BY CATHERINE DOOK
“Where?” he asked. “Oregon,” John replied. I gasped out loud. John believed, yes, believed, the van
could drive as far as Oregon. “Any fruits or vegetables?” he asked. “Some potatoes,” John said. “We’d like to board your van and examine them, with your permission,” he said. “Of course,” John replied. I reached behind me to unlock the sliding door. Te older of the two men climbed
Honeymoon The
Trip part II
Our 1979 Execuvan waited in a line of cars at the American border. It was pouring rain. John sat at the
wheel looking slightly nervous. “Honey,” I said, “I know the van is old and rusty and smells funny, but it’s American built. How can they complain about one of their own vehicles? “Our border guards may be younger
than this van,” he said. He felt for the passports he’d slipped into an inside coat pocket. “Our porta-pottie is as clean as soap
and water and pure thoughts can make it,” I said. “And except for half a sack of potatoes we have no fruit or vegetables whatsoever. Tis is going to be a wonderful honeymoon trip. I can tell.” John slid the van forward, and
braked beside the border-crossing kiosk where sat two unsmiling members of Homeland Security. Te younger of the men (NOT younger than the Execuvan) examined our slim blue passports with the impressive crest on the front cover. “Purpose of your visit?” he asked. His voice was brisk, professional. “Visit friends in Lyndon first, then
we’ll drive south and camp for a couple of weeks.”
nimbly aboard and crouched on the shag carpet, looking around him. Te younger man leaned in the doorway and gazed in all directions. His sharp eyes took in the hanging cloth bag full of cutlery, the Coleman stove tucked behind bungee cords, the gas lantern, the bathing suits drying on a line beside the door, and all the hundred cunning appointments of the van. He looked more amused than impressed. “Are your potatoes in the cooler?” asked the man on the rug. “Yes,” I said. As intent as an eagle with a sightline on a fat salmon, he flung open the cooler
door and pulled out our potatoes. Turning the bag over and over in his hands, he narrowed his eyes and examined every earthy globule with great care. “Valley grown,” said the man at the door, reading the printing on the outside of
the bag. “Which valley?” “Te valley of the Jolly Green Giant,” joked the man holding our potatoes. “Cowichan Valley,” I said from the front seat, rising in defense of my home and
native land. At a look from John I stopped just before I said, “Where even the roosters sing in harmony.” Satisfied, the man with the potatoes returned them to the cooler, carefully dropping the fastener-hook into the eyelet so the door wouldn’t swing open on us; then one of the men closed the door and they walked in front of our van back to their kiosk. “Drive safe,” said the younger man. Te potato interlude seemed to have mellowed
them into ‘almost agreeable,’ like a casserole three-quarters cooked whose homely scent gives pleasure even before it is done. “Americans are so friendly,” I remarked to my husband as we pulled away. “Even
their border guards hope this old van won’t collapse around our ears in a heap of rust on the I-5.” It took some hesitation and hollering, but we figured out whether to turn leſt or
right at the first intersection and aſter that we drove straight to our friends’ house with hardly any irate drivers in our wake. Wilma and Tim welcomed us warmly, fed us a feast and then insisted we sleep in their guest bedroom. I was stunned at the abundance of pie and hot water and wondered aloud if our friends might adopt us. Nobody bakes pie like Wilma. In the morning I put on my dangly shell ‘I’m on holiday’ earrings. Tim gave us a detailed map to get to the I-5 and then instructions to find the Millersylvania State Park, which he explained was one of the few state parks open during the rains of April. “It’s quite easy,” he said, but he looked apprehensive that we might get lost in America and never find our way back. “Tim,” I said, “Do not underestimate our stupidity. We can’t thank you enough for
your hospitality and roadmaps.” Ten we hugged everyone goodbye and leſt, waving out the window. We passed dairy farms and vineyards and brown fields and the grey skies poured
rain upon our inoffensive heads like blessings from God. “Man, are the RV sites ever going to be empty,” John said. We hooked up to the I-5 in an adrenaline rush that terrified us both, and flung
ourselves down the wet freeway exclaiming over the narrow lanes, and the number of vehicles, and the steady inexorable speed we were travelling. “Do people get off the Interstate?” I asked John. “And if so, how do they do it?” “Tey follow the signs,” he said. His hands held the wheel firmly and his eyes
were fixed forward. But I was used to sleepy Vancouver Island where there’s only one highway and I was raised in the Arctic, where we hardly had roads. I was too frightened to knit any socks for fear I’d look down at a dropped stitch and miss
32 RVT 143 • SEPTEMBER/OCTOBER 2011
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