Wednesday night he dozed and dreamed there had been a big air accident, and when I arrived he asked me how I had managed to get to Los Altos safely without getting involved in the “disaster.”
I thought for a second he had read my mind and agreed that being forced to sit for five hours with all those Plus Size and Big and Tall Fashions was somewhat of a disaster. But it was not the kind that had troubled my father. So he was relieved.
The next morning, since I was visiting, he was convinced it was his birthday, though his actual birthday is still ten days away. He’ll be 89 years old and that is also something that is a little vague in his mind.
“I’m 90 years old today,” he said that first morning. Looking at his usual bowl of Cheerios he said: “I think I deserve a better breakfast than this!” He wanted me to take him for pancakes, which I often do when I visit—but my sister is coming and the two of us are going to take him in a few days. Since he is completely deaf it is sometimes hard to make complex points such as: Not your birthday. No pancakes today. Sis and I will take you in two days. Mom took over and wrote him a note telling him that it was NOT his birthday.
But throughout the day he continued to think it was. Mom likes to go to the commissary at Moffett Field when I visit, so she can get those cut-rate groceries, and my father as a retired officer is eligible for this. I play the role of chauffeur. When Dad saw we were headed to Moffett Field he thought we were going to take him to the Officer’s Club for a birthday party, and later he said he had been practicing the speech he would give. When we parked the car he looked at me and said “I don’t think this is the right hat.” I didn’t know what he meant until he told me later he thought it would be a military party for him and his ball cap wouldn’t be right what with all the military headgear that would be on display. He’s forgotten that Moffett is no longer a Navy base and the Officer’s Club there is defunct. Not to mention it wasn’t his birthday and even if it were we weren’t planning a big military ho-down in his honor. The good news is that he was relieved when he found he didn’t have to give that speech.
California is a land all its own. When I ride my mom’s old bicycle to the coffee shop at the Rancho Shopping Center so I can use the Internet there, people always comment on the bike. It is a vintage English Raleigh (a garage sale find I am sure) and it looks quaint next to all the fancy California bikes ridden by gaggles of cycling club members. Once on a visit I told my parents I was arrested and charged by the police with Not Wearing a Complete Outfit While Cycling, and it took them a while to tell I was joking.
Today at the Los Altos Bakery (“Free WiFi!”) two fit-looking gray-haired sinewy gents in cycling gear chatted me up about the Raleigh bicycle. The guys were so muscular and trim, so California Silicon Valley, I wanted to think it was me they found attractive. But it might have been my Raleigh. Even sex appeal is different in California.
Mom and Dad on their matching Raleighs in better days.
Robin, In answer to your question you can ride a nerdy bike anywhere on the West Coast - we even do it in Portland if you're so inclined to visit. I even have one you can try out (although it doesn't have the cool wicker basket - might have to look into getting one added). Markie
ReplyDeleteRobin, to answer your question - you can ride a nerdy bike anywhere on the West Coast even in Portland if you are so inclined to visit. I may even have one you can borrow although it doesn't have the cool wicker basket (may have to get one of those).
ReplyDeleteOf course riding around on a classically, vintage bike is perfect for Los Altos. Around here, people are amazed that you actually rode a bike somewhere.
ReplyDelete