The Walkabout

Linda Burton posting from Honolulu, Hawaii — “Always take twice as much money and half as many clothes as you think you’ll need” was the sage advice I learned from a world traveler many years ago; I have found it to be true. Granddaughter Kayla is ready as I come driving up; her little pink suitcase-on-wheels filled with seven shirts and seven pants and skirts; seven pair of underwear; pj’s and hairbrush; that’s enough, I’d advised yesterday; we’ll do laundry there. Son Rick has cleared the carport for me to store the Scion in; I park and move my luggage to his car. It’s a long drive to SeaTac Airport; through Seattle and a middle-of-Sunday-afternoon unexplainable traffic jam. Inside to check the biggest bag; goodbyes come quick, a family can no longer stay together till the boarding call; now partings happen at Security. We pose for pictures; it’s Father’s Day; Kayla gives her Dad a really-love-you hug; take care; we’ll see you soon. The walkabout begins.

I don’t know why they call it flying; it’s framed on either side by walking. Before the flying, one must deal with airport rules; and walking, and waiting. And dressing, and undressing. You know, shedding the shoes and socks, shedding the jacket, even removing the stringed travel wallet from around my neck (supposed to be tucked under my shirt for safety) and laying it in the tub to disappear on a roller belt behind fringed black doors (what happens there?). I’m not a fan of flying anymore; bad people have taken away the carefree joy of it. At least, our fear of what those bad people might do. But to get to Honolulu, it’s either fly or swim, so here we go. Walk, Kayla, walk.

After the security line, and the redressing, we walk to the elevator and go down to the subway. We stand clinging to a pole as we ride to another terminal. We walk to the elevator and ride up. We walk to our gate. How long before the boarding call? Kayla’s hungry; ah yes, there’s time enough to eat. She guards the luggage at a table that’s nearby; I walk over to the line; I stand and wait to get some food. Her Dad is probably home by now, even if he hit another traffic clog. Boarding time at last, we walk to our gate; we stand and wait for our magic number to be called.

We walk down the ramp; Kayla pulls her little pink suitcase-on-wheels over the connector bumps; now we’re on the plane (four hours have passed since we got in the car). A six-hour flight; Kayla bounces in her seat; she’s thrilled, and I am too; at last we’re in the air; we’re birds with jet-fueled tails; this is a kick! We eat, and drink; work crossword puzzles; walk up and down the aisle. Clouds gather, then open up; the sun begins to set and everything is orange. There’s no place better in the world to be; we’re sure of that; we glow; we’re feeling smug. And lucky too. “Remember this,” I say.

“I see the lights!” Kayla’s nose is pressed against the window tight. We’re buckled in, descending now; Hawaii’s coming at us fast. That ground-touch bump; we’re back on earth; “What’s next?” my Kayla asks. “A little walking, can you guess?” The walkway here is gravel-paved; our wheelie-luggage roars with every bump. The outside air’s a shock; so warm! We’re sweating now; we tie Seattle’s jackets on our waists. The baggage carousel at G, and down; we walk, we wait; we walk, we find a shuttle bus.

At last we get to our hotel; someone lifts our bags up sixteen steps. It’s midnight by our body clocks; we stand in line; check in; the 14^th floor is ours. Walk to the elevator; ah, there’s the door; our room! Our pretty room! Shoes off; we walk out on the patio and stare at all the lights. The city stretches out below; so much to see! “How will we get everywhere, GMom? We don’t have a car.” I grin at her. “That’s easy kid. We’ll walk.”