“And that’s the wonderful thing about family travel: it provides you with experiences that will remain locked forever in the scar tissue of your mind.”
— Dave Barry
My brother is a man of few words. I was reminded of this when he picked me up from the airport in Wichita, Kansas, last Friday night.
Kansas seemed like an odd destination, especially after a semester in London, but I’d come to keep him company on his 23-hour drive home for Christmas break. He transferred out to a small town called McPherson this semester to play soccer for a small college, and I knew this was most likely my only chance to see this new alternate universe he inhabits.
After a greasy breakfast at Neighbor’s Cafe on Saturday morning (and a few moments of confusion whereby we were mistaken for a couple–“Mr and Mrs?” our waiter asked to Grant’s horror) we headed out to an even smaller town fifteen minutes away called Lindsborg–otherwise known as Little Sweden, USA.
My parents had walked around it when they flew out for a visit in October and I expected it to be just the sort of place I love, the kind of towns I spent a month exploring around the North Island of New Zealand: tiny populations, quirky personalities, and outrageous claims-to-fame that only small town tourism boards can invent.
As a collection of at least twenty painted Swedish dalas placed outside shops had me around the main street area, Grant walked slowly and silently along behind me, as I reveled in the whimsical touches of Scandinavia here in the heartland of Kansas.
“Alright, I think I’m ready,” I said finally, my camera’s memory card groaning under the weight of new photos and my capacity for dalas nearly reached. We made our way through a few back streets, around the campus of a local university, and then back, I thought, towards McPherson. But then Grant turned the car away from the highway.
“Where are we going?” I asked, but no sooner had the words been spoken then there appeared in the woods a one-lane bridge, the kind of bridge built from a structure of criss-crossing iron beams. They were painted green, had strings of Christmas lights wrapped around them, lit even in daylight, and the words God Jul–‘Merry Christmas’ in Swedish–painted across the top front beam. It was set back between leafless trees and a narrow creek ran swiftly beneath.
“How’d you know it was here?” I asked, surprised.
“I saw it,” he said simply, no doubt having little idea of how much this meant to me.
I hopped out to get a few shots, struck by the beauty of the Christmas bridge, but thinking mostly of how we don’t always need words to know someone cares.
yeah he doesnt look totally impressed but sounds like you had a good time. my brother is also a man of fez words, but sof ull of love. i miss him.
that’s such a perfect way to put it, jen…brothers are awesome, aren’t they? 🙂 i’ve been loving your paris posts, btw…i need to be better about actually commenting! and yes, i would love to catch up for coffee in the new year. i get back to london the 4th of jan and will send you a message to see when you’re free…have a lovely christmas! x
Just to comment the first pic — well there’s a lady that’s taller than Grant, isnt that something grand? :))
Nice writing Candace, as always, you know what a fan I am. Having no brothers or sisters traveling with family is not particulary my thing, though traveling with my male friends is. And yeah, many are men of few words but it makes it sooo much nicer when there are deeds that show you how much they care. These truely are rare moments that spice up your rare travels. Enjoy your stay home, Marry Christmas and wonderful new year with many more adventures to come, some hopefully we will also share.