Tag Archives: Jamaica

Planes, Trains, Automobiles plus Boats

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I do not appreciate jewelry, new clothes, furniture, cars, etc. I love to travel. I like to look at those beautiful things, but I don’t want to own them. I would much rather spend a dollar on an experience than on acquisitions. Well, books may be the exception. Give me a trip to someplace, anyplace, and I’m a happy woman. I’ve been fortunate to have traveled a bit in my life, and it is never enough. I want to go, go, go, see, see, see, learn, learn, learn.

One of my earliest memories is a plane trip from Wichita to Denver when I was five years old. Back in those glory days, shortly after the dinosaurs disappeared, a plane trip was fun. Today, I think of it as a laborious task and a necessity in some instances. In 1950, my parents walked me out across the tarmac to the plane, and I was handed over to a gracious stewardess (flight attendant, before the term “flight attendant” was coined) in full uniform and high heels, who treated me like a visiting princess. I was safely delivered to my grandparents at the end of the trip in Denver. Plastic flight wings were awarded to me on each flight, and once I was taken to the cockpit to sit on the captain’s lap and pretend I was flying the plane.  There were no lines, no TSA, no restrictions on preflight parental supervision at the departure lounge.  I was offered food appropriate for a child, coloring books, and small toys to keep me entertained. The stewardesses were all very kind (no stewards in those days). I was showered with attention. I was usually the only kid on the plane, and for sure, the only solo kid. Unimaginable today – a five-year-old flying alone with no worries. I spent four summers with my grandparents from age five to eight, and all but one of those round trips were by plane.

I learned to love flying then and continued to love it until about twenty years ago. The rigmarole, the security checks, and the hassles, plus the too-small seating, make flying uncomfortable and tedious. Don’t get me wrong, after 9-11, I’m happy there are some rules in place now to prevent disasters. I question, however, the efficacy of TSA after reading some of the reports.

My father was in the Army Air Corps during WWII, and maybe my love of flying was transferred from him. He certainly endorsed my trips by air to visit my grandparents. I’m sure his experiences as a gunner on a B-24 Bomber were not nearly as pleasant as mine on Continental Airlines as a child.

During one of my summers in Colorado, my grandmother and I rode a train from Denver to Cheyenne, Wyoming, to visit some old friends of my grandparents. My grandfather was on the train too, but he was working. He was a brakeman for the Union Pacific. I remember the gold UP pin on the lapel of his jacket. I’m not sure what he did, but he was very impressive in his wool uniform and his flat-top, squared UP cap with Brakeman on it. I felt very special when Grandpa came through the cars to visit with Grandma and me. As I recall, he rode in the caboose of the train, and his job was considered dangerous. His best friend, the one we visited in Wyoming, was also a brakeman and was killed a few years later. Then my grandfather retired.

Since then, I have traveled by train, short distances between European cities and the U.K., never overnight. Even the Eurostar trip through the Chunnel, UNDER the English Channel, from London to Paris was interesting. I was skeptical at first, but it turned out to be enjoyable. We were underwater for less than twenty minutes. Who can’t hold their breath that long?

My three children and I took a train trip from L.A. to San Diego in 1977. Our family rode the Durango–Silverton narrow-gauge train in the Colorado Rockies in 1984. All are very pleasant memories. I’ve longed to take a trip by rail to see parts of our country.

We love road trips. Ken and I will get in the car for a day trip at the drop of a hat. We are not opposed to weeklong trips either. I’ve written before of our family’s fourteen-month 1984-1985 odyssey through the continental United States by van, when we went to every contiguous state at least once, also visiting parts of Canada and Mexico. That is a highlight of my entire life, the trip of a lifetime. We did that before cell phones and Google Maps. All communication was by payphone, and we navigated with AAA TripTiks. Two adults, three kids, and two dogs – we were off the grid. And some prophesied, out of our minds.

Finally, I love boat trips. One of the side excursions during our U.S. odyssey was a 7-day Caribbean cruise. We went to Cozumel, Grand Cayman, and Jamaica. We had a ball. I love ferry rides from Seattle to Victoria or the surrounding islands in Puget Sound.

Later, Ken and I invested in a sailboat and cruised for several years around Puget Sound and the Canadian Gulf Islands. My mother once remarked, “Why are you buying a sailboat? You hate being in water.” My reply was, “That is WHY we’re buying a boat, so I don’t have to be IN the water, I’ll be on it.”

I guess I can throw parasailing, white-water rafting, and skydiving into the travel bucket. Bottom line is, travel, in whatever form, is my go-to expense when I have an extra buck or two. Put me on wheels, wings, or waves, and I’m happy.

Chicago: August 1984 and July 1985

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Intro: From June 1984 to September 1985 our family of five plus two dogs traveled around the country in a three-quarter-ton reconfigured cargo maxi van pulling a thirty-one-foot trailer. Our trip began in Bellevue, Washington. We quit our jobs, took our three teenagers out of school, sold our two-story house, packed ourselves into the trailer, and took off on a grand adventure. Our 15-year-old nephew, Wally, accompanied us the first summer (four teens).

We had no cell phones, no computers, no GPS. We were off the grid. We didn’t even have seat belts. We traveled 50,000 miles crisscrossing the U.S. four times. Planning for the trip included library research and correspondence with all the Secretaries of State of each state we intended to visit. I had folders full of information about each state. Needless to say, the teens were not thrilled with the idea of spending fourteen months 24/7 with the old folks and missing a whole year out of school with their friends.


We went to all the contiguous United States, three provinces of Canada, and dipped into Northern Mexico a couple of times. After Christmas, we took a Caribbean cruise stopping at Jamaican, Grand Cayman, and Mexican ports. The objective was to show our kids their country, all the nooks and crannies, all the cultures and quirks, visiting museums, state houses, historical sites like Civil War battlefields, national parks, as well as small towns. We tucked in a few theme parks, and professional sports when a team was in a town we passed through. We endeavored to meet people in each region that make this great land. I am beginning to piece together our stories from letters, journals, photos, and memories. This is a snippet from our journey. These stories are taken from letters and journals written during the trip forty years ago and do not reflect the places as they may be today.


Chicago: August 1984 and July 1985
As we drove around the country we tried to stay on the “blue roads”, so named in the 1982 book by William Least Heat Moon, Blue Highways. It was one of the sources I used to plan our odyssey. That meant we were away from main highways – the red roads, arterials – instead using the minor, less traveled, roads that took us through small-town America. On paper maps – we didn’t have GPS or internet – the blue roads look like the veins of the human body, tiny but necessary for travel and commerce, the lifeblood of the nation. Big cities are very much alike but small towns are unique to their region and citizens. Of course, in order to visit major sites we needed to go into major cities.


We went to Chicago twice, once on an eastbound trip and once again on a westbound stretch. Both visits were too short. Some states we visited twice and some states, like Texas, seemed endless and it took us forever to get across.


Our family first visited Chicago in August 1985. At this point, there were five of us, Ken, me, and our three kids. Our nephew had to return to Bellevue before school started for the year. The closest campground we could find was in a town called Mokena about forty-five minutes south of Chicago proper. We parked our trailer there and ventured into the city. The late August weather was warm and sticky. Everyone wore shorts and short-sleeved shirts, except me. I had on a sundress.

We drove through the city and around the perimeter where we admired the Chicago River and the architecture of the buildings along it. We walked the Magnificent Mile with all the big stores such as Saks Fifth Avenue, and Bloomingdales as well as chic boutiques like Armani, Burdeen’s, and Gucci, none of which we went into. We saw the great Shedd Aquarium in its beautiful building filled with unbelievable beasties, amphibious and seagoing marine life. There are things there you cannot even imagine until you see them; plants that look like animals and animals that look like plants. The intelligent and curious octopi alone are worth a whole day. They interact with the public. I wish every large metropolis with a waterfront would take a lesson from Chicago. They made the lakeside a people-place with parks, museums, a planetarium, beaches, marinas, fountains, and gardens – all for everyone to enjoy. Their waterfront isn’t blocked off by factories, warehouses, or docks – it’s beautiful, clean, and fully accessible.

One of our friends told us we had never eaten real Italian food until we had food in Chicago’s Little Italy. So we set out for some REAL ITALIAN FOOD. Our local guidebook said that the Italian community in Chicago centered on Taylor Street. Consulting the map, we took ourselves to the west side of town. As we toured the neighborhood, we noticed large numbers of citizens loitering around street corners and sitting on stoops. The local occupation appeared to be indolence. There were dozens of boarded-up stores with Italian names even though the people on the streets didn’t appear to be Italian. Countless residences were rundown or abandoned.


While Ken drove, I pointed out Mama Rosa’s, Little Luigi’s, or Georgio’s as possible places for dinner. He shook his head.

“I wouldn’t leave our van on the street in this area,” he said. “I wouldn’t feel safe walking down the street with our family. We’re not eating around here. Look up something else, somewhere else.”

He turned back on Taylor Street toward downtown Chicago. I was not to be deterred. We were going to eat in Little Italy, no matter that the area had undergone a cultural transformation. We passed a restaurant, Bocciola della Rose (Italian for rosebud), with a fenced and gated parking lot. Three prosperous-looking senior citizen couples were entering.

“How about that place? The parking lot is gated and there is an attendant inside the fence. Don’t you think that would be safe?” I begged.
“Ok, we’ll try it.”

We quickly went around the block and returned to the gated parking lot where a young man of Italian descent, Guido, told us he would park our van and watch it until we finished dinner. Smiling from success, we proceeded into the dark narrow little restaurant which had a small bar as you entered the front door.

I led the way and, as the rest of our group appeared through the door, a tiny wizened lady rushed down behind the bar shaking her finger and head at us saying in very broken English, “We no serva the short.” It took three repetitions of this phrase for me to realize that she meant we were improperly dressed for her establishment. Sure enough, looking around we noticed all the men were wearing slacks and shirts with ties, some even had jackets and the women were all in dresses. – NO SHORTS. Imagine our chagrin after coming thousands of miles to eat in Little Italy, then finding its character altered and somewhat intimidating, then finding, with some reservation, a suitable place to eat and being turned away as undesirable. We left to continue our quest for Italian food in the Chicago loop. We ate our spaghetti and meatballs in Miller’s Pub on Wabash Avenue. Good American pub food, highly recommended and they serve shorts.

Our second visit to Chicago was, unfortunately as brief as our first visit the previous August…rush, rush, rush. We were there only a couple of days. We went to the top observation level on the 103rd floor of the world’s tallest building (at that time), the over 1,400 ft. high Sears Tower.


Visiting baseball parks to see professional games was part of the agenda on our trip. On Friday, July 12, 1985, we attended a Cubs vs Dodger game in the best ballpark we’d seen – Wriggly Field – a gorgeous real grass field, ivy covered brick outfield walls, and sunny blue skies. This is the city where fans fought for tradition – no lights at Wriggly. All games were played during the day. (The big business of baseball being what it is, that has changed. Lights were installed in 1988. Night games are played there now.) We stayed around after the game to talk to the winning pitcher, an L.A. Dodger from the Seattle area, Tom Neidenfurer. He won the game 7-4. Our friend Dickie Pederson had gone to school with him in Redmond, Washington and asked us to say hi to him if we crossed paths on our journey.

We returned to the Italian restaurant, Rosebud, which refused us service the previous visit because we wore shorts. This time we were properly attired and were served; cannelloni for Ken, lasagna for me, and spaghetti with meatballs for the kids. We were not disappointed. It’s a classy place with great food and a mellow musical accompaniment. Another evening, we went back to Miller’s Pub on Wabash. The local tavern filled with regulars who consumed large quantities of pasta, wine, and beer, while watching sports on TV had become our favorite, offering more comfort than class.


The next day took us to The Dells in Wisconsin and on to Appleton where my grandmother, Bessie, was born. She left home at nineteen to be a Harvey Girl and travel across the country to Wyoming where she met the love of her life. I wrote about her in my blog post of September, 2023. Travel and adventure run in my blood. I’ll add more stories to our journey as memories bubble up.