Tomorrow two fearless adventuresome seniors, people you'd expect to take up knitting and backgammon in their golden years, or maybe write a book will leave from my house. Their first stop? San Diego. Then it's a quick port of call in Hawaii, and then Tokyo.
Me and the kids are following their boat, the aptly named MV Explorer, on a wall map, with purple yarn and pins, demarking their meandering whaleman-like voyage across the Pacific, down into the Indian Ocean, around the Cape, and then, steadily getting closer to home, landing in Barcelona in May.
For years I have been leaving them. For college, for Seattle (in a misguided attempt to remake myself West Coast), for Israel, for Venezuela, for Rome. This is the natural order of things is it not?
Being the one left behind this time, I can say it is harder being left than doing the leaving. My only consolation is a boatload of confetti and Champagne, and the memory of how stoic they were when I went away, they would always stiff upper lip and say, "Safe voyage, safe return," and now I will too, but burbling, sniffling, and wiping my tear-wet nose on my sleeve in exactly the way, as a kid, I was instructed not to.