My mom loves train travel and today I've booked our tickets to Belgium to see my friend Serge and his husband, Philippe. I met Serge in 1998 when we were both visiting Los Angeles. I was still in San Francisco and frequently came to the Southland to escape the fog and cold of The Bay Area. When I went on sabbatical from Informix Software and traveled to Europe for four weeks, I spent the last leg of my trip in Belgium at Serge and Philippe’s charming house. Their dogs were a wonderful brood that I soon realized - after I told one to sit and getting a very quizzical look - that not one understood a word of English. Perhaps Whistle and Winston will still remember me, but my Flemish and French are as bad as my penmanship, so I expect the same looks as the last time.
Over the years, Serge and I have stayed in touch via real mail with handwritten letters. Well, he writes his and I type and sign my name since my penmanship is just horrendous. Even though we haven't seen each other in over ten years, it feels like yesterday that we were just sharing beers and eating pommes frites with mayonnaise, and oh yes, watching that fierce drag queen performing Eurovision's latest hit, Take Me To Your Heaven.
As for my mom, well travel by rail becomes her more than planes. I learned that when I was in the fifth grade and my parents took my brother and me to DisneyWorld. Her fear of flying relegated us to Amtrak, where my brother and I played card games and were annoyingly amused by a little Latin girl who kept speaking Spanish to us every time she peered her round little face over the back of her seat. There was also that strange vacationing family of blondes who were headed to Clearwater, Florida - a place after listening to them for one and a half days, I was sure to put on my list of places never to visit.
Now Belgium is another story – give me a waffle and a pint of beer and then even my mom won’t be able to understand what I’m saying.
As for my mom, well travel by rail becomes her more than planes. I learned that when I was in the fifth grade and my parents took my brother and me to DisneyWorld. Her fear of flying relegated us to Amtrak, where my brother and I played card games and were annoyingly amused by a little Latin girl who kept speaking Spanish to us every time she peered her round little face over the back of her seat. There was also that strange vacationing family of blondes who were headed to Clearwater, Florida - a place after listening to them for one and a half days, I was sure to put on my list of places never to visit.
Now Belgium is another story – give me a waffle and a pint of beer and then even my mom won’t be able to understand what I’m saying.
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