Mountaintop

by Alyce Straub (Canada)

I didn't expect to find United Kingdom

"I used Nathan's credit card to buy a ticket to England," I told my mother after work on Tuesday. Her eyebrows slowly rose, until I lost them in her bangs. "You did what?" she replied. "Last boarding call for flight AC145 to London. All passengers should be now on board." I showed the airline attendant my passport and floated down the walkway towards the Boeing 747 that would take me across the ocean, to a whole new country. Continent. World. I could sense the adventure before me. The sky outside was grey. Rain slipped in veins down the window of the train, speeding its way to Paddington Station. I stared at my reflection. I looked nervous, but excited. On my left, my mother stared at my reflection too. I was all grown up; the last of her five children. Carrying our travel packs, sporting bright red and white flags with maple leaves squeezed into the centre, we checked into our first hostel, one of many interesting accommodations that would become our home in the coming weeks. Tucked into our room, we slept away the first few hours. It was 3 am at home and my wise mother said we should sleep off the jet lag. Waking up six hours later, I was ready to explore a world I had only seen in photos pinned above my bed. I laid out the colourful coasters in front of me. 12 little circles. Each one from a different pub, in a different town, in three different countries. My collection was steadily growing. In 10 short days we had travelled from London to the west, where England meets the Atlantic, upwards and around traffic circles with no sense of order, down lanes built for one small car but somehow the drivers fit two, over to the land of four-leaf clovers and finally back to a small town at the base of a large mountain. My 13th coaster was placed on the dark stained wooden table in front of me, under my golden coloured beverage. Removing my drink and picking up the coaster to inspect it, I saw a red dragon framed by a waving banner, reminiscent of the Welsh flag. We had stopped in for lunch at a quaint tavern in Llanberis, which sits at the base of Mt. Snowdon in Snowdonia National Park. "Mt. Snowdon looks like it would be fun to climb," I mused out loud as I looked out the window. "We should climb it first thing in the morning before we head back to London." My mother looked at me like she always did, like she thought I was crazy, but knew that I couldn't be dissuaded. I'm certain I had plenty to do with the forming of her frown lines. This was a look I saw often. My alarm chimed sharply at 7 am the next morning, throughout the small cabin we had rented on the outskirts of town. Made of stone and square timbers, it was cold in the morning before we managed to get the fire burning and warmth spread outwards from the hearth. I stuffed my feet into the slippers next to my bed and went to wake mom. As I entered her bedroom, I saw her clothes for the day laid out. She had everything ready to hike a mountain. Then and there, I was so happy she was mine. Sitting at 3,560ft, looking out over Snowdonia, Anglesey, Pembrokeshire and Ireland, we had reached the summit. Nine miles later and through sun, rain, wind and snow, we gazed out on a view that extended for miles. Together, a mother of 58 and a daughter of 18, 40 years apart, sat contentedly, side-by-side on the last day of their trip together. I bent down and picked up the fallen photo. There we were, smiling together against the ferry railing as we crossed the Irish Sea. As I looked, it all came flooding back. A tear slipped down my cheek. I missed her terribly, but I smiled at the memories. Two weeks ambling around Europe together, just her and I. I hopped on a plane with my mom and found a best friend halfway around the world.