We'll Always Have Paris
“The train to Granada was small and black and looked as though men in striped overalls should be shoveling coal into it. It was all quite charming until an hour into the journey, when we started rounding bends and reaching higher elevations. I tapped Katie, whose nose was buried in a book. “How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Great, how are—” Katie replied, lifting her head. “Whoa, you look terrible.”
“I never get sick on trains,” I told her.
“Well, this is more of a stagecoach,” she sai...d. “Let me get you a Dramamine. We have two more hours.” Katie rifled through my backpack and handed me a bottle of water and a bitter pill for motion sickness. “Water and sleep, Mommy. That’s the best medicine.” I smiled at her parroting the advice I always gave her. I quickly fell asleep to the image of Katie, my father, and I holding hands walking down a yellow brick road. I saw only our backs, but I was certain it was us: three generations with me in the middle, staggering, struggling to find my footing.MoreLess
“Great, how are—” Katie replied, lifting her head. “Whoa, you look terrible.”
“I never get sick on trains,” I told her.
“Well, this is more of a stagecoach,” she sai...d. “Let me get you a Dramamine. We have two more hours.” Katie rifled through my backpack and handed me a bottle of water and a bitter pill for motion sickness. “Water and sleep, Mommy. That’s the best medicine.” I smiled at her parroting the advice I always gave her. I quickly fell asleep to the image of Katie, my father, and I holding hands walking down a yellow brick road. I saw only our backs, but I was certain it was us: three generations with me in the middle, staggering, struggling to find my footing.MoreLess
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