cheryl
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Travels with Grandma: Bath, Boxing Day- Ukiah Daily Journal
When she was 80 and I was 25, my grandmother invited me to Paris and London with her. Like most trips, the journey we took together in 1995 was both awful and amazing, creating my favorite memories of her. But even better than my memories are the journals we both kept:
Thursday, Dec. 21, 1995
Grandma’s journal entry
Foned for car, not available. Called travel agency, Hertz manager, made reservation. Raining, to Metro, to Heathrow. Got Fiat Punto. Made reservation for B&B, got there at 2:15 p.m. Roundabouts. Nice place, made reservation for 26th. Walked to pub for dinner.
My recollections
I don’t have a journal entry for this day, but I remember that drive from the airport as being very frustrating, what with driving on the left side of the road and trying to navigate the roundabouts. I very much wanted the signs to have the names of the city you were heading to, but they only had the names of the roads, which were useless to me.
Friday, Dec. 22, 1995
Grandma’s journal entry
Justine woke ILL. To Oxford at 9 a.m., got there at 10. Walked around, lovely grounds. Had coffee and pie. To Sandra’s, Justine found way. Called from Texaco Station, “Weak Bridge.” Many cars, day off. Had salmon for dinner, watched “Red Dwarf.”
My recollections
I woke up with a cold and did not want to get out of bed. I remember staring out of the window in misery and my grandmother being annoyed. “I certainly hope you’re not too sick to drive.” So, I got up and drove us.
The day got much better, though, because when we were trying to find her friend Sandra’s house, I pulled over at a gas station to call her and said we were at “Weak Bridge.” “You’re where?” she said, sounding very confused. Then I burst out laughing. “Grandma, that’s not the name of the bridge. It’s just telling us it’s a ‘weak bridge!’”
We both laughed so hard the clerk at the gas station thought we were crazy. That is my second favorite memory of her. My definite favorite was later that day at Sandra’s house, where she became a woman who giggled, a woman with flushed cheeks and shining eyes, a woman who patted my leg the way my mother had.
When she was 80 and I was 25, my grandmother invited me to Paris and London with her. Like most trips, the journey we took together in 1995 was both awful and amazing, creating my favorite memories of her. But even better than my memories are the journals we both kept:
Thursday, Dec. 21, 1995
Grandma’s journal entry
Foned for car, not available. Called travel agency, Hertz manager, made reservation. Raining, to Metro, to Heathrow. Got Fiat Punto. Made reservation for B&B, got there at 2:15 p.m. Roundabouts. Nice place, made reservation for 26th. Walked to pub for dinner.
My recollections
I don’t have a journal entry for this day, but I remember that drive from the airport as being very frustrating, what with driving on the left side of the road and trying to navigate the roundabouts. I very much wanted the signs to have the names of the city you were heading to, but they only had the names of the roads, which were useless to me.
Friday, Dec. 22, 1995
Grandma’s journal entry
Justine woke ILL. To Oxford at 9 a.m., got there at 10. Walked around, lovely grounds. Had coffee and pie. To Sandra’s, Justine found way. Called from Texaco Station, “Weak Bridge.” Many cars, day off. Had salmon for dinner, watched “Red Dwarf.”
My recollections
I woke up with a cold and did not want to get out of bed. I remember staring out of the window in misery and my grandmother being annoyed. “I certainly hope you’re not too sick to drive.” So, I got up and drove us.
The day got much better, though, because when we were trying to find her friend Sandra’s house, I pulled over at a gas station to call her and said we were at “Weak Bridge.” “You’re where?” she said, sounding very confused. Then I burst out laughing. “Grandma, that’s not the name of the bridge. It’s just telling us it’s a ‘weak bridge!’”
We both laughed so hard the clerk at the gas station thought we were crazy. That is my second favorite memory of her. My definite favorite was later that day at Sandra’s house, where she became a woman who giggled, a woman with flushed cheeks and shining eyes, a woman who patted my leg the way my mother had.