my name is not loulou 3

My mother had car trouble the day before I was to leave. I didn't panic. I called my best friend's mom: could she drive me to the airport? Then I told my mother not to worry, as I wouldn't be needing her after all.

I had meant to spare her a burden, but instead she burst into tears. The car was already fixed, she said. And in spite of all the trouble between us, she'd always assumed she would be at my side in that last moment, before I flew.

So the next day, she drove me. It was a strained parting. During the month we'd been under the same roof, my mother had not cheered for my plan. In the middle of our silent dinners I'd see her eyes fixed on me, mouth pursed up and lines of pain and anger etched into her face. She'd burst out, It's not going to be like you think, you know. I've traveled in Europe. They're sick of young American bums on their streets. You think they'll be friendly to you? You're wrong.

Or, What do you know about biking any distance? What's the longest you've ever biked, anyway? How will you even get out of the airport? You've never put a bike together. What's going to happen if you can't do it?

Or, Your father and I saved every penny when we were first married. We didn't go running around, loosey-goosey, because we thought it was fun. We were too responsible for such nonsense.

My mother was scared for me; I knew that. She was also impossible, bitter, envious, and mean: a dragging anchor against all my optimism and hope. At least that's how I saw it then. Now that I've got a few young things of my own, I would say she let me off easy. If one of my own kids ever threatens to take wild risks too far from the nest, I'm going to chain her to a radiator until I can beat some sense into her silly, ungrateful skull.

At the airport, my mother helped me maneuver my luggage cart through the lines. The only baggage I checked was an oversized flat box of heavy cardboard. I had paid a local bike shop to disassemble and pack my bike for me, since I had no idea how to do it myself and wasn't interested in learning. The bike was new: a Univega Gran Touring, twelve speeds, gunmetal gray. It had cost four hundred dollars. I'd ridden it in my neighborhood a couple times with the panniers on, trying to get the hang of balancing with all that unfamiliar weight on my rear wheel. I didn't go far, though; just up and down my street. It was sort of a drag, to tell the truth -- slow and heavy and hard to manage. But I wasn't worried. I'd learn by doing, on the road in Europe. I'd chosen Holland as a strategic starting point in my campaign: according to Let's Go: Europe, it was bike-friendly. And flat.

My carry-on luggage was a strange-looking creation. It consisted of two panniers (stuffed with clothes and a tarp), a sleeping bag, a bike pump, a Kryptonite lock, and a handlebar bag full of Allen wrenches and such. The whole mess was bound together with an assortment of bungee cords. Under my clothes I wore a hidden pouch that hung from a string around my neck: it held my passport and asthma inhaler and every cent I'd saved in my entire life, converted into travelers' checks. I'd always been a saver. I'd also been something of a kept woman my last year in college, so that helped.

Something occurred to me years later, that never crossed my mind at that time. My mother had taken out loans, maybe a hundred grand's worth, to put me through college. I had been able to "save" money from my campus jobs and summer work, because my living expenses were paid by those student loans that she signed for. Rightfully, my mother could have reminded me of this and laid claim to every cent I had. But for all those times she'd said, Don't go and I'd stormed, I have the right and I have the money, she had never once pulled that trump card. She was a class act.

Eithet that, or she was just scared it wouldn't be enough to stop me.

At the security gate, we paused for a moment. She looked at me. I was steeled for some final twist of the knife or bitter remonstration. Instead she said softly, "Have fun out there, kiddo. Enjoy your freedom. The real world closes in pretty fast."

That was the last gift she gave me, and the last thing I took with me when I left.