Life conspired somewhat yesterday - causing me to miss a day of the Bloganuary writing prompts. I’ve just carved out half-an-hour amid the usual weekend mayhem to recover a little ground.
Today’s prompt asks us to recall a memorable road trip.
My mind immediately retreats to the summer of 1999, and a trip to California to spend time with my cousin Charlotte and her dad - Uncle John.
It’s fair to say Uncle John was a mythical figure in my childhood. While the rest of the family tree could be traced back to time immemorial in the small villages of Oxfordshire (the source of Tolkein’s “Shire”), Uncle John had joined the merchant navy and set off around the world. Thinking back, it all makes so much more sense now - the coffee table from the Pacific islands, the oriental dancer pin cushion, and the glass cabinet at my Nan’s house full of small treasures from all over the world.
He ended up “meeting a girl” on the west coast of the United States in the late 1970s and emmigrated - returning briefly every few years to share stories of his adventures. I remember his return in the early 1980s accompanied by a new family member - a little blonde girl called Charlotte. They stayed at our house, and we were quickly inseparable - fighting like cat and dog, but also co-conspirators in endless scrapes and adventures.
For the next twenty years we would see each other perhaps once or twice - until a trip in the mid 1990s brought her to England to stay once again. I took time off work, and we explored London together, watched movies, got very drunk, and played video games through the night together more than a few times.
Fast forward another few years and we arrive at the summer of 1999. I set out on the first transatlantic trip on my own. The memories are still incredibly clear - the customs officer wearing a light blue police shirt, a California Highway Patrol motorcycle officer walking past - seemingly straight from CHiPs - and a wall of heat and palm trees outside the windows. I still remember spotting my uncle and cousin spotting me from the overhead atrium - shouting out my name, and jumping up and down like Kermit the frog as they dodged through the crowds, trying to keep eye contact throughout.
For the better part of two weeks the three of us were inseparable. I joined Charlotte early in the mornings at the San Francisco docks to pick up vegetables and helped her prepare and deliver them around the bay area (she ran an organic produce service). We laughed until our faces and ribs hurt while exploring the city, and went on numerous adventures to theme parks, beaches, and forests along the way.
We travelled hundreds of miles along the coast together - visiting Carmel, Cannery Row, and walking the streets of San Francisco that Ginsberg, Sol, and Kerouak once walked.
I remember standing on the stairs leading to the lighthouse at Point Reyes, and my Uncle relating stories of his first landing in the United States years before. I remember Charlotte reciting Shakespeare to me in Muir Woods - once the location of the Forest Moon of Endor.
Even though I cherish the memories that have been made as life has unfolded in the decades that followed, that summer will always stand out. A happy place. A happy time. A time before expectations and obligations. A time when it was just me. Before every thought was weighed against the needs of others.