May 29, 2017
We look for what’s wrong in life and in travel. I want to look for what’s right, to look out for opportunities to see how awesome we can be when things don’t go as planned.
Hurry
We left Toronto for Niagara, New York for a 1975 concert that my seventeen year old daughter was attending the next day with two friends, who were already in line to insure that they would be in the front row. Before we set off, we attended the funeral of an extended family member, printed Lucy's tickets for the three shows she will attend in the next few days, at the local library, and did some banking.
“I want to know we are doing all we can to get there as fast as we can!” She was holding it in her face. The color was pink and it seemed swollen. Her eyes exploding, but not yet releasing.
“You look like you’re going to cry.” It gave her permission to release the tears.
“There’s a guy and he’s being an asshole, and I won’t be with my friends, and it will suck.” It poured from her chest. “I will hold the vision that it’s going to go well. You will get to be at the front of the stage. You will meet the band with your friends and it will be awesome.” “I can’t think of that right now.”
“You don’t have to.”
The Boarder
"Excited to show my new id, excited to go across a bridge and be in another country."
“It’s memorial day, Ma! That’s why the line up is so long.”
Cars with US licence plates trying to get into the line the cars with Ontario licence plates had been sitting in for 30 minutes, the drivers asking to get in the line to cross the bridge, with gestures and eye contact, moving dangerously close.
“I never do this, but “no”, I’m not letting them in. It’s energetic. They are acting like bullies. I want them to give up!”
“They’re not going to. People are letting them in.”
Nowhere land
On the bridge, Rainbow bridge, we saw the top of the falls, the spray. A memory of the first time I heard of this bridge, when I was 14 years old, visiting from Ireland, feeling alive, soaked, in our Maid of the Mist raincoats. We now inched across, beside a car with a red dog with green eyes and whiskers, who smiled at Lu. We stopped in between the Canadian and American flag and I felt the "nowhere" of the spot until Lu pushed me on. It was like emptiness, ascension!
The Boarder Police
I memorized my licence plate just before arriving at the spot where it said “STOP.” The car has only been mine for the last few months. That's my excuse!
I put on the song, “Horse with No Name” to help me feel happy. Lucy said it stresses her out. I turned it off. There was a white hummer in front of us with the licence plate, “GRA”, which is “love” in Gaelic. The occupants were accompanied into the building by the arm, one officer for each young person. Their car taken and driven to a parking spot by an officer with gloves on. The tension left my body somewhat when the officers regrouped and laughed.
It was our turn. How was it going to go? I handed him both passports, Lucy's Canadian and my Irish. I told him about the application for a travel visa online. He gave me a ticket and sent me into the same building. He smiled, his ease sent more tension away. I was allowed to park my car and walk in with my daughter. I took all the paperwork I had with me, car ownership, insurance, even the manual!
“No cell phone use” was posted on the wall.
“They’re texting me! I’m going into the bathroom to text back,” Lucy left. Two of the Hummer travellers were there. The driver, a more muscly Justin Beiber and his girlfriend, a beautiful Indian girl. Another couple, older looking than the other two, in their thirties perhaps, and some seniors also occupied the room.
“Citizen of Ireland?” A tall male officer called.
My scrunched face loosened with realisation.
“That’s me!” I jumped up. He frowned at me. I read his displeasure that I didn’t answer straight away.
“I was expecting to hear my name called.” He ignored me.
He led me into a room and told me exactly which chair to sit on. It said “RYAN” on his name tag. He didn’t look Irish. Although there were freckles across his nose and cheeks, his eyes were very dark brown, maybe black. He couldn’t get my fingerprints on his device. We repeated the exercise over a few times.
“Press hard!” he ordered. “Put your fingers closer together!”
I showed him my fingers.
“Look, my fingers are almost smooth!” He looked uninterested. “I am the oldest of nine kids, and I have five of my own. Can you imagine all the dishes I’ve done in my life?”
He smiled, against the will of his face. It was slight and pretty. The face returned to its mask quickly, but I saw his humanity. It was too late!
The couple in their thirties were leaving at the same time as us.
"Not getting arrested today?" the guy asked.
"Nope! What are you in for?" I said.
"I'm Brazilian," said the woman.
We laughed as we left.
Mission to the Olive Garden
Lu and her friends wanted a meal at the Olive Garden. They wanted the bread and the salad. We followed the gps through streets with holes in the road, some with pylons around, some with rain water inside. The people in the streets, mostly black, the houses, small, the poverty, audible. When does the degradation start? When the crack appears, someone sees it, but they can’t or don’t do anything about it. Are they too busy? Are they too preoccupied? Don’t they have enough money? Do they not see it at all because they are so emotionally distracted? I am projecting all my reasons onto the town of Niagara, NY.
In the restaurant, there is a young man serving us. He’s alit. I enjoy hearing his accent. I don’t understand everything. He says, “yep!” every time we thank him. I start to "get" Lucy’s friends. One, studying to be an accountant, the other, very disciplined, both, replicas of my Lu in their passion for “the 1975.”
I see how blessed, even spoiled I am, living in south Etobicoke, where lawns are maintained, roads are smooth, people have what they need and they use polite words, how well I was taken care of when I was pregnant, how these beautiful young women who are travelling with me, are smart and confident, and thoughtful and respectful. The care taken of them, the love given to them, has flourished their humanity.
Fireworks from the window sill
Memorial day and all I am thinking of is “whose land is this?” The internet says it’s a tribe of peacemakers. I like that. I need to be a peacemaker between the thoughts and feelings that appear in my own mind. With this thought, that empty ascension feeling happens again.
We look for what’s wrong in life and in travel. I want to look for what’s right, to look out for opportunities to see how awesome we can be when things don’t go as planned.
Hurry
We left Toronto for Niagara, New York for a 1975 concert that my seventeen year old daughter was attending the next day with two friends, who were already in line to insure that they would be in the front row. Before we set off, we attended the funeral of an extended family member, printed Lucy's tickets for the three shows she will attend in the next few days, at the local library, and did some banking.
“I want to know we are doing all we can to get there as fast as we can!” She was holding it in her face. The color was pink and it seemed swollen. Her eyes exploding, but not yet releasing.
“You look like you’re going to cry.” It gave her permission to release the tears.
“There’s a guy and he’s being an asshole, and I won’t be with my friends, and it will suck.” It poured from her chest. “I will hold the vision that it’s going to go well. You will get to be at the front of the stage. You will meet the band with your friends and it will be awesome.” “I can’t think of that right now.”
“You don’t have to.”
The Boarder
"Excited to show my new id, excited to go across a bridge and be in another country."
“It’s memorial day, Ma! That’s why the line up is so long.”
Cars with US licence plates trying to get into the line the cars with Ontario licence plates had been sitting in for 30 minutes, the drivers asking to get in the line to cross the bridge, with gestures and eye contact, moving dangerously close.
“I never do this, but “no”, I’m not letting them in. It’s energetic. They are acting like bullies. I want them to give up!”
“They’re not going to. People are letting them in.”
Nowhere land
On the bridge, Rainbow bridge, we saw the top of the falls, the spray. A memory of the first time I heard of this bridge, when I was 14 years old, visiting from Ireland, feeling alive, soaked, in our Maid of the Mist raincoats. We now inched across, beside a car with a red dog with green eyes and whiskers, who smiled at Lu. We stopped in between the Canadian and American flag and I felt the "nowhere" of the spot until Lu pushed me on. It was like emptiness, ascension!
The Boarder Police
I memorized my licence plate just before arriving at the spot where it said “STOP.” The car has only been mine for the last few months. That's my excuse!
I put on the song, “Horse with No Name” to help me feel happy. Lucy said it stresses her out. I turned it off. There was a white hummer in front of us with the licence plate, “GRA”, which is “love” in Gaelic. The occupants were accompanied into the building by the arm, one officer for each young person. Their car taken and driven to a parking spot by an officer with gloves on. The tension left my body somewhat when the officers regrouped and laughed.
It was our turn. How was it going to go? I handed him both passports, Lucy's Canadian and my Irish. I told him about the application for a travel visa online. He gave me a ticket and sent me into the same building. He smiled, his ease sent more tension away. I was allowed to park my car and walk in with my daughter. I took all the paperwork I had with me, car ownership, insurance, even the manual!
“No cell phone use” was posted on the wall.
“They’re texting me! I’m going into the bathroom to text back,” Lucy left. Two of the Hummer travellers were there. The driver, a more muscly Justin Beiber and his girlfriend, a beautiful Indian girl. Another couple, older looking than the other two, in their thirties perhaps, and some seniors also occupied the room.
“Citizen of Ireland?” A tall male officer called.
My scrunched face loosened with realisation.
“That’s me!” I jumped up. He frowned at me. I read his displeasure that I didn’t answer straight away.
“I was expecting to hear my name called.” He ignored me.
He led me into a room and told me exactly which chair to sit on. It said “RYAN” on his name tag. He didn’t look Irish. Although there were freckles across his nose and cheeks, his eyes were very dark brown, maybe black. He couldn’t get my fingerprints on his device. We repeated the exercise over a few times.
“Press hard!” he ordered. “Put your fingers closer together!”
I showed him my fingers.
“Look, my fingers are almost smooth!” He looked uninterested. “I am the oldest of nine kids, and I have five of my own. Can you imagine all the dishes I’ve done in my life?”
He smiled, against the will of his face. It was slight and pretty. The face returned to its mask quickly, but I saw his humanity. It was too late!
The couple in their thirties were leaving at the same time as us.
"Not getting arrested today?" the guy asked.
"Nope! What are you in for?" I said.
"I'm Brazilian," said the woman.
We laughed as we left.
Mission to the Olive Garden
Lu and her friends wanted a meal at the Olive Garden. They wanted the bread and the salad. We followed the gps through streets with holes in the road, some with pylons around, some with rain water inside. The people in the streets, mostly black, the houses, small, the poverty, audible. When does the degradation start? When the crack appears, someone sees it, but they can’t or don’t do anything about it. Are they too busy? Are they too preoccupied? Don’t they have enough money? Do they not see it at all because they are so emotionally distracted? I am projecting all my reasons onto the town of Niagara, NY.
In the restaurant, there is a young man serving us. He’s alit. I enjoy hearing his accent. I don’t understand everything. He says, “yep!” every time we thank him. I start to "get" Lucy’s friends. One, studying to be an accountant, the other, very disciplined, both, replicas of my Lu in their passion for “the 1975.”
I see how blessed, even spoiled I am, living in south Etobicoke, where lawns are maintained, roads are smooth, people have what they need and they use polite words, how well I was taken care of when I was pregnant, how these beautiful young women who are travelling with me, are smart and confident, and thoughtful and respectful. The care taken of them, the love given to them, has flourished their humanity.
Fireworks from the window sill
Memorial day and all I am thinking of is “whose land is this?” The internet says it’s a tribe of peacemakers. I like that. I need to be a peacemaker between the thoughts and feelings that appear in my own mind. With this thought, that empty ascension feeling happens again.
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