Change In Plans

Greetings from New York, New York.

The rest of my scheduled time in Destin, Florida (i.e., Sunday) was fun but uneventful.  We spent a lot of time on the beach, went on the water on stand-up paddle boards, had a classic fish-shack dinner.  The kids went from swimming in the pool to swimming in the ocean to swimming in the pool to going back in the ocean.  It was fun for me to see so many Southerners at play: wearing lots of gear with SEC football team logos, drinking Lite beer on the beach, driving huge pickup trucks.

India and I went for a late-morning run, keeping up my long-standing birthday tradition of pushing some type of workout to the point of great discomfort.  It was brutally hot and humid by 9am, truly mad dogs and Englishman weather.  It was a wonderful birthday, and a blessing to be with my family.

Everyone else was staying for the whole week, but I had to go back to work.  On Sunday night, Zola got very upset with me, saying, “Uncle JJ and Uncle D are staying all week and missing work.  I hate your job, I wish we could have traveled forever.  I hope you miss your flight.”  He was tired and sunburnt, and that probably made his reaction more extreme.  Still, it is hard to say goodbye to your kid when he is crying.

On Monday morning, I left the house long before sunrise, to catch a 6:05 flight back to New York.  The “Fort Walton - Destin Airport” was only about ten minutes from our rented house, so I arrived there in plenty of time to check in and board.  The only problem was that I had gone to the wrong airport.  The “Fort Walton Airport” was about 25 miles further west and inland.  Who knew?

Driving our rented convertible fast in the pre-dawn darkness, I thought I had a shot at making the flight.  When I arrived at the second airport, I ran through the terminal.  The Hertz desk was not staffed so early in the morning, so I clipped the car keys to the rental contract, and tossed them behind the counter and out of sight.  Then I ran to the USAir check in.

I had missed the check-in deadline by only a few minutes, but there was no one behind the counter any longer.  They were probably down at the gate.  Delta had three flights that morning, but all were sold out, and they couldn’t help me.  Defeated, I decided to stay an extra day in Florida, and take the same USAir flight on Tuesday morning.  The next problem became how to get back to the beach house in Destin.

At this hour, the airport had very few staff (no one at Hertz, Avis, USAir, the help desk, etc.) but it did have a lot of armed police officers walking around.  I thought about asking one of them for help in retrieving the car keys from behind the counter at Hertz, but realized that was probably a bad idea.

Instead, I stood at the Hertz counter, and watched one of the officers walk down the hall towards me from about 50 meters away.  He turned around to walk the other way.  Hoping that there was no video surveillance, I leaped over the counter, and dropped to the floor behind the desk.  I picked up the keys and the rental contract, and peeked down the hallway again.  The officer was facing me again, so I waited.  When he turned away, I stepped on the desk (thank goodness it did not break), and leaped back over the counter and into the terminal.

Five minutes later I was back in the convertible (which I had technically never returned), and driving back toward Destin with the top down.  I called Hertz and explained that I would be returning the car a day later than planned. 

I got back to the house at about 7am, and surprised everyone in the living room.  Zola said, “I can’t believe it!  We all prayed that you would miss your flight, and it happened.  Our prayers were answered.” 

In the end, of course, it was fine to miss another day.  We did the same things we had done on Sunday: played on the beach, swam, went for a run, went out on the stand-up paddle boards.  It was like a snow day, but with sunscreen and lots of Southern accents.  I somehow got sunburn on top of my sunburn.

On Tuesday morning I got up much earlier.  When he heard me get up, Zola sneaked downstairs and sat in the car.  He refused to move until it got so late that I missed my flight again.  It was very sweet of him, and made me feel terrible. Eventually, I got him back to bed, and left for the (correct) airport.

About two miles from my destination, a police car pulled me over.  I was very scared that somehow my key-retrieval antics of the previous day would lead to an arrest for grand theft auto.  The officer started with the classic leading question, “Sir, do you know why I pulled you over?”

Thankfully I did not say, “Because Hertz reported this rental car stolen?”  He told me that I was driving 48 in a 30 zone.  I explained that I was late for a flight, I didn’t know the area, hadn’t seen the sign.  After he ran my license, and assured himself that I was sober, he let me go with a friendly warning.

Too much drama for a simple trip.  Still, I made the flight, got stuck for several hours in Charlotte, and got back to New York by mid-afternoon.

Greetings from Destin, the beautiful, white-sand heart of Florida’s Gulf Coast!

Our plan was pretty simple: fly from New York to Atlanta on Saturday morning, drive to Destin, meet up with India’s family on Saturday afternoon, enjoy my birthday on the beach together on Sunday. I would fly back early on Monday morning.

After a year of traveling the world, this should have been straightforward. Instead it became a comedy of small errors. No harm done, a lot of cultural learnings for me, and some quality family time for us all.

There are mixed opinions, by the way, about whether the term ‘redneck’ is acceptable. Every person I’ve asked in the South has said its OK, so I will go with that. I don’t mean it in any pejorative sense, and if anyone posts a comment suggesting a different word, I will change the title of this post. The ‘Redneck Riviera’ alliteration is irresistible, though. Given how sunburnt we all are, it is factually accurate as well.

India had assured me that the drive from Atlanta to Destin was three hours. When I got around to checking on Google maps, while waiting in line at Hertz in the Atlanta airport, it turned out to be 320 miles. Estimated drive time: 6-7 hours. Ouch!

At India’s suggestion, we upgraded our rental to a convertible, and got everyone excited about a proper roadtrip to the beach.

When Tallulah and Zola saw the dark-blue Mustang, they both got wildly excited. Zola started saying “Yeah, baby!” over and over again in his Austin Powers accent. Wisely, Tallulah also dug her hairbrush out of her backpack.

Pretty quickly, we realized that the cobertible was an impractical choice. Our luggage overflowed the tiny trunk, and we had to stack it in the back seat between the kids. Each of them was wedged in tightly by bags. The top-down cruising was also a lot windier than I think they expected. As stylin’ as Zola felt (”Yeah, baby!”), ten minutes south of the airport he and Tallulah were pleading for us to put the roof up.

With the roof up, however, the crowding from the luggage was claustrophobically unbearable. We had to put the roof back down. Tallulah hid under a blanket for the first couple of hours, and Zola huddled low and out of the wind. A good time was had by all, or at least by India and me.

As we drove, I heard lots of stories from India about college and law-school road trips to Destin, and about family vacations on the beach. I heard about her friend picking up the rocker, Tommy Two Tone, and bringing him back to India’s motel room. I hadn’t really appreciated how important this place was to her in the years before we knew each other.

The trip south had many highlights. I saw a billboard that read “God, Guns and Guts Made America Great!” The New York equivalent would probably read “Money, Chutzpah, and Take-Out Chinese Food”. We saw another billboard advertising “Concealed Weapons Permit Classes.” I’m not sure what exactly they teach in that one.

Somewhere near Dothan, Alabama, we passed a commercial yeast factory. The smell was overwhelming and bad. Having been silent for over an hour, Tallulah popped up from under her wind shelter and yelled, “Someone pooped!”

Stranger still, after a similar period of silence, Zola informed us gravely that he “hadn’t picked a booger in over a year.” Maybe the sun was cooking his head.

Far to the north, the three-vehicle Nashville convoy with the rest of India’s family had somehow missed their planned departure time of 7 am. They actually rolled out at 12:30 pm, which put them on track for a 9 pm arrival. Somehow this made us feel a little better about our own travel challenges.

порно бабы

After a wind-swept eternity, we pulled into Destin at 6:30 pm, picked up the keys to the rental house, and found the place, across the street from the beach. Excitedly, we hauled our bags inside, and found … a disgusting mess.

Somehow the house had not been cleaned after its last occupants had checked out. The previous occupants had not been a college fraternity, or a traveling rock band, but the place was pretty gross.

The challenge was to get the house cleaned before my cleanliness-valuing (some night say germphobic) mother-in-law arrived a few hours later.

To the rental agency’s great credit, they got on it right away. Within two minutes of calling to report the problem, Todd, the manager had called back, apologized profusely, and dispatched his best cleaner, Esmeralda, and a large team. He even offered to pay for dinner so we could get out of the cleaning team’s way.

We went to the beach for a while, and swam in the warm Gulf water. The sand is white, so the water looks beautiful and blue. The kids dug and built castles until sunset, and then we went off to “Captain Dave’s” for a fish dinner (thanks, Todd).
Eventually, the Nashville convoy rolled in, Zola and Tallulah were reunited joyously with their cousins, and all was well.

It was a long, funny, interesting and complicated last day before turning 43. This was a fitting ending to our long, funny, interesting and complicated year.

Greetings from Bonita Beach, on Florida’s Gulf Coast.

We have spent a very fun weekend at my step-mother’s new home, halfway between Ft. Myers and Naples. As I hoped, all four of us quickly slipped back into the rhythms and routines (as they are) of family travel. It was easy to forget that the world-round trip is over, and that we have started the next chapter of our life as a family.

India and the kids flew down early on Thursday morning, and had pretty much two full days with Grandma Judi before I arrived late on Friday night. They went to the beach, swam in the pool, cooked semi-elaborate outdoor meals, had picnics, and just enjoyes being together.

Grandma Judi is girly (for a grandmother), and she and Tallulah are bonded at the hip whenever we visit. They gardened, took care of the kitty, admired each other’s clothes and shoes, and prepared small, pretty dishes. Tallulah literally dances around the kitchen as they talk.

Zola greatly enjoyed his time talking with Judi’s friend Larry: telling stories from our trip, and being the big man in an adult conversation. Larry indulged him with thoughtful questions, and rapt attention.

India relished the short break from her continuous, world-round responsibilities for keeping us all together and moving forward. She wrote me an e-mail on Friday afternoon, as she sat next to the pool, reading in the sunshine: “I can’t stop falling asleep. What do you think is wrong with me?” I’m not a doctor, but my guess was that she was tired. She still managed four long runs in four days, including one on Saturday where she dragged my sorry, out-of-shape self along. By Sunday morning, of course, she had reverted to form, and had gotten us all packed, cleaned, fed, and out the door in time for the plane. She had even printed our boarding passes.

Judi is a very accomplished sailor and sailing instructor. It was one of the great passions she shared with my father.

Late on Saturday morning, we rigged two Sunfish at her sailing club, and headed out into Estero Bay. We had planned to go in the afternoon, but the weather forecast indicated that the wind was going to strengthen to 20 knots; too strong for us to really sail safely.

Judi started by giving Zola a lesson in one boat, while India, Lu and I just cruised around in the other.

I am a barely competent sailor (sorry, Dad), but as we set out, the winds were mild and the water was pretty flat. India and Tallulah were good sports as we bashed around the shallow water of the bay. After about 20 minutes of sailing downwind (ie, away from shore), we spent the next 40 minutes tacking back. I think they enjoyed the first 20 minutes.

Judi had to come to my rescue with some expert advice, as I pinned my boat against the leaves and branches of a mangrove island. I ended up jumping in the water, and pulling the boat away from the island and pointing it into the (suddenly much stronger) wind. I opened a long cut on my right foot, stepping on the sharp mangrove roots.

When we finally got back to the dock (I dropped sail and paddled the last 30 meters), India and Lu decided to pursue shore-based activities.

Judi sailed off on her own, flying across the water like a sea-borne sprite. Zola and I went out together, enjoying some totally quality father-son time.

Unwisely, I let Zola take the helm as we sped downwind. After about three minutes of smooth sailing, Zola turned the boat and his body weight to starboard, the same side that the sail and I were already on. Zola and I were both hurled through the air and into the water, and the boat immediately capsized.

Realizing that the water was warm, that his life jacket was keeping him afloat, and that I was already wrapping my arms around him, Zola shouted, “That was awesome!”

To tell the truth, I wasn’t too sure it was awesome, until I realized I could stand in the chest-deep water, and I had double-checked my pocket to be sure that my BlackBerry was, in fact, still safely on shore.

Then we laughed. Judi once again sailed to our rescue with expert instruction on righting the boat and getting back in. If there is a heaven, I hope my father was watching us, and laughing so hard that he fell on the floor, or on a cloud, or whatever.

Zola and I dried in the wind and sun, only to get redrenched by sea spray as we tacked, and tacked, and tacked our way back to shore. Our promised 45 minutes had somehow become two hours, but India just laughed at us, and took pictures of our bedraggled return.

We were sad to leave Judi’s this morning. She and Larry had only heard about 5% of our travel stories. Larry graciously, but firmly, encouraged us to write a book, and to travel for as long as we can. As always, they were both terrific, fun, interesting company.

Zola and Tallulah are looking forward to weeks of similar pampering with their other two grandmothers, as part of their triumphant return-home tour.

India and I are looking forward to settling down for a couple of days in New York, before she and the kids go to Nashville.

India, with help from super-broker Linda Maloney, found us a terific NY apartment. I signed a lease and moved our bags in on Friday morning.

It feels as though the most ragged part of our re-entry is coming to an end. Now we are gearing up for the difficult and unwelcome period of not being together all of the time.

India already has the calendar and the latest Travel and Leisure magazine out again, plotting socially responsible trips to exotic destinations. The adventure continues.