In my memory our VW camper was vast and magical. It smelled of vinyl and metal window screens and orange juice in a carton that my mother pulled from the small fridge behind the front seats. The yellow plaid curtains lifted on the hot breezes of summer and I longed to sleep in the popup bunk that my sister claimed by right of primogeniture.
I can’t recall if I ever actually sat on the thin foam of her little cubbyhole that rose over the roof of the bus like a crow’s nest peering out over strange seas; I remember only that she meted out peeks to me as I stood on my tiptoes, all curiosity and tense tendons, before she decided that was enough I had to go now, to play elsewhere with my Barbie in the strange wilderness where we had dropped anchor, to load her long hair and legs and her fashion sunglasses into her red convertible and dream of racing along the open road.
2 comments:
It's continually fascinating to me how much travel is ingrained in both your nature and your nurture. I suppose it's because travel is anathema to me.
it is kind of an affliction. ;-)
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