Our American Summer Vacation Part I

Yesterday as Joaquin and I were driving home, he began describing in great detail a tall, black haired man in a Hawaiian shirt and short shorts. His hairy legs and constant jabbering on his cellphone had made an impression on my son. In addition to Joaquin’s detailed description of the man, he asked if I had remembered the torrential downpour of rain we had experienced when landing at the Chicago, Ohare airport. My response was, “We were in Chicago?” My brain could not draw any recollection of being in Chicago or seeing a loquacious, hairy man at the airport. I began to perseverate on this topic. How could I have landed in Chicago and not remembered? How could I have missed Bigfoot’s tropical cousin? I searched for any memorable visual in my brain and, finally, retrieved an image of our flight itinerary. Indeed, we did have a layover in Chicago. And then what ensued, was a guilt trip about what a lame visual I had to jog my memory. I remember nothing of that brief visit to the airport, but a stinkin’ abbreviation of the airport’s name. An abbreviation! Not even the full name! Where the hell had I been when I landed halfway across the United States? I don’t know the answer to that question. 

I do remember flying into Chicago when I was eighteen. It was the first flight I had ever been on, and when I stood in that airport, I remember feeling so small and overwhelmed by all the details and bustle around me. I was in love with the fact that I was in a place that I had only ever read the name of in books. It was just the airport, but it felt big in my relatively empty bag of travel experiences. Since then, that bag has been quite filled with travels, but I fear that those memories will dissipate, so I am going to attempt to breathe vitality into some of those past moments, so they are not relegated to lint in the bottom of my travel bag. Even if my Chicago layover was not that exciting, shouldn’t I at least remember some small detail besides an abbreviation about it? Yes, I should, so I will start with my summer vacation with Joaquin.

PLYMOUTH, MASSACHUSETTS Our stay in Plymouth was due to rejection. I really wanted to stay in Yarmouth because we had plans of taking the ferry to Nantucket as part of our Herman Melville Moby Dick experience. The Airbnb denied us due to the fact Joaquin is a kid. Little did the Airbnb host know that my son is actually a sixty year old man in a twelve year old’s body, but her loss. She missed out on Joaquin’s charming cynicism and detailed lectures about WWI and obscure generals, and she will never know my subtle sophistication that had been bred on hot dogs, jojos, and a Humboldt County education. Like the pilgrims, we simply were not accepted for our idiosyncrasies. I managed to find a very comfortable Airbnb in Plymouth which was midway between the two areas we wanted to explore. It was not until a few days after I had booked this room, that I realized that Plymouth was actually of historical importance. Oh, yeah...the Mayflower, pilgrims. What a perfect way to start our trip by retracing the steps of some of the first religious fanatics in North America. Joaquin and I spent many minutes discussing possible titles for our trip that would eventually end in Washington D.C. Anglo All-American Tour, The Steps of Balding Men with Dreams, and When Border Control Didn't Exist  were some of the names we considered. Both Joaquin and I felt our titles were being culturally sensitive by recognizing that many of the historical places and monuments represented a different reality for many people, so we felt we had to be specific. 

The first evening in Plymouth was marked by Joaquin touching Atlantic waters. He has only ever seen or touched the Pacific Ocean. His fingertips, for a moment, were enveloped in the heartbeat of the Atlantic/Cape Cod Bay. Just like the Puritans, we were adventuring into new land, encountering new people, and asserting our presence in a completely foreign place. We kept venturing down a path near the beach and eventually came into the city area. We stood above the famous Plymouth Rock that serves as a symbol of the Puritan’s first steps onto “unclaimed” land. Nearby was an old graveyard that marked the bodies of those “first” settlers. Walking through graveyards always satisfies both Joaquin and my morbid curiosities, albeit, our desires are more focused on breathing vitality into the dusty names that have been forgotten. More than once we have imagined what those dusty names would eat for dinner, what they would say to their closest friends, what pictures they had hanging in their parlors, what secrets they had hidden in their chests, what drowning anguish they must have felt when their babies buried close to them had succumbed. The graveyard was a clear attraction. We strolled through, read the names, and were in awe of the graveyard’s antiquity. I did not imagine these lives. Perhaps, the history books had given me too much information. What more can we imagine about the pilgrims beyond designing pilgrim hats out of construction paper in elementary school? Probably a lot, but my mind wasn’t going there. I did feel like I had to at least honor our time with the deceased. I said to Joaquin, “Isn’t it crazy and amazing that these women and men believed in something so much that they were willing to give up everything they knew and come to this land of the unknown? They were very brave.” He agreed, and we went to tour some old houses. 

The old houses were our favorite part of Plymouth. Both Joaquin and I enjoy architecture. I had once had grand visions of being the next Julia Morgan and designing my very own Hearst Castle. Joaquin relishes in the details of ornate buildings, and is able to recreate every detail of a building in his drawings and on his Ipad. We had individual  tours of two historical houses, the Hedge House and the Spooner House. These houses sparked my imagination unlike the graveyard we had just visited. I saw the women in long, cumbersome skirts strategically placing each pot in the stone ovens. I heard the ornate grandfather clock signalling appointments, commitments, meals to the bustling household. I felt the sun lightly shining on the cheeks of the grandmother struggling to breath in the room upstairs. I smelled the sweat of the woman giving birth in the tiny, dark room with floor boards that creaked a melody of triumph, hope, disappointment, and loss. Both Joaquin and I had been transported to a time so foreign to our own, and we soaked in every minute of those tours. 

I know that our travels to Plymouth and our tourist experience cannot really be compared to the pilgrims and their journey and hardships. I also know that the Puritans had the ability to imagine a life other than the common one they had endured everyday in Europe. It was their imagination that brought them to North America. I am thankful that my imagination is entertained by old houses and new places, and that I have the freedom to imagine a God or no god on my own terms. I am thankful that I can go back to what I know and love, and that any choice I make to start anew is forged on a long tradition of seeking the unknown. Plymouth was a nice start to our adventure.