May 21, 2002 : second-hand experiences

My parents, though never writers themselves, are keenly observant in their travels. Never people who overlook a bluebonnet flower at the start of spring, they face the world early each morning and are thankful each night for their existence for yet another day.

My father has always lived through others. He's been astronomers in hidden observatories that dot the Midwest, musicians playing in sold-out arenas and music halls, stock car drivers racing around dirt ovals in poorly painted converted cars, explorers climbing mountains or settling in pre-red-white-and-blue North America, soldiers trudging through blood-smeared front-lines, preachers amassing crowns full of jewels for souls saved, engineers creating modern-day appliances or nuclear warheads, and even farmers tilling the lands as far as the eye can see or connecting irrigation lines that will create circles of corn in dry land.

He has been everywhere these people have been, through books, documentaries, attendance, listening, driving, travels, and by looking at the sky itself, he has lived their lives. When my parents arrived in Paris a couple of months ago, the history on every corner was almost audible. I had thought Paris would not interest my father, but he found it one of the most amazing places he's been.

It is not that my father is amateurish in any specific hobby, he just never could decide on one in particular. If anything, it is the combination of all of the above; traveling and doing--now regulating his sugar levels and exercising in hopes to live longer, see more, experiencing as much as the world has to offer for many more years.

Rumor has it though, he could have been a runner.

In the only high-school in a large town, he was faster than the fastest sprinter and miler...but his parent's blood was poorer than the slower boy with a better last name; the one whose father was a doctor, a lawyer, or a University professor...and so my dad shrugged his shoulders and did something else. He joined the army, has jumped out of airplanes, has a degree in mathematics, a masters in guidance counseling, and is now retired. He busses frail little old ladies to church, drives busses for college and high school sports teams, and works part-time at the local Catholic high school. He cannot seem to retire, there's too much to do.

This morning I awoke well rested. Eva had slept poorly and requested a few minutes more. Though a self-proclaimed morning person and not one who puts it into practice, I am quite the morning lover if I have had my rest and can simply shake off sleep.

The air is crisp and everything is freshly dew washed. Dawns are alive with bird calls and commuters. I packed my backpack and headed into town in search of a bakery, just like my dad would bring me McDonalds pancakes and orange juice in styrofoam containers when we were on summer vacations. He was content to face the day a few hours before me, surveying the new town. Where is the local school? What is the industry here? What is the population? Is the downtown still alive or is it boarded up and dead? Do they have a regular, old-type Wal-Mart or a supercenter?

If it wasn't McDonalds, it was donuts. Sometimes my mother would go, but occasionally he would leave us both and slip out into the morning...his mind still set on Missouri or army time.

The 10 minutes I left Eva to sleep became a walk of over an hour. I searched for a bakery but the town was still sleeping. I set my bearings by a water tower. I would have taken the road I ended up taking earlier, but I couldn't figure out if it said, "No Cars and No bikes" or if it said, "No Cars, Bikes welcome." Eventually I decided that the sign meant that bikes were welcome, including foot passengers, and it ended up saving me a half-hour.

When I passed an entire hour, I figured Eva would be up and searching for me (she has been known to worry) but when I returned, I found her sound asleep, still not ready to face the day. After much coaxing, I managed to stir her and get her properly dressed.

We took to the road and found short cuts over fields by walking on tractor paths. Roosendaal was only 9 kilometers away by highway and so we took every trail that looked like it was going in the right direction. If northern Belgium looked beautiful, the Netherlands was a sight for sore eyes. Imagine a country densely populated with houses in the countryside that can still be remote enough to not be in the sight of other homes. Every house had a huge garden with Irises in bloom and it seemed the whole of our part of the world was eye-squinting green. We smelled every type of flower that was roadside. One had a dainty smell that lingered for only a few seconds, others had an aroma that would block the entire road. We stopped by a stream and read that Holland is the most meticulously farmed country in the world. They know how many cows can be in a certain sized field and how long they can graze without over grazing. Considering that I have scarcely been out of Antwerp, northern Belgium and Southern Holland seemed like good ol' Missouri. (when MO gets enough rain) Slightly homesick and at the same time relieved that a Missouri-like place existed on the other side of the world, we pressed on.

As soon as we passed the border people that saw us stopped to ask us where we were from, where we were going, and to have a good middag. We entered friendlyville.

Though my shoes from 1972 (yes, highly authentic, purchased in Buffalo, Missouri at a shoe store packed to the gills with rotting old brand-new shoes) had treated my feet kindly to this point, my feet began to ache, and a rainstorm looked inevitable. Though it didn't rain, the high-rise apartment buildings seemed to stay at a constant distance from us...until finally we saw a sign welcoming us to our destination. And another couple of km after that, we saw a windmill. We were definately in the Netherlands now.

The foot situation led to more talks of bicycles, and the availability of trails seemed almost too good to be true. We fed ourselves and went shopping...only to catch a commuter train back to Antwerp where we showered and fell into our couch never to emerge again until work beckoned and Flemish lessons called my name.

As for Essen, it was a jewel to find. Our weekends are now packed with small little jaunts to small little towns and world seems even more expansive and welcoming than it did a few days ago.

As for the tent, it will most likely find a new owner. Sleeping in drops of our own exhaling for nights on end doesn't sound very appealing to either of us. But August? Just two months away, it has yet be seen where we will go or how we will get there...but as for now we're still thinking a bike is the way to go. And though I may rise an hour earlier than Eva on various mornings on our journey, I will face the day like my parents continue to do. I will set off in search of breakfast and will look for commonalties between my home and my current latitude and longitude. I will not miss a chance to point out a strange bird or a very common one, I'll keep my weekends free and my eyes open, and for my dad back in Elkland, I'll try to savor the entire journey, so when I go, he too goes with me.

IN THE NEWS:
I was too tired to notice that anything was happening in the world outside of my own. I'm pretty us-centered, I know.