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I guess I’m up for it; I mean things have been working out for me for too long on this trip, and change is always therapeutic, eh? You can’t live forever in a candy store without getting some cavities along the way, I suppose.

I was looking forward to this part of the trip at any rate. I had booked a visit to the same motel where I was housed during my part-time job many years ago. I got to know the owners in a cozy, journeyman sort of way, but had not been back in over 30 years despite the no-doubt massaged memories begging me to return. Still, my regular job was far far away, and since my retirement, my age had not gone gentle into that good night.

New Zealand does not live nearby, and despite the beautiful Tolkienian memories, the costs, and the uncomfortable 14 hour flight were sufficient to nurture my elderly torpor… until they weren’t…

It’s hard to know why a change of mind happens. Is it the zephyrs which insist on ruffling moods; the years which, like children, sometimes demand permission to run amok; or is it simply the sure and certain suspicion that it needs be now or never…? I’ve never been one to dwell on the endgame, but then again, I’ve never had to play it before, so any decision will inevitably be mediated by justifications which are, of course, integral to any game’s ending.

But, a return to my old haunts; a run along the nearby trails, similarly rusty in my remembrance of them; a visit with the owners (now also 30 years further along the path), a coffee and muesli for breakfast in their little dining room like the old days when my work paid for it…? I mean what could go wrong with an old, seldom-primed memory? Even with the outrageous changes my father attempted to get away with in the bedtime stories he used to tell me as a child, I could still pick out the storyline and amend it to fit with my expectations. I learned from an early age that nothing stays the same -not even my father. And certainly, not me… As my friends kept saying, “Do it now, or forever hold your regret.” So I decided to give it a go.

But I could tell as I drove under the little arch which defined the property in my memory, that things were not as I remembered: the stucco was peeling and stained in places. The owners had been very fastidious about their motel, and the clientele to which they used to cater expected no less. A lot of business types stayed there on their trips around the country, and I remember the owners used to entertain them in a spacious lounge contiguous with their restaurant. Everyone always seemed to be enjoying themselves and it reminded me of nothing if not a welcomed gathering of friends invited over for an evening party.

Still, we remember things as they were, and somehow expect it to be replicable thirty years later. With no way of appreciating the slow inexorable drip of time, of course things must be different. But somehow, I suppose I expected a continuity, disguised, and yet as recognizable, as the face of an old friend -one who is still there underneath the wrinkles and sagging chin; one whose identity never really depended on how they looked, but more in who they were. I suppose I was hoping the same would apply to the buildings of which they were always so proud; that peeking playfully out of a cracked and warping door, or hiding behind a slab of stained and peeling stucco would be my friends, pretending it was just a temporary aberration while they awaited repairs. Improvements. A new and exciting look…

But the place seemed lifeless, including the window of the office where the wife had sat manning the reservation schedules and phoning business associates; her chair was empty now, as well as the office. There was no smile to greet me, no eyes that showed instant and happy recognition of a memory shared so long ago -only a hand written sign that due to some unforeseen problem, neither she or her husband would be around for a while to greet new guests, and that the owners hoped we’d all understand.

The restaurant windows were all draped in canvas from the inside as if even a peek in there would be a sacrilege; the windows of their apartment were also covered like old unused furniture in an empty house.

There was no further information supplied, only the phone number of what I assume was a company hired to fill in during this unexpected problem. There was no one around however, and the battery in my phone was unfortunately not up to the task of managing a phone call.

I got out of my car and walked around. I had stayed on the second floor in that other time, but even though there was only one or two cars parked in their lot, I hesitated to climb the stairs and peer in through the old window; the room was not mine anymore; the memories it contained were no doubt covered in dust like everything else.

I eventually saw a man who looked official and he found the room I’d been assigned from my online booking, but it was on the ground floor, and shabby in comparison to what I knew. To what I had expected. He was pleasant but spoke very little English and couldn’t explain what had happened to the owners.

I stayed the night, but it was obviously not the same. It was not what I expected, so I was happy to leave the next morning clinging to what fading memories I could sieve from the remnants.

I think it’s better to live with what you had than with what you expect. Time, and Age can sometimes leave things lie fallow for too long; not everything improves with a second chance…