by Celia Rivenbark
Our vacation on the mid-coast of Maine, where there wasn’t even a television or radio in our little hideaway, has given me new appreciation for stillness and natural beauty.
Because of this, like a space shuttle astronaut, I found re-entry into the real world noisy and jarring. No sooner had we settled into our seats at the gate for the flight home, than CNN overhead pelted us with all the news we had missed.
It was nice being away from the noise for a few days. The only angry sound I heard all week was the fierce pounding of ancient rocks at high tide by the waters of the Gulf of Maine. Bliss.
Unfortunately, my near-hypnotic state of relaxation disappeared completely by the time we boarded the Relta flight home. Loyal readers know that Relta is what I call my favorite airline on account of I don’t want to be sued.
Relta had actually taken a full day of vacation from us because of “maintenance issues” with Plane No. 1. Eight hours later, boarding Plane No. 2, we were told it might take a while to find a gate at LaGuardia because “sometimes they shut down the runways for a while.”
Yes, when things are just too overwhelming, they close the runways so they can catch up with all those, whatchacallit, planes up in the sky. I hear you, LGA.
Sometimes you just have to power down for a few and gather your thoughts. Respect.
Having missed the last flight to Maine, Relta gave us a hotel voucher to stay in the Marriott LGA, which I quickly dubbed the Marriott Island of Misfit Toys.
Zombie travelers like us wandered, luggage-less, clutching the tiny travel kits thoughtfully supplied to us by the airline. I searched in vain for the one truly useful item, underwear, in our little care package but, alas, there was none. It struck me that, while the hotel room was lovely and the restaurant shockingly good, not a soul staying there was there because they wanted to be. I mean maybe other than the occasional guest for a quinceanera for a nice girl from Queens, the clientele was just us misfit toys without clean underwear, loudly canceling rental cars and rearranging other plans in the elevators.
And that’s when you know vacation is truly, madly, deeply over.
Rivenbark is the best-selling author of seven humor collections. Visit her website at www.celiarivenbark.com ©2017 Celia Rivenbark. Distributed by Tribune Content Agency, LLC.