It was eight in the morning we were at the Hartsfield Jackson Airport reading tabloids at a newsstand about the death of the King of Pop and eagerly awaiting the call for our 10:45 flight to J.F.K…
Two hours and few minutes later found me, my friend Ruth, her brother Sam, and her mother listening to the gate attendant say that our plane to J.F. Kennedy airport had been delayed due to technical problems and our flight should be delayed only an hour leaving us about ten minutes to catch our connector flight to Bangor, Maine. Ruth and I settled back into our seats returning to our game of I Spy, Sam went back to his catnap, and my friend’s mother began dialing her sister who was supposed to pick us up at Bangor and drive us to our destination, Grandma’s house. None of us expected the adventure that awaited us as we attempted to travel to the Mersereau family reunion.
Four hours after the first delay we were finally called to board, I paused only a minute at the threshold between tunnel and plane, popping a Dramamine and quoting Samwise from Lord of the Rings, “If I take one more step, it’ll be the farthest away from home I’ve ever been.”
My first inkling of disaster occurred when we stepped off our plane into the filthy J.F.K. airport and later after three hours of haggling for seats, food and hotel vouchers that’s when the reality that I’d have to spend the night in Long Island finally hit. Our situation deteriorated more when we missed the bus to our hotel by two minutes and had to wait thirty minutes for the next bus, and after a miserable overpriced frozen hotel dinner we found ourselves finally in the hotel bordering on the hysterical watching CSI reruns. It was like our destination was Heaven but first we had to travel all the levels of Hell to get there.
Coincidentally the rest of our trip to Hoyt, New Brunswick was uneventful after we left New York. Filled with normal events like turbulence, no cell phone coverage, and a pit stop at Tim Horton’s for Canadian maple donuts the most amazing food Canada’s ever produced besides Sussex Golden Ginger Ale and as I quickly learned in my nine days in Hoyt, everything’s sweeter in Canada.
Another tidbit I learned was that New Brunswick, at least where I traveled, was not prepared for the coming of a 5’11’’ Amazonian woman from North Georgia. From the small bathtubs to my first trail ride where being knocked off by the low hanging branches was more of a danger than my lack of riding skills.
Still sore from the horseback ride, we packed ourselves into Gramp’s car and began the two hour drive to Cape Hopewell to see the deepest tides in the world. The ocean floor smelled faintly of dead fish and salt, but it was incredible. Rocks shaped into arches and tall curving sentinels ever watching the tides go only to be covered when they return. The gift shop was pretty nice too.
My trip reminded me one very important lesson that I had forgotten, it’s not the places I go on a trip that qualifies it as time well spent; it’s the people I go with that make it worthwhile.
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