Category Archives: Travel

Canadian Pennies and Travel Prep

Posted by dkrashb on

It’s Saturday morning and we’re leaving for Germany for two weeks tomorrow. We have a day to get ready. I am wide awake and it’s 5AM. The first order of business is to finish up on my backlog of work emails–I had nearly 700 I hadn’t replied to yet when I started this task last night. I’m now down to about 8 emails that I couldn’t clear out quickly, but I don’t want to leave knowing that those are still sitting there with the pile rapidly growing since I won’t have access from Germany. I sit at the computer and do the 6 tasks required to clean up all but 2 of the remaining mails. What’s left is a reminder about an online training class I’m required to take by the end of December and a notice about an administrative request that I want to remember to follow up on when I get back. Satisfied that my backlog is as clear as it’s going to get before I go and feeling pretty happy about only having 2 emails in my inbox for the first time since my last vacation, I set up my out-of-office message and shut down my work laptop so it can take a vacation, too.

That done, I make a list of the odds and ends that need to be taken care of before we go. I’m glad that I learned a long time ago to schedule travel so that I have a non-working day before the trip and another after we get home. I would have been up all night trying to wrap up lose ends if we were leaving today. Having done that before, I know it does not lead to a good start to a vacation, especially not one where we’ll lose 6 hours (mostly of sleep) between here and our destination.

Pat interrupts me and asks if I want to take a walk since we need to go to the bank anyway. Thinking about our 2 hour drive to Atlanta tomorrow followed by over 9 hours on a plane, I decide getting a walk in is important.

We head down to the riverfront, walking around the wetland to get there. We spot a Great Blue Heron standing in the water and stop to watch. Two more herons approach from the air, flying straight towards us, their wings casting giant shadows in the morning light. One flaps awkwardly to a landing near the one in the water while the other circles over our heads. The two on the ground commence an argument when the new arrival lunges at the one who was already there. Apparently herons don’t believe in first-come, first-serve. The original heron is displaced with a loud, complaining squawk as it rises into the air. The third heron must have decided the fishing in the wetland isn’t good enough for a fight because it banks away from the wetland and heads towards the wide waters of the river.

I think of an article I read several years ago that herons recovered faster than Bald Eagles when the use of DDT was banned and that the recovery of the eagles would eventually check the rising population of herons. I find myself wondering if there are any Bald Eagles here–I haven’t seen any yet, but there are certainly a lot of herons.

The show over, we continue to the riverfront more slowly than usual. My legs are stiff and sore from my workout on Thursday. I walk awkwardly and Pat teases me that I look like an old lady hobbling along. Each step reminds me that I hadn’t done a good leg workout for a month at least and that I probably should have gone a little easier. Unfortunately, going to Germany for two weeks isn’t going to make the next workout any easier.

We eventually make it to the end of the walkway on the river and head up one short block to walk along the store fronts that face the river park. Many are open for breakfast, but we have groceries to use up before we go, so we resist the temptation to stop. However, the smell of Julie Darling donuts gets to Pat this morning and he decides he wants a glazed donut to go along with his breakfast. We run across the street no where near an intersection, which would be quite dangerous if it weren’t a quiet Saturday morning. We dig out exact change to pay for the donuts, hoping to lighten the jingle for our trip. The woman who waits on us counts the change and rejects a Canadian penny. Pat tries to talk her into taking it on the grounds that the Canadian dollar is actually stronger than the US dollar (or at least it was when I was in Toronto a month and a half ago). She smiles and says, “I just don’t want to take advantage of you,” a quick and witty response that makes me laugh. We find a US penny, take our donuts and move onto the bank, Pat now making an argument to me that he thinks Canadian change is considered legal tender and that stores have to take it. I tell him that may have been true at one time, but I know my Canadian change has been rejected many times at many establishments, so I don’t think it’s true now.

When we get to the bank, our favorite banker, Clayton, is sitting at his usual desk inside the door. His face lights up with a smile that says he is genuinely glad to see us and I, once again, feel the warm glow of belonging. I am still astounded by the warmth of this man–I would never consider going to another bank just because I enjoy seeing Clayton so much. He gets out of his chair and walks around his desk to greet us, asking us how we’ve been.

After exchanging pleasantries, Pat decides to ask Clayton about the Canadian penny. Most people would have just answered to the best of their knowledge given that it’s just a trivia question, but Clayton gets on the phone, gives the person on the other end some special code that identifies him as a bank employee, I guess, and then asks if Canadian change is supposed to be accepted at stores. Now who else would do that? As I suspected, stores are not required to take Canadian change, but the care that Clayton takes to make sure Pat’s question is answered more than makes up for all the Canadian change we have.

We chat a while longer and then go to the teller to take care of our business. She is almost as friendly as Clayton, but without the familiarity of an old friend that Clayton conveys. Our business done, we stop to tell Clayton good bye and he wishes us well on our trip as we head out the door, walking over to shake our hands one more time. I feel like we’re leaving a friend behind.

Returning to our apartment, we take on the other tasks left before departing. I attempt to figure out if I can get data access from Germany, but am quickly reminded of the one disadvantage to having chosen Verizon wireless as my 3G carrier for my iPad–no service outside the US. I’m a little annoyed with Verizon when I get off the phone–they have an entire section of their website dedicated to international travel and how to get service outside the US yet they don’t actually offer any service. I assume someone in marketing thought it would be a good idea to have a competitive website to AT&T’s and threw up a page to fool unsuspecting international travelers. I find it odd that they would make this investment along with a call center for a service they don’t offer, but it’s not the first time I’ve seen companies create a marketing campaign before they actually have product to go along with it. I just wish they hadn’t wasted my time.

By the time our errands and tasks are done, we are both ready for an afternoon nap. I am nodding off as I try to resolve some issues with my various electronic devices and Pat has already given up and gone to lay down in the bedroom. However, the frustration of sorting out getting books and movies downloaded to my new iPad (having broken my old one and gotten it replaced has created some confusion in my accounts in that they don’t recognize this device) wakes me up a bit and I end up spending the time sorting things out instead of sleeping. Pat comes back out a half hour later and says he couldn’t sleep either, but as he starts to fuss with getting ready to go, I nod off and sleep a bit after all. When I wake up again, Pat has decided we should officially kick off our vacation with a margarita from Taco Mamacitos around the corner. I protest that it’s now 5:30PM and we haven’t started packing yet. He argues it will make packing more enjoyable. I get up and go look in the mirror, trying my best to wipe the sleepy look away quickly.

We sit at the bar at Taco Mamacitos and each order our favorite margarita along with chips and salsa. It seems like we are only there for a few minutes, but by the time we get home, it’s 7:15. I go into high gear and start pulling together outfits for hiking in the Black Forest, walking around cities, and one for going out at night (not that we’re likely to be able to stay awake late enough for that).

When I start putting my stuff in my roll aboard and half of the one large suitcase we will take, I discover that I really am a light packer. With plenty of extra space, I throw in an extra sweater and some extra T-shirts and even a long underwear top, just in case. I try to run through the list of things I packed and think of what I’ve forgotten this time (always forgetting at least one thing on every trip), but I can think of nothing else I need. I zip up the suitcases and sit down to relax. It’s now 9:30. It’s hard to believe it takes nearly two hours to put together the necessary items for a two-week trip, but it sure beats how long it takes to pack for a backpacking trip! After working on my blog and relaxing for a couple more hours, I go to bed hoping that the margarita didn’t muddle my brain so badly that I’m going to discover that I didn’t pack some basic necessity, but mostly satisfied that I’m ready for tomorrow.

When It Rains, It Pours

Posted by dkrashb on

After taking the Cherohala Scenic Skyway from Robbinsville, NC towards Chattanooga, we arrive in Tellico Plains just in time for lunch.  As we enter the town, we spot the Tellicafe and decide to give it a try.  Our expectations are low given that we haven’t really had good luck with restaurants on this road trip.  But part of me hopes to be surprised.  We enter the cafe and find the main dining area mostly full, but since we’ve fallen for this before as a sign of good food, I try not to get my hopes up.  The waitress seats us in a second room that has only one other couple in it.  We sit in a big cushy booth and study the menu.

A display on the table advertises their desserts with the special highlighted as “Cinnamon Napolean Cheesecake.”  It’s described as cheesecake baked in a pastry, sprinkled with cinnamon and served with ice cream.  I am tempted, but decide I should eat real food for lunch.  The waitress comes over and I indulge my now triggered sweet-tooth with sweet tea.  The waitress takes my drink order and says, “I’m glad to see I’m not the only one who wears socks with my Chacos!”  I am confused at first, forgetting that I’m wearing my Chaco hiking sandals, let alone with socks.  Then I realize what she’s referring to and I laugh.  I’m impressed that someone her age would walk around in socks and sandals.  When I was that young, I would have been too embarrassed.  Now days, I like my comfortable sandals and warm socks when the weather warrants it just fine.

The food comes and it’s the best meal we’ve had in days.  I ordered the stuffed shells special and the shells taste like they’re home made.  While I could have done without the thick layer of mozzarella melted over the pasta already stuffed with cheese, I simply lift off the extra cheese and enjoy the hot pasta below.  The sweet tea tastes just like my grandmother’s used to.  Best of all, there are no signs in this restaurant telling us how to behave.

After stuffing myself on stuffed pasta, I’m still tempted to order the dessert.  Only the thought of cheesecake stuffed inside a buttery pastry shell stops me from ordering it–it sounds too rich.  It’s really the ice cream I want.  I decide to wait for a chance to get just ice cream.

We head on down the road in the rain, which seems to be intensifying.  About an hour later, I am dozing off in my seat when suddenly something cold and wet hits me on top of the head.  I look up and discover the sunroof is leaking.  My husband loves his cars and takes tremendous pride in getting a ridiculous number of miles out of them.  This 1990 BMW is a low-mileage car in his book–it hasn’t even crossed the 200,000 mile mark.  But, the paint looked like it was every bit of 21 years until we had it repainted a few months earlier.  However, they partially disassembled the car to paint it and when they put it back together, the sunroof seemed off somehow.  Well, we just discovered how.  As it continues to rain, each time Pat slows or accelerates or turns hard, more and more water runs in on my head.  I zip up my rain jacket and pull up the hood, trying to stay dry.  Soon, water is running in streams when Pat stops hard.  It pours into my lap now, soaking through my pants and leaving me sitting in a wet puddle.  I am reminded of Pat’s winning argument as to why we shouldn’t hike in the rain today–he didn’t want to end up riding home in wet underwear.  I’m certain that if we’d gone hiking in this rain, my underwear would be drier.

Pat finds this hilarious.  Of course, his underwear is still dry.  But as the situation worsens, water starts running in from his side of the sunroof and even from the trim piece that the rearview mirror is mounted on.  I remind him that he knew the sunroof didn’t close properly and he was supposed to get it fixed before we left Columbus.  He goes from laughing to annoyed and informs me that he did have it fixed, but no one could tell it would leak.  I sit silently in my wet underwear and sulk.  These are the moments in marriage when you know you’re being ridiculous, but you just can’t help yourself.  Really, I celebrate my husband’s attachment to his cars.  After all, he’s saved us tens of thousands of dollars in the course of our relationship that has contributed to our ability to afford the things we find more meaningful.  But right now, I’m a little irritated that I let him talk me out of buying a new car.

About the time I’m soaked through, we arrive at the entrance to 75.  However, it’s backed up and the entrance ramp looks flooded.  When we look up the highway, we see brake lights and slow-moving cars.  We decide to cross over to 58 and come into Chattanooga the back way.  We follow the GPS, but it has us making multiple turns that seem like they’re taking us the wrong direction.  We’re pretty sure we’re lost when we find ourselves on a country lane with a fallen tree laying halfway across the road.  We are able to pass unimpeded and after one more turn, we see 58.  In the meantime, water continues to stream on me as Pat maneuvers through the turns.  It’s gotten to the point of such complete ridiculousness that even I cannot continue to sulk–it’s just too funny.  Each time Pat turns and a new stream of water pours on me from a new place, we burst out laughing.

Finally, we find ourselves home.  We pull up outside the entrance and unload our gear from the trunk and onto the covered walkway where it’s protected from rain.  It’s raining so hard that our stuff gets wet even in the split second that it’s in the rain.  As we haul our stuff up via the elevator and pile it up on the living room floor, all I feel is tired.  I can’t say I regret the day–it was its own kind of adventure–but I’m relieved to be able to get out of my wet underwear.

Rain Day

Posted by dkrashb on

After camping next to noisy neighbors our first night in Great Smoky Mountain National Park, we opt for a hotel in Cherokee, NC our second night.  All night long, it rains hard.  I wake up only once in the night and am confused by the sound of rain hitting the roof–I realize that it hasn’t rained since we moved to Chattanooga 3 weeks ago.  I lay in the comfortable bed warm and dry, listening to the rain for a minute or two until my eyes close and I return to sleep.

When I wake up in the morning, I step out onto the balcony.  The river behind the hotel doesn’t look anymore swollen than it did when we went to bed the night before.  I’m puzzled by its ability to move so much water without rising perceptively, but it’s cold outside so I don’t contemplate for long before returning to the room.  Even though I showered just before going to dinner the night before, I decide to shower again just for good measure.  As the warm water wakes me up, I contemplate where we should hike today.  When I get out of the shower, Pat is up and ready to go down for the breakfast included with our room.  I get out the trail map and start pointing to different options on where we can go hiking.  Pat gives me the “I didn’t think you were insane, but now I’m not so sure” look.  Apparently he is not up for hiking in the rain.  I’m disappointed and ask what are we going to do if we don’t hike.  Pat responds with, “Indoor stuff.”  I look at him confused, unable to think of anything we would do indoors that we couldn’t do at home.  “Like what?” I ask.  “I don’t know,” he replies, “we could go to a museum or an arcade or a flight simulator.”  A flight simulator sounds interesting, so I do a quick google.  There are no flight simulators open to the public anywhere within 200 miles.  Pat suggests we discuss it over breakfast.

We walk downstairs and it has actually stopped raining just in time for us to walk over to the lobby entrance.  We go into the breakfast room and I wait in line for the waffle maker.  I think adding a waffle iron to the free breakfast buffet was the best idea in hospitality in the past 20 years.  Once I get my waffle cooking, I sit down with Pat to eat yogurt.  As I stuff a spoonful into my mouth, Pat says, “We cannot hike today.  We’ll get all wet and end up driving home in wet underwear.”  This strikes me as so funny that I nearly splutter yogurt all over Pat.  Containing myself (and my yogurt), I swallow and am forced to admit that he has a point.  There really is nothing comfortable about riding in a car in wet underwear for several hours.  The timer goes off on the waffle iron and I go retrieve my hot, fresh waffle.

When we leave to return to the room, it has started raining again.  We dive through the rain towards the walkway under an overhang and manage to get back to the room without getting soaked.  Once in the room, we debate what we can do for entertainment.  Pat votes for heading home.  I propose a compromise that will take us to the Junaluska Museum in Robbinsville, NC on a scenic route home.  Agreed that this is a reasonable plan, we pack up and get on our way.

I plug the address into the GPS and off we go.  The GPS takes us to Robbinsville without any hiccups, but when it comes to the final destination, we end up on a dead-end road lined with depressing houses in various states of disrepair.  We see a large building behind the houses on one side and think maybe that’s the museum.  After going around the block, we determine that building is an Ace Hardware.  But, we spot a brown road sign that says “Junaluska Museum” and points us down another road in the opposite direction.  We follow that sign to another sign and then to another.  But then the signs disappear and we’ve seen nothing that resembles a museum.  We decide that we are not meant to go to this museum and head on towards Cherohala Scenic Skyway.

Even though the rain won’t stop and the visibility is poor, the Cherohala truly is scenic.  We wind our way around tree-lined curves with frequent breaks in the trees that allow for views over a cliff.  The mountains look like shadows in the clouds.  As we go around one curve, Pat spots a painted box turtle (well, maybe–it’s definitely a turtle in any case) standing just on the other side of the double-yellow line.  He sees it too late to stop, but finds a place to turn around about a quarter mile down the road.  We return in the rain so I can hop out of the car and safely transport the turtle to the other side of the road.  I’m not sure if he was grateful for the lift, but it makes my day in any case.

Continuing towards home, we pass a resort.  Then, a mile further, we see an entrance to another resort with a drive that goes straight up the mountain.  Pat slams on the brakes and pulls in, saying he’s hungry and maybe we can get something to eat.  We find ourselves at the Snowbird Mountain Lodge.  We pull up our hoods and head into the lobby.  Across the parking lot, a large Bernese Mountain Dog lays on a slanting drive, oblivious to the rain.  We go up the stairs to the lodge entrance and a Newfoundland mix lays just outside the door, looking at us nervously as we approach.  We call to him in our high-pitched happy-puppy voices, but he doesn’t seem comfortable with strangers.  We enter the door around him, trying not to scare him with the swinging screen door.

When we enter the lobby, we are instantly immersed in a sense of calm.  The lodge is an old, log lodge with big over-stuffed chairs in a library-like room with a 20 foot or so ceiling and shelves of books lining the walls.  A half a dozen guests look up at us when we walk in.  All of them look like they are just too relaxed to go home.  We approach the inn keeper at the desk and inquire about lunch.  Unfortunately, they don’t serve lunch and the restaurant is closed until dinner, but he invites us to look around.  He asks us if we’ve been in “the park” and when we tell him we’ve been hiking there, he says, “Well, maybe next time you’ll come and hike in the real mountains!”

We walk through the dining room and into the bar.  The bar is full of dark hard wood and seems every bit as relaxing as the lobby even though it’s abandoned now.  The dining room has a large screened porch off of one side with tables overlooking the woods.  Back to the front of the lodge, we find a wrap-around deck with big adirondack chairs lined up facing what must be an incredible view over the mountains on a clear day.  An elderly man is standing under a sheltered portion of the deck when we step outside beside him.  He is watching the squirrels attack the bird feeders.  He tells us we just missed seeing a squirrel get stuck on a feeder, sliding back down every time he tried to climb up until he finally slipped off and fell to the ground.  His delight in the squirrel story is contagious and we find ourselves giggling.  I grab a brochure and add this place to the list of places I want to spend a weekend at.

We pull up our hoods and dash through the pouring rain back to the car–it’s time to find a place to eat lunch.

A Room for the Night

Posted by dkrashb on

After spending the day on the Appalachian Trail near Clingman’s Dome in Great Smoky Mountain National Park, we head into Cherokee, NC to find a hotel.  Soaking wet from a downpour that doesn’t look like it will let up for days, I pull out my iPhone and start up the Tom Tom app to see what hotels I can find.  Our GPS can’t find us between the trees and the heavy cloud cover.  I have no signal and can’t do an internet search.  Pat keeps driving, pointing out wild turkeys along the way and I continue to struggle to find some sort of direction before he gets us lost.  Fortunately, GPS picks us up and I’m able to find a hotel before Pat hits unfamiliar territory.  We find a Comfort Inn not too far away and head in that direction.

As we drive into Cherokee, we see countless motels like the Princess Motel and the Drama Inn.  We’re wet and dirty from camping and hiking, but the motels look too seedy to be tempting.  The motels in this area resemble trailers placed on foundations and we’re just not up for that kind of adventure.  In contrast, a beautiful park sits on the opposite of the river that parallels the road.  The river is more of a creek with shallow water (even in the rain) bouncing over rocks that cover the bottom.  People stand in the water, wading with the ducks and geese who seem nonplussed by the close proximity of humans.  We saw this on the way in, but I’m now surprised at the number of people still in the creek in the pouring rain.  Next to the entrance to the park, a life-sized black bear statue guards the drive.  It’s painted in native american art.  These artful bears appear all over Cherokee, each one uniquely decorated in the artist’s own style.  I am reminded of the Stratocaster guitar statues in Cleveland and the cows (is it cows?) in Cincinnati.  Apparently this form of art has become a trend.

We drive on until about a mile before we get to the hotel I’ve located, Pat spots and Comfort Inn and Suites.  He assumes it’s what we’re looking for and pulls in.  I sit in the car while he runs in.  He returns in just a couple of minutes and declares that the rates were too high and that we should drive on.  I explain that the one I found is a regular Comfort Inn and this one is a Suites version and, relieved, he follows the GPS to the Comfort Inn I originally chose.  This time, he comes back out of the office with a room key.  I’m not sure if he’s proud of himself for saving us money or disgruntled that the rate difference was only $10, but whichever it was, the difference seems to have put the room rate under his threshold for “too expensive.”

The room is surprisingly nice.  It has a living room area with a large balcony that looks over a river.  The balcony has a roof over it and we’re able to sit out there watching the rain.  The river appears swollen and flows by rapidly with the heavy rain, but it’s far enough below that there’s no reason to worry about flooding.  We take turns taking hot showers.  While I always enjoy a shower more after camping, we haven’t been in the woods enough for it to feel quite the way a hot shower feels after at least 3 days in the backwoods.  I think a person reaches maximum stinkiness after about 3 days–after that, you pretty much stop smelling much of anything.  I love showering in any case and am grateful that the hotel has good water pressure.

After getting cleaned up, we decide it’s time to go to dinner.  We cruise back up the road the way we came into town and spot a crowded family-owned place called Paul’s Diner.  Figuring a crowd was a good indicator, we pull into the lot, but there are two women in an SUV looking like they want to pull into a spot.  We wait for them to decide what they are going to do.  When they do nothing for what seems like minutes, Pat pulls into an open space and we hop out of the car.  The woman driving the SUV apparently has troubles backing because she ends up pulling forward and doing a complete loop to finally pull into another open spot.

I am reminded of a woman in the Worthington, OH Graeter’s parking lot.  Several weeks ago, before we moved, we’d gone there to meet friends for dinner.  There were 3 cars trying to leave, but all of them were blocked by one woman in a mini-van who mis-judged the length of her vehicle by about 6 feet.  She kept pulling up and back, up and back, turning her wheels the wrong way and never backing up far enough to angle her vehicle in any direction.  One of the men waiting for her to get out of the way finally got out of his car and attempted to direct her.  Even with him standing there, showing her with his arms how much room she had, she would keep stopping every couple of inches convinced she was going to hit something that was still 4 feet away.  I admit that I laughed pretty hard at her incompetence.  Maybe they should add backing out of parking spaces to the drivers test?

When we enter the restaurant, we are greeted by a sign that informs us the restaurant is not a fast-food establishment and that we should “be expected to wait” when they are busy.  Pat comments on the popularity of signs telling us how to behave, referencing the various signs in the restaurant we had breakfast in that morning.  We are apparently expected to wait for a table as well, even though the restaurant is only half full.  We stand awkwardly while the cashier chats idly with a departing couple.  When she is finally done with them, she disappears into the kitchen and we stand there some more.  Eventually, a waitress stops and asks us if we want to sit inside or out.  We choose out just because it is slightly warmer than the air conditioned interior.  But, when we go outside, none of the empty tables are clean.  We return inside and the waitress points us to a choice of two tables against the far wall.  We pick the cleaner of the two and take a seat.  The women from the SUV are already seated in the waitress’s section on the other side of the restaurant and have drinks sitting in front of them.  A group of four comes in and takes the table that was occupied by the couple who was leaving when we came in.  We watch them get drinks and place their orders, but still no one has come by to wait on us.  When the waitress brings salads out to the women who were behind us, we get aggressive and turn our bodies in our chairs and start staring at the waitress.  As it turns out, we’re not in her section.  But, she apparently got the hint because shortly after she goes back into the kitchen, our waiter appears and apologizes for the wait.

Deciding to try something I’ve never eaten before as a tactic against disappointment, I order Fry Bread with Chili and Cheese.  I have no idea what fry bread is, but I’m hungry enough that I’m confident I’ll be able to eat it.  Dinner and drinks come out a few minutes later and I discover that fry bread is a large circular piece of dough deep-fried.  The chili and cheese are dumped directly on top of it.  It’s not bad, but I’m pretty sure it’s not on the list of super foods.  Once again, the salt content is a bit more than I’m used to.  Sipping pink lemonade between bites mingles the the over-the-top salt with over-the-top sweet and doesn’t really help.  I enjoy the hot food none-the-less–one of the advantages of being cold and hungry.

After filling our bellies once more, we return to our hotel.  It’s still early and I suppose we could have checked out the sites in the town, but there is something about this town that reminds me of the state fair.  Maybe it’s the “Genuine Indian Dancers” standing on a stage in a parking lot dressed in neon colored “native” attire or the signs for “Real Indian Artifacts” for sale in trinket shops that give me this feeling.  All of it just seems like a big show put on for foolish non-native americans who don’t know any better.  There’s nothing that makes us want to participate, so we drive on.

Returning to our hotel, the bed feels pretty darn good.  And the fact that we can’t hear our neighbors seems even better.  Maybe I’m getting soft, but I feel no remorse that we’re not out in a tent tonight.

Going to the Woods

Posted by dkrashb on

Having decided to spend Labor Day weekend in Great Smoky Mountain National Park, we first have to make it there.  As we head out of Chattanooga with our entire plan being:

  1. Drive to South Entrance
  2. Find an available front-country campsite
  3. Hike,

I am somewhat nervous that our trip will implode.  But as we head off of highway 75 and into Cherokee National Forest, I have to relax.  The woods surround the roadway and we drive along a river that appears to be a popular white water rafting destination.  I give up counting rafts after about 50–the river is swarming with them.  I’m glad we’re not rafting today–it’s a bit too crowded for my tastes.  But the people in rafts all smile and look happy, which is the point.  As we twist and turn along the river’s edge, watching rafters, kayakers, and fishermen, we realize we haven’t had lunch.  Just about that time, we see a large lodge-like building on the edge of the river just ahead.  We pull in and discover a visitors center at the 1996 Olympics Kayaking course.  The river has been altered here to create an olympic shoot of rapids that probably all have special names, but I’m afraid I didn’t take the time to read all of the signs explaining the course.  We watch both kayakers and rafters take the course one-by-one.  One man in a kayak rolls over in the middle of a big rapid, but bounces right back up again, looking like he meant to do that.  I like kayaking in sea kayaks–the kind that you couldn’t roll if you stood on one edge and jumped up and down.  The notion of being tied into a boat and hanging upside down in rapids just doesn’t appeal to me, although I suppose it’s something I may end up learning how to do someday just out of shear curiosity.  (What’s that about cats?)

After watching for a while and even getting a few shots, we walk into the downstairs of the visitors’ center and find a cafe.  The man and teenaged boy working there appear to be father and son.  The son pitches their curried macaroni salad and baked potato salad enthusiastically as well as their “vintage” sodas.  We get one of each along with a ham sandwich, a grape Nihi and some specialty root beer.  I ask the teenager what year it was made.  He looks puzzled and I remind him that it’s supposed to be vintage.  He cracks up, revealing a mouth full of gums.  It’s nice to make a teenager laugh, especially when he might be self-conscious about his smile.

Selecting a table with a view of the kayak course, we discover an interesting large insect parked on our table.  I’m not sure what s/he is–but it’s large and green with the longest antenna I’ve ever seen.  I get out my macro lens and do my best to shoot it without making it move.  I didn’t have much to worry about–I don’t think an earthquake would have gotten that guy hopping.

The teenager brings our food to us and we settle down to eat.  The curried macaroni salad is more interesting than most macaroni salads, but it’s still macaroni salad.  The baked potato salad tastes just like a baked potato with sour cream and chives.  It’s really nice.  We finish our food quickly and sip on our sodas (we can’t call them “pop” anymore now that we’ve moved out of Ohio) that taste like they were definitely made recently.  I have a craving for ice cream and the cafe has a freezer full of frozen treats including Ben and Jerry’s ice cream bars.  However, we decide to use the restrooms before getting ice cream and when we return, about a dozen people appeared from no where and lined up to get food.  Deciding it’s not worth it to wait in line, we head back towards the car.

As we come up the steps to the parking lot, there are several people coming towards us.  Two of them are shirtless young men who look like they spend all of their spare time in the gym.  I really barely noticed, but I catch my sandal on a step and trip going up the stairs, which, of course, makes Pat think I’m so distracted by these shirtless wonders that I can’t walk straight.  Pat has known me for over 15 years and he’s seen me trip going up stairs about 90% of the time, so we both know that the fact that this time there happened to be a couple of shirtless men on the stairs at the same time is completely unrelated, but both of us laugh hard at the sheer silliness of it.

We return to the car and head on up the road.  When we get a stretch that is traffic free, Pat opens it up a little and enjoys the enhancements he’s made to the car over the years.  It’s a fun car to drive.  Pat is the master of making cars last forever and this BMW is no exception.  Plus, we’ve invested a little money into making it more fun, so Pat gets his money’s worth as we lean into the turns on sticky tires and a sport suspension, accelerating out of each turn with verve.  Unfortunately, the break in traffic doesn’t last long, plus, it’s getting hot enough to require air conditioning for comfortable driving and air conditioning just ruins the whole driving experience.  Pat settles back down and I get comfortable in my seat, finding my eyes closing with a full stomach and the sunshine coming through the glass.  Sometimes I think that if I could put a bed in a car, I would sleep a sound 8 hours every night.  I lean the seat back and give in to the need for an afternoon nap.

Returning to Chattanooga

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Having completed three days of corporate training, it’s time to go home. I’m not sure if it’s the intensity of the class or the late hours trying to keep up on work, or the early morning wake up time I can’t seem to get past, but I am exhausted by the end of the class. Four of us are going to the White Plains airport together, but we have over an hour to kill before we leave. We agree a drink is in order, but by the time we all get served and settled, it’s almost time to leave. We drink our drinks quickly and head to the lobby to order a cab. Then, we have to wait 15 minutes for the cab to come. It occurs to me that we did things in the wrong order.

Another group waits for a cab in front of the building. They are dressed in suits with ties and we wonder if they were here for executive training. A regular blue cab and a black town car pull up at the same time. The men in suits approach the black town car, but it turns out it’s ours. We get a slight chuckle out of that. We don’t have to squeeze to get three in the back and all of our luggage fits into the trunk along with a soccer ball that I assume belongs to the driver.

The airport is crowded when we arrive, but the line moves quickly. We sit and chat some more waiting for our flight to be called. Perhaps I drank my wine too quickly, but I find myself exhibiting a less-than-professional sense of humor. I seem to be in “one of the guys” mode. This is an old habit I’ve developed really starting in my teen years. Perhaps I discovered at a young age that men have certain advantages and think being perceived as one of them will make those advantages rub off on me, but I have learned that men are as different individually as everyone else and sometimes I am more “guy-like” than they are comfortable with. Unfortunately, this lesson is lost on me today. After making a few comments that were not office-appropriate, I head to the ladies room. When I return, my colleagues are swapping stories about colleagues who say inappropriate things outside the office. I try not to think that there is a direct relationship between this topic and my earlier comments, but I make a mental note to behave better in the future.

Thankfully, my flight boards and I get seated. I flip through the airline magazine, impatient for electronics to be allowed so I can get back to the novel I’m reading. As much as I love my iPad, this is the one time when I lament not buying a paperback. I can’t pull my iPad out fast enough when the announcement finally comes. Unfortunately, no matter how much I want to read, my eyes keep closing and I find myself re-reading the same pages over and over again.

In Atlanta, I board my plane early. We are parked at the gate and seemingly ready for push back, but they don’t close the door. We sit for 15 minutes and finally, at our scheduled departure time, several more passengers arrive. One of them sits next to me and two more sit across the aisle from me. They talk across me in my aisle seat. They were on the same connection from Texas and had to run for this flight. They are sweaty and disheveled from running with bags. The woman sitting in the window seat on the other side of the aisle talks loudly and continuously, first to the woman next to me and then on the phone. Apparently, she has a spider infestation back at home. I am always amazed by loud talkers. While I am not what anyone would call a private person, I cannot talk in public without feeling uncomfortable with the knowledge that others can hear me. I often find myself talking so quietly that whomever I am speaking to constantly asks me to repeat myself. When I encounter a loud talker, I cannot help but feel that they operate on the assumption that everyone must hear what they have to say. There is a certain presumptuousness about it.

The woman from Texas continues chattering loudly through the safety announcements, through take off, and right up until the moment I get out my noise-canceling ear buds and crank up some music. After hearing only two songs, the announcement to turn off electronics comes on. When I pop out my ear buds, she is still jabbering. She doesn’t stop when the plane stops at the gate or when the seatbelt sign goes off or when she jumps up and pushes her husband to step out into the aisle so she can step out as well. Maybe she is too busy telling the woman next to me about her spider problem to notice that there is a certain etiquette to de-boarding a plane because she fails to wait for the passengers in the seats in front of her to step out before charging down the aisle. I hear her voice fading as she continues talking her way off the plane and I wonder who she thinks she’s talking to–her silent husband clearly stopped listening years ago.

I call Pat as I exit the airport, letting him know that we’ve arrived several minutes early. We agree that we will meet at baggage claim although I’m not entirely sure where that is. I follow the signs and walk outside only to discover I’m not more than 10 yards from passenger drop-off where Pat left me three days earlier. After all, it is a small airport.

It’s 11:30 by the time we get home and I am beat. I get myself ready for bed and take some extra vitamins when I remember the number of people coughing on my flights. Now I am awake again and don’t feel like sleeping yet. We turn on the TV and, magically, I doze off before Pat has time to pick a channel. Minutes later, Pat is waking me up to tell me to go to bed. I climb between our amazing sheets and feel like I really am home just before I fall into a deep sleep.

Getting There

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After staying in Atlanta overnight, I wake at my usual 4AM and prepare for the trip. I go through my old routine for getting ready for work including make up and hair, two tasks I’ve grown accustomed to skipping. I put on my comfortable business casual clothes. In fact, I’m wearing jeans, but they’re so dark and cut so full through the leg that most people don’t notice they’re jeans. I pack up all my belongings and head for the door. I turn back one more time to check that I have everything–it’s so easy to lose track of a bottle or a charger.

The airport shuttle waits outside the hotel lobby and I board it unassisted. On the way in the day before, my suitcase was whisked out of my hands and I was offered a bottle of water, but now, the driver isn’t in sight. I find a seat and park myself amongst the other weary travelers, all of us looking like we should have spent at least another hour in bed.

When I get to the airport, it’s busy. Atlanta cannot be mistaken for Chattanooga. It’s early and I have two hours before my flight, so I am in no hurry, but I never relax until I’m at my gate, so I make my way through security and down to the tram. A man passes me on the escalator, worming his way around those who don’t stay to the right and rushing for the tram just seconds too late to make it. For a moment I think he will try to jump between the closing doors and I close my eyes, but when I open them, he is safely standing on the platform, although he’s cursing.

Making it to my concourse with still plenty of time, I stop at the only open restaurant for breakfast. The waitress is impossibly friendly and efficient for this time in the morning. I use my meal voucher from the airlines since they didn’t get me on the plane last night, but I tip extra generously since I figure the happy waitress should benefit from my voucher, too.

As I make my way to the gate, I pass dozens of people wrapped in blankets, still sleeping from the night before. I have never spent the night in an airport and feel grateful that I’ve always been able to get a hotel room when the need arose. I cannot imagine what it would be like to wake up among strangers with no way to get cleaned up and to have to get on a plane.

At the gate, I set up my MiFi device and get my work laptop out. I manage to get several things done while I wait for my plane to board. I’m in zone three. Although it’s now been years since I flew often enough to have the kind of frequent flier status that gets you free upgrades and early boarding privileges, having been spoiled for so many years before makes the lack of those benefits sting a little. This flight is on a relatively small jet with gate check for roll-a-boards and only a “fake” first class with slightly wider seats, so I’m not sure why I care.

I remember boarding a plane for Newark when I was on my way to Italy when I was still in my twenties. It was a Sunday flight and I was dressed in jeans and a black leather biker jacket. Back then, companies still paid for business class tickets for long flights, so I was in first class on this connection. But when I got on the plane and went to put my carry-on above my seat, a flight attendant called to me, “Miss, that overhead is for first class only!” I muttered “uh-huh” at him, but he didn’t understand his mistake and said, “Are you in first class?” with a little more surprise in his voice than was polite. Having finished stowing my bag, I looked directly at him and said, “Why yes, I believe I am!” as I slid into my first class seat. To this day, I don’t know if it was my youth, my jacket, some combination thereof, or something entirely different that made him think I didn’t belong in first class, but it’s a memory that sticks.

Back to today, I board with my zone and get over myself, happy that I have a seat at all. The plane takes off and soon I am lost in my iPad, enjoying a book I’ve not had time to read nearly as fast as I would like. Recommended to me by a friend, “The Help” has me hooked and I’m dying to know what happens. Unfortunately, the flight is not long enough for me to find out, but that’s just as well–I’m always disappointed when a good book ends and find myself wondering what happens next.

As we approach the White Plains airport, I stare out the window, scouring the scene below for signs of Irene. From the air, all looks well. I find my way to the taxi counter and am put in one of those big, black Lincoln Town cars that people in NJ call a “limo.” As we make our way to the training facility, I see downed trees and ask the driver how bad the storm was. He tells me that the area was not hit too hard as we pass bands of men with chain saws trying to clear more fallen trees. He does say that some still have power outages, but all-in-all, they seem to have weathered the storm well.

Nearly a day after I left my home, I arrive at the training class. I walk into the room at roughly 11:30 in the morning and am surprised to see half a dozen colleagues from Columbus. I knew 2 would be there, but didn’t realize there would be so many others. I smile, wave, and silently greet my familiar colleagues as I’m led to a seat waiting for me with my name tag in front of it–both my first and last name are spelled correctly and fit on the tag. Now that is a good omen!

Walking and Waking

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Having survived my first day of class only to work late, I took some melatonin in the hope of getting more sleep. I succeed in sleeping until 5AM, but given that I was up until 11:30, it doesn’t feel like a break through. I get out of bed none-the-less and decide that a walk is the most important thing for me to do. I pull on walk-appropriate clothing and decide I will walk to the corporate headquarters that is supposedly right around the corner from the training center.

I start down the road in the gray light of pre-dawn and try to read the signs pointing me in the right direction. The training center is like a resort set in the woods, with a campus of buildings set so carefully among the trees that it doesn’t at all feel like a campus. I follow a sign that says “Pedestrians” headed in the same direction as the headquarters figuring it will be safer since there is little light and I am dressed in all black. The path is blocked by a large tree that must have fallen during Irene’s passage, but I move a small branch out of the way and am then able to climb between the larger branches to continue on my way. As I walk down steps, I look up and see tennis courts. Even better, I see two does and a fawn munching on dew-covered grass.

The fawn nervously raises his head and flicks his tail. I stop and stand still while his mom sniffs the air and flicks her tail once, then twice. They move a few steps further from me, but then resume eating. I take a few steps forward and they both raise their heads once more. I sit down on the steps and they start eating again. Eventually, the mother and fawn work their way into the woods and the lone doe looks up at me. She has moved closer to me, looking directly at me, raising her head and snorting like she can’t decide if she wants to come closer or not. But she does. She walks straight at me, growing more nervous with each step if her flicking tail is an accurate indicator. Suddenly, she jumps straight into the air and lunges sideways upon landing as if she’s just seen a pack of wolves. I turn to look at what could possibly have startled her since I hadn’t moved and see only the mother and fawn going up the hill in the background. I chuckle to myself that she is as easily startled by her friends as I often am.

With the deer off in the woods, I have no excuse to keep sitting there, so I continue my walk. The path around the tennis courts doesn’t take me to the headquarters building. I wind my way around back to the parking lot and out to the public road that brought me to the training center. It’s a narrow lane lined with trees. On both sides, there are nothing but woods. I cannot imagine the worldwide headquarters of a huge corporation hiding in these woods and find myself thinking I’ve misunderstood somehow. My attention is drawn back to the setting when I spot a group of 5 more deer foraging in the woods across the street. I realize I am back to the main entrance to the training center and decide to turn up the drive since I clearly am not going to find headquarters this way. Two more deer pop their heads up as I walk by.

The birds are starting to sing and the light is getting steadily brighter. I almost give up on my quest, but I decide to try following the signs once more–this time I decide to stay on the road instead of taking the pedestrian path. I pass another mother and fawn on a grassy hillside as I follow the road back into what seems like only more woods. But eventually, there is a shiny structure peeping from behind a clump of trees. It is far too small to be an office building, but as I make my way through tree-lined parking lots, I realize I am approaching the building from one end. It is so inconspicuously tucked into the trees that even when I see the building from the front, I cannot believe that it’s headquarters. The building is a modern work of steel and glass, gleaming against the dark evergreens. But instead of looking plopped down in the middle of no where like so many corporate monstrosities, this building looks like it grew there. I look around at the beautiful green space that seems to go on for miles surrounding this building and discover a sense of growing pride that I work for this company.

This is not the first time I felt this. Just a couple months ago, my company encouraged all of us to spend a paid work day doing community service in honor of the company’s birthday. As a result, we collectively contributed millions of work hours to communities worldwide in a single day. I’ve never heard of a company doing that before–at least not to that scale. It’s an amazing way to celebrate a birthday.  The commitment to comunity service doesn’t end with anniversaries, either.  My company has an ongoing program to track hours and provide grant money to the causes we participate in as well as providing payroll deduction services for contributions to small, local charities as well as big ones.  It means a lot to me that the company puts its money where its mouth is rather than just asking us to all contribute to the United Way every year.

But now, I am worried that I will be late to class. I tuck away my growing pride and head back to my room to get cleaned up. Along the way, I count the deer and keep smiling to myself that this property is preserved by my company.

Flying and Irene

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Returning to the weekday feels like being pulled down under water slowly and gasping for breath. The problems that I managed to forget about for two days wait for me with evil grins. I quickly find myself embroiled. But, I have only half a day to tackle work before I have to get on a plane and take my first business trip out of the Chattanooga airport. The airport website boasts of direct flights to 8 cities. To complicate matters, I am trying to get into White Plains, NY via Atlanta. Atlanta is not a problem, but hurricane Irene has just passed through New York while I was busy enjoying myself over the weekend. I was supposed to fly out Sunday, but my trip was postponed a day to accommodate Irene. I mentally prepare myself for a difficult travel day.

We check the directions to the airport several times, not being familiar with the route. The GPS and google both say it will take about 18 minutes to get there. We allow plenty of time in case there is traffic or long lines, since sometimes small airports are the hardest to get through efficiently. The drive to the airport takes us on some back roads on the Southeast side of the city. The houses we pass remind us that times have been hard and not everyone has a fantastic view of the riverfront.

I am on a conference call as we drive and, of course, am mid-sentence when we get to the airport. Pat takes the drive in and, confused by the signs directing us to long-term parking but not to passenger drop-off, picks a drive that takes us right back out of the airport. I laugh out loud that we have driven less than 50 yards and managed to go right by the airport and find myself explaining my laugh to the folks on my call. Fortunately, it’s a laid-back team call.

Pat finds the drop-off on the second pass and I manage to mute myself long enough to tell him good-bye. The airport seems abandoned. There are only a handful of people in the ticketing area. I continue my conference call while I use a machine to print a boarding pass, attempting to get a seat assignment on my second leg with no luck. It never bodes well to not have a seat assignment.

I find myself with time to kill, waiting for my conference call to end before attempting to go through security. I walk around a display of photographs of Chattanooga. Listening to the call makes it hard to appreciate the photos, but it at least gives me something to look like I’m doing besides lurking. When the call ends, I get into a security line that has 3 people in it and, in spite having removed all metal, a beep goes off, I am told I’ve been randomly selected for additional screening. Seems like I am frequently the target of random forces. In this case, it just means they test my carry-on for traces of explosives. I always wonder what kinds of dust might attach itself to my suitcase that would register as explosive, but so far I’ve always passed this test and today is no exception.

When at last I am sitting on the plane, lifting into the sky, I bend down to look out the window. We curve up and back over the downtown area. I am surprised by how flat it looks. With most of the buildings being less than 10 stories, they don’t register as office buildings from above, but flatten into the landscape, looking not much taller than houses. The river bends crazily through the town and I spot the now-familiar bridges that we have so often crossed. I try to feel like this is my home town, but seeing it from the air for the first time makes it seem completely unfamiliar.

The flight to Atlanta is so short that by the time I get my iPad out and start reading, it’s time to turn off electronics again. The pilot startles me several times as we come in for a landing with sudden drops in altitude and quick turns. I don’t startle easily on planes, but I haven’t been flying often the past few years, I wonder if I’m getting rusty. We land hard and stop fast; I’m thrown forward against my seatbelt. The pilot seems to be racing and I find myself looking out the window again, fearful that he’s crossing a runway in the path of an incoming plane. But, we are safe and we arrive at the gate on time and uninjured.

Of course, the premonition evoked by my lack of a seat assignment on the next flight comes true. I am stuck in Atlanta overnight and will not arrive in White Plains until late the next morning, meaning I will miss the first several hours of my training class. After waiting in line for 45 minutes to get my ticket changed, I am grumpy and irritated. But the woman who helps me seems to take it all in stride,and in a matter of minutes, she has me laughing and feeling grateful for the opportunity to meet her. I can’t say what she did to cause this change in attitude except her best to help me, but I wish I could get a dose of whatever it is she’s got that has this calming effect on people.

I manage to get a hotel room at the near-by Marriott. When I arrive, it is swarming with people greeting each other and catching up on the disasters they’ve worked since last seeing one another. It turns out that Atlanta is FEMA headquarters for the response to Irene. I am reminded that being stuck in Atlanta overnight in a comfortable hotel is hardly a disaster. When I get to my room and my key doesn’t work, I find I am not irritated. I return to the long line in the lobby and feel nothing but patience as I listen to people swapping stories about flooded areas, lost homes, and injured people.

When I get settled in my room, I work for a couple of hours, trying to get caught up, knowing that it’s impossible, being in class for the next three days will mean I get woefully behind, but I look forward to the class anyway. I have missed the mind-bending of corporate training classes since working for a smaller company who didn’t worry so much about creating a culture. I’m interested to know what direction the mega-huge company that purchased us expects our minds to bend.

I put my work laptop away and call it a night. I feel like I will not sleep for hours, but when I pull out my iPad and start reading, I find my eyes closing almost immediately. Apparently travel (or lack there of) is exhausting.

Sunday Morning

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I wake up at 4AM feeling like I need to sleep about 2 more days, but unable to go back to sleep.  I lay in bed for another hour before I give up and tip toe out of the bedroom, trying not to wake my sister-in-law who, visiting for the weekend, sleeps on an air mattress in the living room.  My foot cracks with a sharp little “pop” with every step.  I do my best to silence it, but my bones seem determined to announce themselves.  Fortunately, my sister-in-law sleeps through the sound of my creaking feet and I manage to get a glass of water, scoop up my laptop, and go out onto the balcony without disturbing her.

The early hours on Sunday morning are quiet.  There is no traffic and even the birds are mostly still sleeping.  I appreciate this time in the morning.  I remember my mother telling me that even as a baby I was not a morning person–I like having time and space to wake up before I engage with people.  It’s as if each morning only part of me wakes up, leaving the extroverted part dozing until it begins to vibrate with the excitement of a new day and I am suddenly ready to be with others.

After sitting alone for an hour or so, I go inside to discover that Megan has awakened and started getting ready for her departure.  We decided last night that we would try to Longhorn for breakfast.  It’s a small little diner that Pat and I have walked by dozens of times, intrigued by its ’50s diner architecture.  We have been wanting to try it and they open for breakfast at 7AM on Sunday morning, so it works well for our purposes this morning–Megan wants to be on the road by 8AM.

Once we have all gotten ourselves ready, we take the short walk over to the diner, arriving just after 7.  Two women in Longhorn shirts sit at the counter.  When we try the door, it’s bolted, but one woman is already on her way over to let us in.  The restaurant consists of a row of 2-person booths lining the windows and a long, formica counter top with metal trim and short metal stools fixed to the floor in front of it with burgundy vinyl tops.  We pick 3 stools in the middle of the counter.  The coffee is made, the grill is covered in nearly done bacon, fresh biscuits are piled in a basket, and the hashbrowns sit prepped, waiting for their turn on the grill.  I wonder what time these women got started this morning.  They are both tiny, frail looking women who wear years of experience on their faces.  One could be my age or 10 years older than me; it’s impossible to tell.  The second could be old enough to be my mother.  Although they appear physically frail, there is something about both of them that makes me think they have strength that has seen them through a lot of hard times.

Pat orders decaf and is surprised that it, too, is already made.  The second woman, still sitting at the counter, asks how they get the caffeine out of coffee.  Pat smiles and says that they use chemicals that aren’t good for you and she laughs a big genuine laugh that lights up her face.  Her smile transforms her instantly and makes me smile with surprise at how beautiful she is.  She reminds me of one of my aunts who used to laugh the same way, dropping 20 years every time she showed her teeth.

The food comes quickly and hot.  There is nothing fancy here, just various combinations of eggs, meat, and potatoes, but it’s good and my eggs are done exactly as I wanted them with the whites still soft but not slimy and the yolk runny and bright yellow.  I appreciate a good over-medium egg.  We sit and talk of when we will next see Megan.  My youngest nephew is turning 18 in October; my sister-in-law assumes we will not come now that the drive is so much further, but I’ve never missed my nephews’ birthdays by more than a few days and I don’t intend to start now.  We talk about his pending graduation in May and I think all of us are struck by the impossibility of being old enough for both of my nephews to be out of high school.  Having no children of our own, Pat and I often measure the passage of time by the milestones of other people’s children.  It comes as a shock each time I realize that another child is no longer a child.

More people arrive and sit in booths as we continue to talk over our coffee, our food long gone.  I don’t want my sister-in-law to leave, but I know she must be looking forward to returning home after being gone much of the past 3 weeks.  I reflect for a moment on the friends in my life.  I am incredibly fortunate when it comes to friends.  They are an assortment of people who have come into my life through random circumstances and stuck in a way that makes me feel both honored and humbled.  Megan is one of those people.  I suppose I should thank my brother for bringing Megan into my life.  She is someone who makes me a better person even though we have always lived hundreds of miles apart.  I cannot imagine having gone through the loss of my mother without her–she also lost my mother and our shared grief got me through in ways I don’t understand and Megan probably doesn’t even know about.  As we leave the restaurant and walk her to the rented mini-van parked behind our building, I find myself missing her already.  The sense of being alone in Chattanooga without my support group rises in me and I suddenly find myself missing all of my friends in a sudden mass of self-pity.  Having just returned from Columbus a few days earlier, it’s as if the loss that I felt leaving my friends behind suddenly caught up with me.

We wave goodbye as she pulls out of the parking lot and return to the apartment.  I plop on the couch, deflated, much like the air mattress that now sits rolled in the corner.  I find myself wishing I were back in Columbus where I could get a hug from my best friend.  The thought of her intensifies my sadness to the point that I turn on the TV just to have a mindless distraction.  I have had many friends move to remote locations where I see them only once a year or less.  We stay in touch and when we talk, it’s like we just saw each other yesterday.  I know that this is how it will be now that I have moved.  I know that my best friend doesn’t care less about me and I hope that she knows that, if anything, I care more about her.  But for a few minutes I wallow in the sense of loss.  I ponder how I could have been looking forward to being back in my own bed when I was staying at my best friend’s house and, now that I am sleeping in my own bed, I long to be back with my best friend.  But the TV distracts me and I find my eyes drooping.  I set aside my sadness and give in to the pull of much needed sleep.