Baseball and Popcorn

We were delayed in leaving for our very first trip together.

Not thinking, our car was left unlocked, exposed to the shenanigans typical of weddings at the time; confetti jammed into the air vents, Vaseline smeared on the steering wheel, the door handles, the gas tank. It all had to be cleaned before we could drive away for a five day honeymoon. A resort in the Caribbean or a European vacation was not in the cards. We did not have the money for that kind of a trip, nor could we afford the time away from work and from school.

We left without concrete plans except to stop briefly in Ottawa before our destination, Quebec City, because it was the closest we could experience that old world charm. It would be a trip we could manage given our constraints. We did not confirm any reservations in advance, thinking we would find something at each stop. And those were the days without the luxury of  GPS, necessitating a reliance on paper maps and signs and intuition to guide our way.

We decided on a scenic route to Ottawa in order to view as much of the fall landscape as possible. A picnic along the route meant we needed to find a motel in Renfrew.

In Ottawa, we hoped to meet with Fr. De Witte, a friend of the family who helped my parents and other Dutch immigrants in the London area. He had moved to the nation’s capital to continue priestly work comforting patients in hospice care. When we finally arrived at the home of the Priests of the Sacred Heart, we were greeted with joy. Fr. De Witte was a priest who understood life beyond the strict doctrine of Catholic church rules and blessed our marriage in the accompanying chapel. Our wedding ceremony was  complete.

We found a motel in Ottawa, outside of the downtown, which appeared suitable on the surface only to exude a cold and dank and gloomy atmosphere on the inside. At three o’clock in the morning, Olga insisted we could not stay any longer, there was something spooky about the room. She needed to leave immediately. I did not think it possible to check out at such an ungodly hour. By 3:30, we were back on the road, navigating unfamiliar streets until we escaped the city limits. The highway sign proclaimed 250 km to Montreal when I looked across the bench seat. Olga was asleep. It was a quiet drive, mostly highway, until 7:00 am. I waited until we were on the other side of the island before nudging Olga awake – “Good morning, Sunshine. Time for coffee and breakfast.” Next stop: Quebec City.

The Chateau Frontenac was beyond our price range, so we settled for a boutique hotel within its shadow. The room was typical, albeit on the smallish side, queen bed, dresser with a television, overlooking a small park, where we watched the miserable weather on that first day. No problem. There is a ball game on the TV – parlez-vous francais – and we brought our own popcorn maker.

Bombs bursting in air, first pitch, rain delay – want some more popcorn – seventh inning stretch, extra innings, home run for the victory.

We wandered the streets the next day, taking in the shops, sampling the delights, surveying the crafts for an appropriate souvenir, toured the Citadel, and strolled the Plains of Abraham. It did not matter what we did.

Off-season meant much fewer people, no crowds to battle, easier to get a reservation at a fancy restaurant. I don’t recall the name or the location, but I distinctly remember that it had more waiters than customers, each one performing a specific function. They did not come back with the change when I handed over the cash. I guess they were accustomed to generous tippers.

Our time was up by Saturday, back on road home at 6:00 a.m., for a non-stop drive to the Toronto Airport to wish Ron safe travels to New Zealand. Then, the last stretch of the 401 home to the apartment on Victoria Street.

The trip came to an end, the honeymoon would go on.

It would be 14 years before our next adventure, this time to Europe, with some semblance of a plan –  The Netherlands  France and Belgium; Tilburg, Paris, Bruges; the Efteling, the Eiffel tower, the Normandy Coast – by car, with our kids, just a map, and only one reservation.

We haven’t stopped traveling since – lounged in the Caribbean on the French side of St. Maarten; bounced around the islands of Greece; toured the golden triangle of India; safaried in Tanzania and Botswana; rode the San Francisco trolley cars. Halifax, Puebla City, Barcelona, Washington D.C., Cape Town, Budapest, Amsterdam.

We are anticipating a train ride through Italy,  a walk along the Camino Primitivo, a cruise through the far East.

We may finally set forth on that California road trip to watch baseball.

Or we will spend another night at the cottage watching the sunset and eating  popcorn.

The only place I want to be is lost with you.

Happy Anniversary, Olga.

With love always,