We were driving over a bridge out of downtown Vancouver in a borrowed Mini Cooper S, open sunroof spilling light all over us, our bellies full of Canadian poutine, snacking on local cherries from a farmer’s market and spitting the pits out the window, music from a cool French pop station on the radio. Simone was smiling in the passenger seat, her short hair whipping about, no phone in her hand, totally in the moment.
We were on a ferry from Whidbey Island to the mainland, the Mini safely parked on a ramp belowdecks, our bellies full of mussels, which we’d eaten overlooking Puget Sound. The acclaimed restaurant on the island had been 21+, but with a $10 deposit for the giant steamer pot, I was allowed to take two pounds to go, walking up the street to a picnic table Simone had found, where we feasted on the freshest mussels we’d ever had, the little meaty, briny pillows of goodness bathing in a wine and butter broth, before returning the pot and hitting the road again.
We were five or six hours into our long day from Portland to Sacramento, driving in a sleek rental car past snow-sprinkled volcano cones dressed with deep green spruce and pine trees, our bellies full of the custard buns Simone had picked out at the Asian market, drinking bottles of cold green tea and listening to a podcast about the birth of punk in 1976 London, the road a winding ribbon of sun-blasted asphalt.
We were driving across the hot, marshy farmland outside Sacramento, our bellies full of eggy breakfast, which we’d enjoyed with my mom and her new beau, and it was our last bit of serious travel, having visited four schools on our epic #collegevisitroadtrip, with one more to go the next day.
We’d had a mostly-painless and relatively stress-free nine or ten days of travel, and as much as I looked forward to getting home, I was also a little sad about winding down our summer adventure. Once we got to my baby sister’s house in Berkeley, we’d be embraced by family and chaos, and the easy quiet of our time together would be at an end.
We’d flown into Seattle on the Tuesday before, grabbing a ZipCar and driving it down to Tacoma for a tour through the University of Puget Sound (tiny, lovely, expensive). I knew Simone would be enamored with the first school we visited, of course. And with everyone so friendly, the weather so perfect, and the campus so accessible, it was easy for her to imagine herself living there. Don’t get me started on how the “I could see myself living here” refrain affected me every time she said it for the next 10 days.
By the time we’d picked up the Mini my friend so kindly offered to let us borrow for the first part of the trip, it had already been a full day of travel. And we still had the 3-hour drive up to Vancouver to go.
But we were stoked to hit the open road in “Mona,” the cutest car of all time. It wasn’t until we were about an hour from the US/Canadian border that I realized I hadn’t even thought about grabbing our passports when we’d left home that morning. It’s not like I forgot them — it’s that I forgot to even consider bringing them. They were tucked away in Denver, totally useless for crossing international borders in a borrowed car.
My stomach in knots for that full hour, I figured we’d see if we could talk our way into Canada anyway, and if we were turned back, well…we’d come up with a different plan for the next two days. It would be deeply disappointing to miss seeing our friends and their twins, plus missing out on visiting the art school there. Just as we stopped the car to wait our turn at the crossing, I remembered I had a copy of our passports somewhere in my travel bag — we never leave the country without a few copies hidden away in suitcases and backpacks. Simone and I feverishly tore my bag apart, finding the folded document just as I pulled up to the gatehouse.
The kindly border guard asked us lots of questions, but in the end let us pass. She did warn us that getting back into the US could be a hassle, but we could enter at our own risk. We went for it.
Emily Carr is a small art school on Granville Island, which is a cute, touristy shopping area with an enormous farmer’s market. Sadly, the school is in the process of moving into Vancouver proper, so a tour wasn’t in the cards. But we had a fun and quirky conversation with a dude from admissions, who gave Simone his email address on a post-it note and encouraged her to reach out if she had questions. She thought the “vibe” of the school and the people were just right for her.
Of course, touring the massive University of Washington in Seattle was impressive on a different scale.
We’d driven back to Seattle on Thursday (after spending an hour waiting in secondary screening to explain to US Customs and Immigration why we didn’t have our passports), enjoying our Whidbey Island detour before settling into the rustic Airbnb houseboat we’d booked for the next three nights. Our stay was much closer to sleeping in a trailer park than on a cruise ship. The bathroom was tiny, and the shower even smaller. Simone didn't love the boat bathroom situation (especially putting toilet paper in a trashcan, rather than flushing it), and she was really upset to find out that the wifi was broken (so was I, because I still needed to work in the evenings). The sleeping bunk had thin cushions, so we’d always wake up a bit sore. But I’d never before had an experience like waking to a cool morning breeze and drinking a cup of tea in my pjs on the back deck of a boat, swaying on the sun-dappled wake of a passing cruiser. All three mornings there were stunners.
We saw dozens of Orcas on a whale watching trip and visited U-Dub during our time in Seattle. Simone was blown away by the size of the campus, the beautiful juxtaposition of classic, old brick buildings and modern glass ones, and by the university museum, full of the kind of paleo-art (dino skulls, sculptures, and dioramas) that she wants to design someday.
I appreciated the houseboat more the longer we stayed there, and was a little sad to leave Sunday morning. But once we picked up the rental car, had a sit-down breakfast at Biscuit Bitch, and were headed south toward Portland, I felt the thrill of being on the road with the girl again.
Portland was a bit scuzzier than I’d remembered, with angry homeless people shouting and sleeping across the sidewalks as we perambulated over to Powell’s. Simone was appropriately awed by the largest independent bookstore in the world. We spent hours wandering through and sharing finds together before stopping at a coffeeshop nearby to read what we’d picked up. By the time we met our pal Eli for dinner, we were hungry and worn from the day.
Simone didn’t love Lewis and Clark College the next day, though she was thrilled by the theatre department. Something about the sense of isolation in a wooded area south of the city didn’t appeal to her. For me, it felt reminiscent of UC Santa Cruz, but without the smell of salt water on the breeze.
The drive from Portland to Sacramento was long and lovely; with a two-hour stop in gorgeous Ashland for lunch with a friend from college (thank you, Facebook!). We rolled up to my mom’s house that night, met her new man (seems like a nice guy), and were up the next day in
time to grab breakfast with them before heading west to drop off our stuff at my sister’s and turn in the car. Simone hopped BART to SFO to meet my nephews and guide them back to the East Bay, while I had the honor of collecting nieces Sydney and Clara from their respective summer camps and playing tag on the playground. The evening was a cacophony of cousins and crack-ups.
Our final school visit was San Francisco State University. The boys came along, providing editorial commentary that had all of us laughing while we toured the small and pretty school. Simone was thrilled by the foggy July chill — she loved the idea of wearing hoodies year-round, the truly multicultural feel of the campus, the proximity to the city, and the idea of family just over the bridge.
As we walked past the residence halls, she said, “I could see myself living here…” one last time, and my heart lurched one more time, and then it was the next morning and I was hugging her goodbye and on the plane back to Denver.
I didn’t cry when I left, though my heart was heavy. And if I teared up a bit when she texted me that she missed me the next day, well… of course I did. She just returned yesterday from a University of Chicago visit with her maternal grandfather, and I felt myself holding back tears as she told me about the school.
This summer of weepiness continues, and I’m powerless to resist. What kind of mess am I going to be next summer?
I’m trying not to think about it.
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