It’s the rhythm that does it to me, the waves lapping, advancing and retreating, moving in and out.
It’s the palm trees swaying and the birds here, different from the ones back home.
It’s the landscape. Semitropical, lush — hot, yes, but where isn’t it hot these days?
The rhythm of Florida has become the pace of relaxation for me.
One of the joys of a beach vacation is how few decisions need to be made. I love the hustle-bustle of a traveling getaway, one where you must decide which states or countries to visit, which sights to see, where to stay, which routes to drive.
But on a beach vacation you know what you’ll do. You’ll walk, read and swim. You’ll look at the ocean and marvel at the immensity of it all.
Yes, you must decide how to divvy up your days. Beach in the morning, pool in the afternoon — or vice versa?
And what you must also decide is what to listen to while striding down the strand. Yesterday, it was Bach. To “Sleepers Awake” I watched gulls swoop ands swerve. To “Sheep May Safely Grace” I dodged lizards in the dunes. To the “Toccata and Future in D” I saw thunderheads pile up in the east.
They almost chased me inside, but I kept walking and they blew over … for a while, at least.
Today, as we celebrate the 50th anniversary of Apollo 11 and humankind’s first footsteps on the moon, I take off for Florida, the state which launched that famous spaceship.
Even on television a rocket launch is a grand and awe-inspiring sight. Here in D.C., they’ve turned the Washington Monument into a light show of the Saturn V rocket, an inventive and whimsical creation that seems just the right touch for the day.
However you celebrate it, July 20 is an awesome day to be an American, and, as always, an awesome day to be alive.
I miss reading Mother Goose rhymes to little people, but this morning it was almost like I was reading one to myself.
Into my mind, unprompted, came these words:
A diller, a dollar, a 10 o’clock scholar
What makes you come so soon?
You used to come at 10 o’clock,
But now you come at noon.
I know why this nursery rhyme suddenly came to mind. It’s the first day of my vacation, and I slept from 11 p.m. till 9 a.m.
The feeling, like the nursery rhyme, is familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. And, like both, it is much fun.
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| Charlotte Airport, 9 p.m. |
Modern travel has much to recommend it. More people can be whisked to more places than ever before. But as anyone who has flown recently knows, modern travel can also be a headache.
Yesterday I spent 12 hours getting home from Little Rock. I could almost have driven in that time. Thunderstorms were the culprit. They grounded planes, which then caused a cascade of delays that rippled through the East Coast and beyond.
That much couldn’t be helped. But as I walked through the Charlotte Airport I couldn’t help but see deeper problems. There were plenty of places to spend money, but no comfortable seats. The place was so cold that my fingers were numb by the time I boarded the plane. And while the airline wheeled out a cart of snacks and drinks, there weren’t enough attendants to help the stranded travelers get where they were going.
There was, in short, both too much … and too little.
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| National Airport, 3 a.m. |
It’s been a short trip to the Natural State. I leave later today. Amidst the work I absolutely have to do, I find time to visit with people I don’t usually see. It’s what makes it rich, and it makes me think how shallow life can be when efficiency rules.
Dozens of times each year I vow to be less efficient, to smell the roses, to take life easier. And dozens of times I break that vow.
But I’m an optimist, so I think … maybe this time it will be different. It probably won’t be. I know that. But I can always try.
A few weeks ago, the Arkansas River, which now flows placidly less than a quarter-mile from my hotel, rose and raged and overflowed its banks.
Sooner or later, usually sooner, the modern-day traveler runs into a delay, cancellation or other snafu. This time is was my turn. The flight that was supposed to get me to Arkansas Sunday night with time to check in, have a good night’s sleep and then slide easily in the work week …. was cancelled.
Instead, I went back home Sunday night, left my bag checked at the airport and made my way to the local office yesterday morning … in a monsoon. Inches of rain an hour, wind blowing it sideways, puddles so deep they covered my shoes.
Even a quick dash across the street from the “tunnel” to the door of my building left me drenched to the skin … and of course I was wearing the clothes, shoes and socks I’d be traveling in until almost midnight last night.
No matter. The clothes dried, the new flights (both of them, to Chicago and to Little Rock) took off on time ,and my suitcase was waking for me, having apparently spent Monday in Little Rock.
Well, at least one of us did!
I’ll spend most of this week in Arkansas, a place that was briefly my home decades ago and is the official headquarters of my employer. It’s a work trip through and through, but it’s also a change of scene, and will put me somewhere I enjoy being … west of the Mississippi.
Crossing the Big Muddy has always been a milestone in the long drives west. The river doesn’t evenly bisect the continent, but the spirit of the country changes on the west side of the river. It loosens its shoulders, drawls a little more. It’s friendlier, too.
I’m hoping this touch of the west will rub off on me a little while I’m there. Will slow me down and loosen my shoulders, too.
So for today’s post, a mental vacation, a memory. Two years ago, I was preparing for a trip to Bangladesh. It was a daunting assignment. I was interviewing dozens of people, many of them victims of human trafficking. And, to make me even more anxious, I was leading a writing workshop.
It all worked out, led to experiences and friendships I will never forget. So today, I’m thinking of Bangladesh, of the people there who have so little but give so much. Of sodden green pond banks, of rice paddies gleaming and jute drying in the sun.
