Borderline vacation
My sister and I have taken many vacations together. What we've learned is that while we are generally good traveling companions, we aren't really good companions for other people. However, usually by the third or fourth day, we're ready to kill each other, and then spend the rest of the trip in some sort of uneasy truce. However, this time, that didn't happen.
The trip idea came about because I had an airline credit of $800. We tinkered with going out West, or to the Southwest, but decided instead on New England. I'd been to New England three other times, visiting a friend who lives in Rhode Island.
Newport, Mystic, Cape Cod, Plymouth, and many other places were ones I'd already visited. My sister had not. We weren't keen to fly out of Cleveland, but had no other choice, due to the airline's service base. We did, however, manage to land in Providence, thus avoiding Boston's Logan Airport. This was essential because we were also renting a car and my sister doesn't like big city driving.
I paid for the activation of the tickets (a nice feature airlines love to add to the cost) and that was it for me. Not working full-time meant that my contributions would not go beyond the extra $175 I paid on the tickets. We would stay three nights in Providence with my friend, and in motels for another three.
Due to our hectic spring schedules, neither of us paid much attention to trip planning until I finished student teaching and her school year ended. We decided to go to Bar Harbor, Maine, then to Mt. Washington in New Hampshire, and our splurge was a night at the Trapp Lodge in Stowe, Vt.. Everything else was budget priced.
Rolling and seriously twisting my ankle led to complications. Every step from Cleveland onward was in searing pain. We needed to find ice. Kathy, my nurse friend in Providence, told me that night on the phone, "You need an X-ray to see if it's broken. What do you mean it's not wrapped yet? Are you icing it? Good. Are you elevating it? Why not? Do you have crutches?" Our mother also debated whether or not I needed crutches or a cane. "Mom, I'm not over 65, and I'm not using a cane." My sister became my nursemaid, much to my chagrin. "I think you love this," she snorted on more than one occasion, while wrapping my ankle.
I didn't. I waited for her to just explode because I was limited in movement and the daily wrapping ritual. It never happened. I didn't limit her. "Look, I'll sit on as many benches as there are, and you just do your thing. Hike away. Go shopping. Walk around the town. I don't mind." Really, I did selfishly mind, because I couldn't go anywhere. My friend Vivian told me to sit on the park benches in Bar Harbor and watch the boats come in. It was too painful to walk 100 yards to the benches. I sat instead, in the shade, next to a giant lobster holding an ice cream cone, watching people while my sister looked around.
However, not being mobile wasn't so bad. We took a very nice bus tour and when I discovered the tour guide was a fellow Rotarian, we spent every stop discussing Rotary and what our clubs did, and our views on serving people. The guide learned my sister liked flowers and spent extra time directing her to spots in Acadia National Park with unique flowers and gardens. I spent a lot of time draining water out of my ice bag while she made the rounds, but to see her happy made me happy.
In Provincetown, Cape Cod, one will find the best people watching in the world, I think. It was interesting to see busloads of senior citizens interacting with the predominately gay community. I found my own supposedly liberal beliefs challenged and pushed to the limits, but never once encountered an unfriendly soul among the locals. My favorite was getting handed a promo card for "Susan Boil," a drag queen show, and talking to a comedian while I sat in the town center, foot propped up on a bench, watching people. My only regret was being unable to gimp to Coast Guard Beach to sit and watch the waves roll in. Carol and my friend Kathy went to several beaches and I spent time people watching, again. Although it wasn't as scenic as sitting on the beach, I eavesdropped on the conversations of all ages and nationalities, religions and sexual orientations.
Carol paid for nearly everything, from my tours of Mt. Washington (she refused to drive up the road, which has no guardrails) and Acadia, and many meals. We ate chowder at least six times, had a pancake brunch at a mom and pop maple sugar shack in Vermont, drove the world's smallest car, laughed at bad motel rooms, enjoyed the amenities of the Trapp Lodge (although she found my taking all things Trapp in the room a bit tacky), drank good coffee, and in general, got along well.
We fought over who got the eat the last of the bananas she bought in Maine (after eating fried salad-free food all day, bananas were a great treat), and I opened about 25 bottles of water, tea, and pop for her as she drove the mini-mobile down the highway, to our next destination.
I don't know if our maturity made this trip a good one. I tried to be as whine-free as possible, and while I'm sure she'll give an earful about having to wait on me hand and (literally) foot, we coexisted in peace. "Let's go back again, in a couple of years," I said to her last night. "Let's spend more time doing the stuff we liked, and not rush around." She nodded her head in agreement, and spoke of places she'd like to go back and see.
In reality, we did plenty of the stuff we liked for the entire trip: we got along.