Bringing Home Memories

As I write this I'm sitting on a plane, flying east towards home high above the Rocky Mountains. It's been a wonderful trip. What a gift, after so many months of being homebound, to leave the stale air of pandemic life and finally (carefully!) venture out into the world!

I love to travel. I love how it opens the windows of the mind and lets in fresh air: new sights, new sounds, new people and ways of living. It's a way to leave your old, well traveled paths to wander through new places and enjoy a feast of new experiences. Like stones picked up on the beach, I bring home memories to hold and savor in the years to come. This time I traveled west for almost 2,000 miles, and I reached into the waters of the Pacific Ocean to lift out a handful to carry home with me.

Getting there is always a challenge: trudging down long corridors with heavy suitcases, enduring cramped flights and spending long layovers squirming on uncomfortable chairs. But it's worth the discomfort, of course. I love hearing new languages all around me and meeting people who live utterly different lives from mine. High above the clouds, I listened to a quiet man in military uniform tell of living in Japan, helping coordinate aid after the devastation of the horrible tsunami ten years ago. He spoke of his admiration for the Japanese people, of the courage and unity they showed as they worked together to rebuild after the disaster, and of his beloved wife he met there and was flying home to.

It always amazes me, that one can travel for a day or two and touch down in a different world. Seattle is lush and green, with a gentler climate than Wisconsin, and when I walked out of the airport the air that greeted me was warm and fragrant with spring. Tulips were blooming on street corners, and the trees were heavy with flowers: I glimpsed magnolias, cherry trees, and even a few palmettos swaying in the warm breeze.

I stayed for a few days in Seattle before traveling on. I didn't scale the Space Needle or ride the great ferris wheel, I'm afraid. Instead, I kept my feet on the ground; I trudged up and down hilly city streets to museums, coffee shops, markets, hunting down side streets for spice shops and little bookstores.

When my feet gave out I boarded a public transit bus and rode the route from end to end. There was so much to see - the bays were filled with huge cargo ships unloading shipping crates, while sailboats skimmed along in the distance and behind them, far off, the mountains gleamed with snow. The bus made its way out of the city and through colorful neighborhoods full of tiny shops, lined with rows of trim houses, each tiny garden brimming with flowers.

Turning back, the bus headed back downtown past the gleaming skyscrapers and high-end stores. But on many streets the sidewalks were lined with ragged tents - encampments of homeless folks for blocks on end. At a stop light I watched a man in rags under an overpass, gesturing to the air. Like so many cities, Seattle holds both wealth and grinding poverty, busy industry and unmet need.

I'll remember this trip as a feast for the senses: the sounds of lapping waves and the calls of seagulls, the tangy smell of the fish in Pike Place Market and the heady scent of blooming trees. I'll remember the brilliant red of tulips, the smiling eyes of strangers and the taste of hot clam chowder and rich, dark coffee.

I met and saw so many interesting people, too. I shared a table with a woman who voiced her frustration at all the changes over the years, telling me stories of what the city was like years ago. Toiling up a hill I overtook an elderly woman pushing a baby stroller, with her cat sitting calmly atop her bags of groceries. On another corner, a middle-aged man with immaculately coiffed hair crossed the street wearing only his underwear. No one batted an eye!

After three days in the city I set out again, this time riding a bus up the coast to the San Juan islands, where my sister was minding the house of some friends. The days were warm and slow, and after being right in the midst of downtown I finally felt like I was back in nature. We did whatever we felt like: we hunted for agates on the beach, took their elderly dog for walks and explored the winding roads lined with tall pine trees. One day I rode the ferry boat through the fog to Friday Harbor on San Juan Island. It was too early in the year for whale watching, but I found the Whale Museum and spent a fascinating hour learning about those amazing animals and the dangers they face from us. Many return year after year to those waters, and are even known by sight.

It all went by too quickly, but my favorite moment was on the very last day. We'd gone to the beach for one more brief visit. I walked along the water, savoring the sound of the waves lapping gently at my feet, squinting down at the stones and shells in the swirling water. Just as my sister called for us to leave, I caught sight of something. I reached down and scooped it up: one lovely agate, pearly white, gleaming in the sun.

Here on the plane with the engines thrumming, surrounded by strangers, I take it out of my pocket and gaze at it, smiling. I'll set it on a shelf at home, along with my other mementos: a sprig of heather, a few coffee beans, a picture or two - and through the open window, I'll hear once again the distant call of seagulls and feel the wind on my face.