A couple of weeks ago, my father celebrated his 80th birthday. As he and my mother are frequent travelers, he wished to mark the occasion with a trip and the entire family was invited to join. He chose one of his favorite cities: Victoria, located on Vancouver Island in British Columbia, Canada.
My sisters, their families, an aunt and uncle, and I joined my parents for a long weekend. The weather was cool, the sea breezes brisk, and the company was fabulous. It was a nearly perfect respite from recent lengthy hours of work, sole improvement to which would have been my husband’s presence – he was unable to join us.
I flew from Oakland to Seattle, then from Seattle to the small Victoria airfield. That last leg was aboard a small commuter prop plane, charmingly boarded from the Tarmac on a rainy morning. The very short flight to Victoria was uneventful, and despite a deficit of sleep I was wide awake and ready to explore once we landed.
A regret, however; I’d wished for a stamp on my all-to-crisp passport but at the Immigration counter I forgot to ask. How romantic the idea is of having a well-worn blue book in my bag, filled with half-discernible ink blots representing many adventures! Alas, it was not fated to be on this trip.