EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNAL
September 17, 1999
Finding a Place for Alfi
It's time to find a place to store Alfi -- a place where our trusty
Italian antique can rest until the next roadtrip, sometime in the future
when we return to Continental Europe. We're in the suburbs of Paris today,
beyond the autoroute, beside the exponential Supermarche, the car
dealerships, the trendy, roaming youth. Between the strip malls and the
motels there is a long-term storage garage for boats and holiday caravans.
It looks like a perfect place for Alfi's hibernation -- a 20 minute train
ride from the centre of Paris or the airports.
Monsieur roams the storage compound in camoflauge pants and a
walkie-talkie. Between drinks he plays boule with his
co-workers, and hangs out with his dog. He assures us that Alfi will be
kept safe between a fiberglass leisure craft and a camping trailer. We
pack our bags, amaglimating the loose parts of our moveable house, leaving
maps and paints for another day, and vacuum up a year's supply of bread
crumbs and Portuguese sand and popsicle wrappers. I'm leaving a posey of
dried lavender on the dash board and a note for the most probable next
driver:
Dear Dad,
Alfi is in good shape. Easy on the clutch. The paints are oils. Your
hiking boots are in the trunk.
Thank-you, I love you,
Sara and Richard
