Ja no hi és el xiprer
Some important childhood moments happen in the backseat of our parents’ car. Embraced by those dark, worn tapestries, we sat side by side with our brothers, behind our parents who had decided to move us from point A to point B. During the period of time that the trip lasted, that container of memories on wheels was both comfort and novelty, home and adventure.
What sounded inside the car was important. Whereas, today, most families with young children choose playlists designed to distract their offspring and enjoy a quiet journey -that is, if they don’t stick a screen in their noses to make them evaporate completely-, when we were little things were different. As children we had no power over our parents: we did not choose the music and resigned ourselves to, or enjoyed, what our parents wanted to hear. And that wasn’t a bad thing: we had no judgment yet and we were excited to immerse ourselves in what they considered music. Hearing them sing at the top of their lungs fascinated us while providing priceless doses of well-being and security.
Everything was going wonderfully until, at the twentieth curve, our mouths filled with saliva. An unmistakable cold drool informed us that the incipient dizziness would increase and, very soon, we would feel an uncontrollable urge to throw up. Mom had invented all kinds of antidotes against car sickness –drinking water with lemon before starting the journey, looking at a fixed point on the road…–, which we tried to blindly believe while the nausea was in crescendo. When, after much fighting against it, we assumed that it would end badly, we had three options: the first and most recommended, to ask them to stop the car; the second, ask for a plastic bag; and the third, pray for a miracle to occur and the sickness to disappear. My choice was always the third. The nape of my parents’ necks and the upholstery of the car were shocked by the vomit several times and, finally, disgust and the urge to cry. The tender voice of the mother saying “why didn’t you warn us?” the face of hatred of my father and brothers shouting “eeeeekk” they were a cocktail of emotions difficult to overcome.
After the discomfort and changing into spare clothes, we were getting closer to point B of the journey. It was a bit of a shame to leave point A, where we always returned, but point B was not completely unfamiliar; it was home for a few days, and when we were there, we felt like it was a little bit ours and a little bit everyone else’s. During the rest of the journey we looked out of the window and recognized details of the trip that confirmed that our parents were taking us to point B to spend the summer holidays. Before reaching the village, we recognized the roadside hotel, then the abandoned house. It meant we were getting closer. Later, the gas station. Little was missing before disembarking at point B. Now, a sharp curve would come, and then the cypress that would signal our arrival. That summer, like every year, we rounded the corner, but the cypress was no longer there…
Mercè Vila Rigat
