In a trip that very much resembled a cloak and dagger operation, I departed Dar es Salaam late Thursday night. There would be an eleven hour trip to Amsterdam, time to visit the restroom, before another nine hour flight to Los Angeles beckoned.
Hard to beat that itinerary, when you look at it. Tanzania, Amsterdam, California. And yet I wish I had never done it and will never do it again. That’s what happens when you have a dying parent.
My dad, William F. Longworth, was born during the depression days in 1932 Los Angeles. He certainly contributed to me becoming a worldchump as much as anybody. Well-traveled himself with a degree in history, he certainly had something worldly about him. This was not your typical happy-go-lucky Yankee who would form strong opinions about things he could care less about. It was he who first suggested I join the Peace Corps, where I would end up meeting Liebi, my future wife and fellow worldchump.
Fast forward almost 15 years later and here he was, probably gasping his last breath while I was 38,000 feet in the air for what seemed like the whole month of September. The last leg of the journey, a Delta commuter flight from Los Angeles to San Diego, took less than 30 minutes (following a two hour layover—go figure).
The visitor exiting Lindbergh Field in San Diego can’t help but gawk at the water in front of him, the cloudless blue sky, the yachts, and palm trees greeting him. I just couldn’t be bothered. I felt like I was dropped into Stalingrad. And yet I had never felt San Diego to be this blazing hot. Think climate change isn’t real? If it can hit San Diego, it can hit anyplace. Say bye bye to those nice summer days of 69—degrees, that is.
It turns out my father had less than 20 hours to live from the time I landed. He went peacefully and out with a (morphine) blast, I’d like to think. And I also learned what billions of people have discovered before me: losing a parent positively sucks. It still does. This will take some getting used to.
The return: my flight was changed (unilaterally, of course) by KLM upon arrival in Los Angeles. I was fortunate to barely make it to the departure gate. My suitcase was not, and we would not be reunited until a day later. Give an airline just half a chance to mess up things, and it will convert. It never fails. Look up the expression about shooting fish in a barrel.
This time, I would not fly straight through to Dar on that brain (more likely knee) numbing twenty hour marathon. You would think the Dutch—with the tallest people in the world—would know better about legroom, but it’s a question of profits in the end.
Following California, Amsterdam was wonderful. I stayed away from the city center and tourist attractions and relegated myself to walking through the neighborhood in North Amsterdam and getting to be a European for a day again.
After my depressing experience in California, the sweetness and kindness of the Dutch were just what the doctor ordered. Amsterdam, more than any other place, is the epitome of modern quality living. Walking calmly along the channels and through the parks helped me put things in proper perspective.
And my dad, I am sure, loved Amsterdam. A good place for a proper send-off, in the end.
Hard to beat that itinerary, when you look at it. Tanzania, Amsterdam, California. And yet I wish I had never done it and will never do it again. That’s what happens when you have a dying parent.
My dad, William F. Longworth, was born during the depression days in 1932 Los Angeles. He certainly contributed to me becoming a worldchump as much as anybody. Well-traveled himself with a degree in history, he certainly had something worldly about him. This was not your typical happy-go-lucky Yankee who would form strong opinions about things he could care less about. It was he who first suggested I join the Peace Corps, where I would end up meeting Liebi, my future wife and fellow worldchump.
Fast forward almost 15 years later and here he was, probably gasping his last breath while I was 38,000 feet in the air for what seemed like the whole month of September. The last leg of the journey, a Delta commuter flight from Los Angeles to San Diego, took less than 30 minutes (following a two hour layover—go figure).
The visitor exiting Lindbergh Field in San Diego can’t help but gawk at the water in front of him, the cloudless blue sky, the yachts, and palm trees greeting him. I just couldn’t be bothered. I felt like I was dropped into Stalingrad. And yet I had never felt San Diego to be this blazing hot. Think climate change isn’t real? If it can hit San Diego, it can hit anyplace. Say bye bye to those nice summer days of 69—degrees, that is.
It turns out my father had less than 20 hours to live from the time I landed. He went peacefully and out with a (morphine) blast, I’d like to think. And I also learned what billions of people have discovered before me: losing a parent positively sucks. It still does. This will take some getting used to.
The return: my flight was changed (unilaterally, of course) by KLM upon arrival in Los Angeles. I was fortunate to barely make it to the departure gate. My suitcase was not, and we would not be reunited until a day later. Give an airline just half a chance to mess up things, and it will convert. It never fails. Look up the expression about shooting fish in a barrel.
This time, I would not fly straight through to Dar on that brain (more likely knee) numbing twenty hour marathon. You would think the Dutch—with the tallest people in the world—would know better about legroom, but it’s a question of profits in the end.
Following California, Amsterdam was wonderful. I stayed away from the city center and tourist attractions and relegated myself to walking through the neighborhood in North Amsterdam and getting to be a European for a day again.
After my depressing experience in California, the sweetness and kindness of the Dutch were just what the doctor ordered. Amsterdam, more than any other place, is the epitome of modern quality living. Walking calmly along the channels and through the parks helped me put things in proper perspective.
And my dad, I am sure, loved Amsterdam. A good place for a proper send-off, in the end.
