A Slice of American
Pie: Part 1
“Are you sure the cat was outside?” I asked as we drove away from our home in Wanganui after locking it up like Fort Knox, or a Maori pa – depending on which shoe fits. Sometimes it’s easiest to wear no shoe and be neutral, rather than settling determinedly on one culture. I live simultaneously in two worlds: my home in New Zealand and through all the ties in the States where I lived 88% of my life (that calculation saves me from revealing my age.) You settle serenely into one life, only to be zapped back to the other by a phone call or email. I feel like the toi toi that I ripped out of my hillside garden and left lying prone on the ground, having run out of get-ready-for-the-trip time. I finally figured out why departures are so stressful. Everything has to be done at the same time before you leave on a trip, from the laundry, cleaning, packing and stopping the mail to painting the bathroom, insulating the ceiling and, yes, transplanting the toi toi. A departure for even a weekend seems to call on us to finish up things that have languished on for months or even years. A three month motorcycle trip elicited preparations that went off the scale. There are nine million people in Los Angeles and 8 million of them must be at the airport. Even with an American upbringing, I feel like a fish out of water. I am uprooted once again and plunked onto the other side of the world with the great lack of finesse that accompanies air travel. The magnitude, diversity and opulence of America assaults me like a heavy dose of cheap cologne. You can’t escape it. The sounds of cell phones fill the air like buzzing mosquitoes on a hot summer’s night. Spanish mingles with English and other strange tongues. My husband, Paul, and I have joined the ranks of the army that circle the globe continuously, shuffling from airport lounge to luggage carousel in search of the Holy Grail in their lives. Ours sits waiting for us inaVancouver warehouse – a 1450 ElectraGlide Ultra Classic Harley Davidson, our transportation for the next three months around the States. I had a lot of time in the air to learn that complete title for the handsome dark green bike that was crated up from Wanganui a month before and shipped to Canada. We were advised that Customs would be friendlier in Canada than the paranoia that still grips America. We sleep that night in a bed that is bigger than our tent which is also patiently waiting for us along with other summer camping gear. A taxi dumps us in an industrial looking area and we search out the address on a scrap of paper. Armed with owner’s papers, shipping receipts and identification, we locate the warehouse. “
We’ve come to pick up a motorcycle.” And they carry the crate outside with a forklift. Like a huge Christmas present, Paul peeps in a small hole and then we begin to open the container in the parking lot. He appears unnaturally nervous, this bold man of mine and finally admits to hoping he can remember how it all goes back together. This was the condensed version to fit into the crate, while other bits accompanied us in a duffle bag. If he’s nervous, I’m really nervous especially when the process is completed with a few extra pieces lying beside the bike. They agree to store the container for the return shipment and that ends the formalities. We hop on (for lack of a less agile term), gratefully hear it roar into life and we are off into the wilds of right-hand drive traffic guided by a white arrow on the dash pointing right. I chant “stay right” each time we take a corner or pull into traffic. We reach the American border, our next challenge, and present our American passports. I discovered Paul’s New Zealand passport was expired the day before we left. “ Where are you going?” The White Arrow Adventure has begun. |
