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John Steinbeck once wrote that all journeys begin before we leave home and end before we return. My travels with my 7-year-old daughter, Katy, began last fall when my wife decided to go to Rome with some family and friends. Her trip would coincide with our daughter's spring break, so Katy and I needed to figure out a suitable way to spend eight days on our own. After much turmoil and compromise, we planned an itinerary that included a two-day visit with my brother and his family in Birmingham, Ala., a train trip to Washington, D.C., three or four days of sightseeing, a train ride back to Birmingham and a drive to our home in Knoxville, Tenn.
We read books about Washington, made our travel arrangements and piled coats, a digital cameral, a Game Boy, binoculars, dolls and boxes of Kleenex tissues in a heap on our dining room table. Work and school distracted us for the next few months and before we knew it, it was time to go. The two days with my brother seemed to evaporate in an instant, and almost by surprise, Katy and I found ourselves aboard Amtrak's Crescent train en route to D.C.
There is, perhaps, a corollary to Steinbeck's observation about travel: whatever we think a trip will be, it will end up as something different. I can't recall my expectations for my journey with Katy, but whatever they were, they disappeared as I took a new, lucid look at the person who has been the focus of my attention for the past seven years. What I saw was a little girl who is adventurous, frighteningly comfortable around strangers and hysterically funny. Even as the memories fade, I don't think I will ever look at Katy in quite the same way.
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The only child of older parents, Katy has traveled a lot. Still, our spring-break trip was different. There was no Mom, no rental car and an almost completely urban itinerary. Washington's monuments and federal buildings, its ethnic neighborhoods and the constant street noise combined to produce an unending sense of excitement. People played musical instruments on the street for tips. Nights were as bright and loud as the days. The crush of humanity that accompanied rush hour was magical when I saw it through my child's eyes.
Throughout it all, Katy never seemed to fear this world that differed so radically from her own. No doubt, part of that was due to her ignorance of its dangers and part of it was a testament to her trust in me as a guide and protector. Mostly, however, Katy's ease with this new urban setting was a reflection of who she is. She played hopscotch in front of the White House, sang constantly and skipped as often as she walked. I tried to quiet her with stern words about the need for anonymity in a city setting, but I might as well have been talking to a tree. The smiles she brought to other pedestrians, museumgoers and restaurant patrons simply reinforced my failure. I couldn't scare her, I couldn't quiet her and I finally grew weary of trying. It's as if she was saying, "Dad, this is me! Take a pill. It'll be OK."
I learned that my daughter is compassionate. While the noise and confusion of the city didn't seem to scare Katy, she several times became sad at the sight of the homeless people we encountered. I tried to explain that, while many of these people were homeless through no fault of their own, others had chosen this life over one that requires them to comply with societal rules and obligations. She responded with a question: "Can you look at them and tell who is who?" When I quietly answered no, she insisted on giving her only dollar to a homeless woman. As badly as I wanted to, I couldn't tell her she was wrong to do so.
As every parent knows, an eight-day odyssey with a "grader" can't be all poetry. We snapped at each other, fought over restaurants and groused over bedtimes. And heaven knows suburban kids are not used to walking. The National Zoo was a Katy-favorite, but she wasn't thrilled about the extraordinarily long walk out of the park and back to the Metro. All told, however, we got along well.
During our days in Washington, we walked together by the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, rested reverently on the place from which Martin Luther King Jr. delivered his "I Have a Dream" speech, ate up most of Chinatown and joined throngs of visitors at the Smithsonian museums of Air and Space, Natural History and American History. We rode the rails to Baltimore and enjoyed a morning at the Baltimore & Ohio Railway Museum, logged what felt like hundreds of miles on the D.C. Metro and purchased armfuls of junky souvenirs. But the legacy of our trip isn't any one of these experiences. It's my new understanding of my delightful daughter.
Upon our return, I stood Katy on the platform of Amtrak's Birmingham station for one final photo. As we prepped the shot, she asked, "Do you want the cheesy look or the I-love-you-Daddy smile?" I'm sure you can guess which one I chose.
Burton lives in Knoxville, Tenn.
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