know right away we’re perfectly harmless,” I said. I was indignant. “And our seatcovers are obviously home-made and brand-new.” “Worse and worse,” she said. “T ey’ll
think you’re old hippies.” I had fi nished packing. “T e plan,” I
told John, “is we’ll drive south until we’re halfway through our money, and then we’ll drive back.” “Sounds sensible to me,” he said.
He handed me a plastic bag full of underwear and shirts. “Here’s my stuff ,” he said. “I’ll pack the gear.” “Is this all?” I asked. “Real men travel light,” he said. He picked up a portable heater and an
extension cord and headed out the door. I was convinced he was wrong about
the heater. What would we need a heater for? But I kept my counsel. We didn’t have any maps of Washington, but our friends Wilma and Tim had sent directions to get from Highway 1 to their house in Lynden. We set out for the Duke Point ferry terminal with the Execuvan belching slightly and the interior odour only mildly off ensive. At
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Tsawwassen we swung our heads wildly looking for signs to direct us to Highway 1. “You can’t get there from here,” I yelled, shaking out an old BC roadmap and staring at it frantically. “We took the wrong ferry! We’re on Highway 17 and. . . “ I looked up. “Hope! T e sign says Hope! Follow that green sign!” “Do you know what you’re doing?”
John asked, as he swung the wheel. “No, but ‘Hope’ sounds kind of
optimistic,” I said. We made the white-knuckled, nerve-
wracking segue from Highway 17 to Highway 1, got lost at 264th Street and stopped to ask a man with a dog the way to the US border. “Have you noticed something?” John
asked me. “Um, no,” I said, staring at the map
again and frowning. “It’s pouring rain,” he said, “And it’s
cold.” “We’re not in the US yet darling,” I
said. I patted his knee. “Just wait until we’re there.” We lined up behind 20 vehicles at the border station; the Execuvan engine
throbbing and rain pouring down the outside of the windows. I nagged until John clicked off the ignition. “You’ll asphyxiate the people behind us,” I complained. “If I turn the engine off it might not
start again,” he grumbled. T en when the car ahead fl ashed its taillights and slid forward, John turned the key and nothing happened. Nothing, that is, except the vehicles behind swung gleefully around us. John fl ung himself out of the van, raised the hood, fi ddled for a moment, jumped back in the van and turned the ignition key. T e engine growled awake. He jumped out of the cab again, lowered the hood, leaped behind the wheel and slammed the door. “Battery Terminal,” he said. “T ere’s a loose connection somewhere.” He swiveled a reproachful eye at me. Rain dripped from his hair, his beard, his coat. “Oh,” I said. “I love you, Darling.” “I love you too,” said John. “So far,” I said, “our honeymoon trip
is great.” c (To be continued next edition.)
QFR-01 QFR-02
QFR-03
!!
44085 Yale Rd. (Exit 116), Chilliwack, BC 1-800-667-1533 / 604-792-6646 RVT 142 • JULY/AUGUST 2011 23
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