Monday, January 16, 2012

Anticipation

Anticipation, my mother said, is half the fun. Yet it's possible to become so entwined in all that happens before the event that the event itself is anti-climatic. That never seemed to happen to my mother.

"It's the road," she said. That was before someone coined the phrase, "It's the journey, not the destination that matters."

They are braided together—just like a braided essay. My mother always started with the clothes she'd need, especially the type of shoe. Heels, her preferred shoe, did give way to a pair of white sneakers for a trip to Israel.

Then she concentrated on health—and she thought of all types of contingencies. Stomach aches, hives, wounds, and of course fevers. Lest she couldn't find the right toothbrush and her toothbrush suffered some perilous catastrophe she brought one or two extras.

What to wear? Would it be hot or cold, drafty, stuffy? Take something for each possibility.

Phrases to learn, exchange rate of currency. How much? How to take it? Should you have one of those wallets hanging around your neck and under a shirt?

Books about the area. Novels by residents or by strangers? Ancient history or contemporary?

By the time the day of packing arrived she looked at her allocated suitcase and tried to get everything inside. On many occasions I was commanded to sit on the suitcase—which creaked and groaned under my weight and force.

So then began the taking out of items.

"I really don't need my Icelandic sweater even if the evening gets a bit cool."
"These are drip-dry so I don't need so many."

Little by little she whittled it down. Often the suitcase still needed to be cajoled —by two of us sitting on it— to close.

The pile of "not for this trip" contained as many or more items that made it into the final packing, but that was part of the fun.

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