The
Big Trip
It
was time for an adventure-well adventure for me is going somewhere familiar. I
decided to see family back east on Cape Cod and Erie PA.
I
hate flying but it was the only way to get there quickly and cheaply. I wanted
to get a sleeper on Amtrak but, my God they are expensive. Aside from the plane
flight, I had to arrange the whole planes, trains and bus potions myself
because travel agents don't do trains anymore (more ranting about Amtrak to
come). So after getting all the scheduling, tickets, and packing done I was
ready but first a major anxiety attack the day of departure. What if something
goes wrong? Do I have everything I need? I hope I'm not late. Will I end up
with unpleasant drama like the last time I went to see family? (don't ask). I
took the train to Portland and met friends for dinner before my flight to
Boston.
Flying the Unfriendly Skies...
I
hate airplane travel, and really hate TSA, the source of much anxiety. I got advice from friends
who are frequent flyers about what to expect. TSA, always picks on people with
one way tickets and I was no exception. After practically stripping to
underwear I was put thru the body scanner, which picked up "something near
my left shoulder and right ankle," which was bullshit. A fat lady told me
I had to be searched even after I protested I don't like being touched by strangers because of my autism
( I guess she didn't see my T shirt
that reads "Autism: not just a neurological condition, it's a way of
life") telling me she has a daughter with autism was BS number two.
Condition be damned I had to be groped then have my palms swiped for- what?
"All
you're going to see is the fucking burrito I had for dinner." I snarled. I
was so done with this security theatre. I got a vodka soda cocktail at a
distillery next to the gate.
The
flight was spectacularly uneventful-thank God- but I got little sleep in a cramped
uncomfortable seat. I forgot an eyeshade so the light bothered me and the noise
reducing ear buds were ineffectual against the roaring engines. The plane comes
to a screeching halt the moment we touch down at Logan airport.
"
Did we land at an airport or on aircraft carrier?" I wondered aloud at the
abrupt landing,
Lovely
Cape Cod
After
some initial miscommunications with the stupid cell phone, I got hold of Uncle
Din who drove me to his most perfect house. He built it himself (with help from
friends, of course) 45 years ago, nestled in the woods of North Falmouth. I had
been there before and it charms me every time.
Damian
McLaughlin is a master wooden boat builder who can recall in great detail every
boat he's built. He has the coolest workshop that had me drooling at the
collection of tools.
The boat builder in his natural habitat
I spend the afternoon helping him
construct a plastic tent to cover the boat he is currently building- a Sold
Said 12 1/2 foot sail boat to protect it from dust while it's painted and
sanded by his assistant. He can't sail due to a mysterious inner ear balance
problem that didn't prevent him from climbing on a ladder and stapling some
plastic on the overhead rafters of the shop, much to my nervousness.
"Are
you still walking the plank to the bedroom?" I asked. The plank is two
wide boards crossing ten feet above the living room leading to their second
story bedroom. I had visions of Aunt Linda finding him on the floor with a
cracked skull.
"Oh
that's possible," he agreed with a causal air. He is not the only family
member who lives dangerously.
We
break for an "executive lunch" with his friends at the Corner Cafe in town. We arrive in his
door less jeep which I love (who needs doors?). He regales me with colorful
commentary in a loud voice due to the car noise and his deafness as we hurl
along narrow winding roads. I look everywhere at the Cape Cod Cottages with
gray sun faded shingles and neat lawns.
The
next day I spend the afternoon with my cousin Buzzy (her nickname), her son Damian
Jr. and her mother Martha at a private beach. There is a lingering sadness, as
I watch Buzzy play in the water with her exuberant son that her father, my
uncle Patrick died 2 years ago, just after Damian was born and Damian's father
died suddenly last year.
I
waded into the water enjoying the coolness when I felt something on my leg.
Looking down I see tiny fish gently nibbling me. Then I noticed what I thought
were tiny black stones moving around and realized they are hermit crabs
scurrying in the current. I retreat to the beach for fear of stepping on the
creatures.
I
meet the rest of the extended McLaughlin family on Sunday for a party. The kids
and parents are well behaved and civilized. No scolding or shouting at the
kids, no tantrums when they are told no or when it's time to leave. Jesus, who
are these people, I wonder.
The
weather has been pleasant, but there is an ominous turn when I step out later
to glance at the moon and the air is heavy with humidity.
The
trip to Martha's Vineyard with Aunt Linda turns into a long hot day. We take
the ferry across the harbor and stroll around the quaint Victorian cottages and
take in lunch at Fat Ronnie's in Oak Bluff. Martha joins
us as we go in search of a lobster roll I have been wanting but the heat and
humidity nearly does me in. The trek to the fish market is worth it and after gobbling down deliciousness drenched in
butter, on an a bread roll I buy a second one for the train trip to Erie.
On the ferry back to Wood's Hole I see a familiar
face.
"Excuse
me, are you Henry Louis Gates? " I ask politely. He answers yes and offers
a hand to shake.
"
Are you still doing your show 'Finding Your Roots?'"
"
Yes, the new season starts in January," he informs me.
"Oh
great, I look forward to seeing it," I gush. He offers his hand again to
signal this encounter is over.
One
important rule about meeting famous people is -don't be a bother. Be polite, be
brief and move on. I didn't ask for an autograph or a photo op, that's
intrusive. He was probably on his way back from vacationing on the island and
seemed a bit tired so he kept it short. Just as well, I had to find the
restroom.
A
majestic sailboat passes very close in front of the ferry. I turn to the ferry's
wheel house miming the "better stop" cut at the neck. A couple
sitting on the deck watch me as the boat sails safely away.
"What
about that boat?" the woman asks, pointing to a smaller boat also close
by.
"Oh
we can run them over, they don't have enough insurance." I dead pan. I
can't resist a joke when there's an opening.
To be continued . . . .
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