W H A T A T R I P
DAY ONE
JP and I pull into Albuquerque airport at five a.m. We’re on our way to North Carolina to chill out on the beach, check out the waterfalls, and hang out in Asheville -- art mecca of the South. I’ve been planning this get-away for months – researching on N.C. sites, quizzing friends who lived there, and monitoring the weather daily. I pack and re-pack my carry-on a lot.
We allow plenty of time for leisurely cappuccinos at the airport Starbucks. Maybe even a bun.
JP pops open the trunk to retrieve our luggage.
Crickets.
“Uh, honey,” he starts, “where’s your bag?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, wrestling my tote out of the back seat.
“Your luggage. Where is it?”
“I thought you…”
“I thought you…”
Crickets.
“Oh no,” I croak. “This is really bad this is really bad this is really bad this is really bad.”
Like two middle-aged zombies, we stumble around aimlessly to the rhythm of my hideous mantra.
I note JP’s silence and watch his eyes glaze over.
“Okay. Okay,” I say, snapping out of my stupor. “I don’t know how this happened and I don’t care. Let’s just go inside and see if there’s another flight to Raleigh.”
I surge forward.
JP tags behind.
I approach the Southwest ticket counter and, in a voice choked with foreboding, explain our situation to “Helen”.
“Oh,” she starts. “This is really bad. But…let me see what I can do.”
Her burgundy Press-Ons click confidently against the computer keys.
“Anything?” I say brightly.
“Not until a week from Thursday. So…no.”
I pause, take a giant cleansing breath, and go all Scarlett O’Hara. No matter how. No matter when. We will make it to Raleigh – even without clothes or cosmetics or retainer!
No response from JP.
My husband has vanished.
As I wait for him to resurface, I assess the wardrobe and toiletries situation.
JP lurches in dragging his carry-on. One of the wheels has frozen.
We have to hustle if we’re going to make our flight, so we take the escalator two steps at a time and dash to the security check area. It looks like the Walmart parking lot at four a.m. on Black Friday.
“We are so fucked,” comments JP.
We novice travelers don’t realize that the first flights of the day all take off at the same time. Duh.
I feel bad about the cappuccinos.
We inch forward.
While JP fiddles with his cranky wheel, I read, “Priority Boarding may be available” on our business-class tickets. I say, “Honey, why don’t you go to TSA PreCHeck and see if we qualify.”
He nods.
Minutes later, he’s waving me over.
I relinquish my precious spot in line, navigate through, and duck under the nylon barrier to stand next to my husband. This elicits a major stink-eye from “Linda”, the checker.
“So,” I whisper to JP, “we’re okay for TSA PreCheck, right?”
Crickets.
“Next!” barks Linda.
I step forward, all humble and somewhat pitiful.
Linda takes a leisurely swig of Fresca, coughs, checks my ID and ticket, and grunts, “You’re in the wrong line.”
“But…” I start.
“Does your boarding pass say TSA PreCheck?”
“I thought…”
“Does…your…boarding…pass…”
“No, but…”
“Step aside.”
“But we’re going to miss our flight!”
“That has nothing to do with me.”
“But…”
“Next!”
Linda peers past me toward her next prey.
I grab JP to spare him the humiliation of her inquisition and
sprint to The Back of The Line. As we shift from foot to foot, I review. Of course, neither of us are in our right minds, so we mistake Priority Boarding to mean TSA PreCheck, not boarding the friggin’ plane. Duh.
We finally make it through.
Jamming shoes into totes, we race barefooted to Gate 11 only to watch in horror as Flight 283 lazily backs out onto the runway.
“We are so fucked,” mentions JP.
As tears are not an option, I zoom over to the nearest ticket counter.
I’m panting so hard that my giant 1099 (or whatever) mask sucks to my face when I inhale (depriving me of vital oxygen), while stealthily creeping up into my eyes.
I ask the ticket guy, “(gasp) When is the (gasp) next flight to (gasp) Raleigh?”
“Now,” he says. “I got two no-shows. Want ‘em?”
I rip off the vile vail.
“Yes!”
“It’s boarding over there. Gate 10.”
I gently guide JP through check-in and down the aisle.
We collapse into the last row – the toilet seats.
Never mind that the days-old infant in front of us wails the entire flight, or that our “party mixes” expired 3/14/2020, or that the guy next to me sprawls out like a river overflowing its banks, we’re on our way to N.C. and I’m going shopping!
JP naps.
We touch down in Austin for a three-hour layover.
I hunt for vacation-wear.
Alas, no luck.
JP hunts for an available charging station.
Alas, no luck.
We re-board, pause in St. Louis, land in Raleigh four hours past our ETA, and barely make it to Budget before they close.
After a seventy-five-minute wait, “Ella” greets us at the counter. “How y’all doin’ today?”
“Marginal,” I reply.
“Glad to hear it. Glad to hear it.” She peers over the lavender readers hanging around her neck. “You got your reservation, hon?”
JP, freshly returned from the dead, now takes charge. He hands Ella our order.
Ella yo-yos between the order and her computer.
She consults her supervisor.
Ella says, “Hmm.”
Now, when someone says, “Hmm”, it can’t be good.
“I see ya got here kinda late.”
JP and I look at each other with “duh” in our eyes.
“Not to worry. We do have a car for you. It’s out there in our way-back lot. Row 13. Here are the keys. Have a blessed day.”
“Okay!” I wave. “We’ll try!”
We drive off in a white Nissan Rogue. The odometer reads 97,000.
As we near our Marriott, JP says, “Hmm…”
Uh-oh.
“Do you hear that sound?”
“That grinding?”
“Yeah. Something’s wrong with the wheels. We need to take this car back.”
“But not today, honey,” I whimper. “Please?”
All I want now is a clean room and a mondo Pinot Gris.
JP relents and we check in.
I ask the concierge where to find the much-advertised “restaurant.”
He points to two green pleather booths, a bar with a server named “Johnelle”, and a quite-limited menu taped to the wall. The place is empty.
JP proceeds to take our bags – bag – up to the room.
I proceed to have a meltdown.
I dump every terrifying detail onto sweet Johnelle.
“Whoa. Whoa,” he says. “Let me stop you right there, girl. Now, you definitely need a variety of casual outfits and a few interesting accessories, but you do not need makeup. All you need is a smile.”
“Oh, okay,” I hiccup. “Sorry to lay this on you.”
“It’s all good,” he says, momentarily distracted by his image in the mirror over the bar.
“Anyhoo,” he continues, “let’s just get your sorry little self some booze and food, kay?”
“Yep,” I sniff.
I notice a microwave lurking in the corner next to the boxed wines.
“What would you like?” says Johnelle.
I sense JP behind me. He lays his hand on the small of my back.
“A Pinot Grigio for her,” he says. “Right, hon?”
I nod.
“And a Corona for me.”
I add, “We’d also like two Caesar salads, and a ‘focaccia pizza’?”
“Perf,” smiles Johnelle. “While you’re waiting, why don’t you two enjoy our delightful lanai. I’ll bring dinner out.”
The “lanai” is a slab of concrete tucked in next to the hotel’s
air conditioning unit. A faded umbrella slumps against the faux teak table, and one of the faux rattan chairs is unraveling. Whatever. It just feels good to be on the ground again, enjoying a balmy evening with my husband. The drone of the AC is kind of a buzzkill, though. We sip our beverages, revisit the highlights of the day and wonder where dinner is.
“I’ll go in and get our food,” says JP.
He returns with another round of drinks and two cardboard bowls of scantily-dressed romaine.
At some point in the future, Johnelle sweeps in. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry,” he puffs, “I couldn’t find the Ragu.”
He presents our spongy little “pizza, hotish from the microwave. I notice an unusual plastic aftertaste, but, we’re hungry. We’re tired. We eat.
END OF DAY ONE
DAY TWO
My brain at three a.m.:
Okay. Bathing suit and cover-up, yoga pants, sandals…No, wait. Bathing suit and cover-up, yoga pants, sandals, socklets, toothbrush, tee-shirt. Oh, yeah. Okay. Okay. Bathing suit and cover-up, yoga pants, tee-shirt, sandals, socklets, toothbrush, tee-shirt, makeup, yoga pants…
This continues until dawn.
I nudge JP at six.
We shower off yesterday’s debacle and prepare for an excellent today.
I turn my undies inside out and slip back into jeans and hoodie.
At the bar, we enjoy Americanos served with real half-and-half -- not that ubiquitous but mysterious creamer.
Things are looking up.
In anticipation of my shopping blast, I ask JP to get directions to the nearest Target. He does. We drive. JP says, “Something’s wrong with the wheels. We have to take this car back.”
I whine a little bit. “We can’t today, honey. We have a six-hour drive to Asheville and a dinner reservation at five, and that’s after I go shopping.”
Grumble. Grumble. “Okay, but I hope we make it.”
We do make it, but not to Target. The concierge gave us directions to Costco.
JP rolls down his window and asks a nearby gardener how to reach our destination.
He no hablos English.
I question a cute millennial with her Frappuccino.
“Hmmm…” she starts. “So, I like kinda just, um, moved here two weeks ago, so, like…I don’t know.”
Then it hits me.
Face-palm.
Siri.
Ten minutes later, we pull into Target.
I have exactly one hour to assemble my vay-cay collection.
JP sits outside the dressing room hunched over his phone in pursuit of the closest Budget to Asheville.
I go to work. Tee-shirts fly off hangers. Bathing suits and cover-ups pile up in a riot of color. I tear through the shoe aisles ripping sandals off the wall, slipping them on, and then kicking forcefully to break that little
plastic handcuff that joins the right and left together.
Fifty minutes later – wardrobe, socks, underwear, makeup, complete.
Fifty-five minutes later – Starbucks’ buns.
Life is good.
Driving along, we see that North Carolina is a very green state.
We pass by a large Confederate flag.
North Carolina is a very red state.
Except for Asheville, which is blue.
We pull into our hotel and hand the Rogue over to a valet.
JP mumbles, “Well, we made it, but just barely.”
“My hero.”
The Grove Park Inn is an Art Deco fantasy with intricately-carved woodwork, stylized ornamentation, and a magnificent stone fireplace that could garage an SUV.
We check in with “Gail”. Big smile. Bigger hair.
She looks up our reservation.
“Hmmm…” she says.
Gulp.
“So, would you like an upgrade? ...There’s no extra charge…You’ll
have a mountain view.”
What luck!
Sadly, we discover that the “mountain view” is of a very thin grayish-blue strip far, far away.
Our room looks out onto the Sports Center. The bedside lamp is defunct. Only one charging station works, which is okay because my plug-in broke somehow. A bathroom light has gone dark.
I place my new toothbrush by the sink and return later to find a delicate beige peel resting on top of its bristles. The bathroom ceiling is shedding.
We can’t move to another room. There are no other rooms. The place is totally booked because of the Annual Ferrari Club Tour and Mothers’ Day.
Five o’clock. Martinis and lasagne on the patio. Nice view.
END OF DAY TWO
DAY THREE
Glorious weather.
We spend the morning at Riverfront Walk where artists have converted former warehouses and mills into studios and painted the outside walls with fantastically-detailed murals. Yesterday’s angst fades as we cruise through these beehives of creativity.
On to the Arts District. This has a slightly different vibe. Asheville is a college town. Young. Fun. Lotsa of piercings, tats, and drumming. Lotsa vintage. I visit many co-op galleries – one specializing in blown glass Christmas ornaments and hand-made greeting cards. Another, in pet portraits.
Everyone’s an artist.
Or think they are.
A coupla groovy boutiques catch my eye. While I look into shopping possibilities, JP looks into frosty steins of craft brew at a local pub.
END OF DAY THREE
DAY FOUR
I buy a waterfall map. Unfortunately, this map doesn’t jive with the others JP printed before we left. Our conversation goes:
JP – “Okay. Do you see the main highway on your map?
Me – “No.”
“It’s this little red line.”
“It’s not here.”
“How about this?”
“I don’t know.”
JP gets directions from the concierge.
As we drive away, I ask, “Honey, do you know where we’re going?”
“Yeah,” he says. “But that guy in there talked so fast that I couldn’t understand what he was saying. I know how to get there, though.”
Siri. Siri. Help.
She guides us to The Visitors’ Center.
The place is empty except for “Nate”, an octogenarian at best.
“We’d like directions to the waterfalls,” I enunciate slowly and with a certain volume.
“Where?” he asks, cupping a hand to his ear.
“The waterfalls!” shouts JP.
“Oh. Okay. Follow me.”
Nate shuffles across approximately five feet of flooring. Upon reaching his destination, he points a quaking forefinger to a map on the wall.
“The falls are right off the main highway. Should be clearly marked. Some of ‘em you might even be able to spot from the road. And don’t miss those overlooks. By the way, how much time do you folks have?”
“An hour and a half,” blurts JP.
“Hmmm. Well, good luck to you then. And don’t miss those overlooks.”
As we pull out of the lot I say, “So…Why do we have to be back in an hour and a half…?”
JP sighs, “April at Budget told me yesterday that she might have a car for us today, and if she does, I don’t want to miss her call because of the spotty reception up here.”
“Oh.”
We drive. And drive.
No waterfalls, but lotsa those overlooks looking over blue mountains,
green trees, and gray sky. Mountains, trees, sky. Mountains. Trees. Sky.
We decide to overlook them.
JP is now racing down the highway with Budget on his brain.
“Wait!” I cry. “I think I saw a sign!”
He yanks the car around and slows.
I read, “Upper and Lower Falls.”
“Stop!”
JP glances at his watch.
He parks the car.
Starting out on “Waterfall Trail”, we soon arrive at the “Lower Falls”.
This is a modest river rippling over two big rocks.
We continue on the more-promising, “Upper Falls Loop”.
We walk. We walk.
No signs. No people. No falls. It’s raining.
My Target socklets have rolled off my heels and now bunch
uncomfortably around my toes.
I hear a familiar sound. It is the sound of cars. The “Waterfall Loop” has led us back to the parking lot.
I surrender.
Even with shredded windshield wipers, JP motors us back to the hotel in record time.
He bursts into the room, leaps onto his cell and calls April.
No answer.
He tries again. No answer.
He jams the phone into his Levis and heads for the door.
It’s now 4:30 on Sunday afternoon.
“Where are you going?”
“To the Budget office in the mall.”
“Siri and I will go with you.”
We circumnavigate the complex three times but remain Budgetless.
JP parks the car and dials the company’s general number. This is what I hear:
“My name is John Farrell. I need to talk to someone about replacing my rental car…John Farrell… What? Could you repeat that? I think we have a bad connection… What?!… I can’t understand you!”
He stares at his phone in puzzlement.
“They hung up on me.”
He re-dials.
“Hi, ‘Suzie’… John Farrell -- Two Rs and two Ls…Pardon? No. Two Rs and two Ls! What? No. No. I already have a car, but it -- is – not – a – good – car. I – want -- a -- good – car…What? No. I have a car!... I can’t…Could you say that again?... Are you speaking English?”
I suggest that we go inside and ask someone for directions to Budget. Plus, I spy an Ulta.
A yawning security guard grudgingly leads us to the office.
Lights off. Door locked.
The hours of operation are clearly posted on the window:
SUNDAY – 10:00 - 000
PHONE – 512 - 643 - 278
While JP ponders his next move, I buzz over to Ulta. I’m in desperate need of concealer for the stress-induced fever blister blooming on my lower lip.
JP joins me. No luck with the car.
Back to the hotel.
At dinner, we enjoy the parade of cute prom couples -- guys in colorful tuxes sporting creative variations on the mullet. Debs poured into frilly gowns split to the thighs. With shellacked dos, fat lashes, and tons of blush, they wobble on perilously high heels. All are trying very hard to have an experience they will never forget.
As are we.
END OF DAY FOUR
DAY FIVE
JP calls April. She has a car. We’ll pick it up this morning.
I leave two pairs of socklets, a sweatshirt, and yoga pants for some lucky housekeeper.
We make it to Budget by nine. April says, “Hmm.”
JP says, “What?”
April says, “I have your car, but it hasn’t been cleaned yet. Shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes.”
Two and a half hours of later, we dump the Rogue and jump into our darling red Dodge Charger, Ruby.
JP is cheerful.
On our way to the coast, we’re amused and befuddled by an assortment of interesting bumper-stickers. I catch this one while we wait at a railroad crossing:
Keep Honking!!
I also am a GOOSE who is
PRETENDING to be HUMAN.
Fear not, COMRAD.
Our DAY will COME.
And, of course, the ever-popular:
HOW’S MY DRIVING?
Call
1-800-2BLOWME
We make it to Wrightsville in time for martinis and smashburgers.
END OF DAY FIVE
DAY SIX
Beautiful seashore. JP takes a dip in the ocean. He has the surf all to himself. Only later do we find out that Wrightsville Beach is known for its shark attacks.
Splendid weather.
Ditto umbrella drinks
Ditto seafood platter.
END OF DAY SIX
DAY SEVEN
JP, Siri, and I explore the charming beach towns we had heard so much about. We don’t notice much charm, but we do find an extensive selection of “I Heart N.C.” magnets and mugs and a wealth of items from New Delhi.
JP enjoys an informative tour through the battleship, USS North Carolina.
I play Wordle.
END OF DAY SEVEN
DAY EIGHT
At six a.m. we awaken to whistling, rattling, and thudding coming from outside. We fling open the drapes and watch in fascination as gale-force winds, sheets of rain, giant whitecaps, and a raging surf obliterate the beach.
One of our deck chairs teeters over the patio ledge. The other’s gone AWOL.
Today’s itinerary will not include Pina Coladas and guacamole in a cozy seaside cabana.
Fucking Nature.
We spend our last beach day at the mall. A cutting board from Williams-Sonoma for JP. Gap camis for me.
The afternoon concludes with popcorn, Milk Duds, and some horrible movie. All I remember is a lot of blood and cleavage.
JP likes it.
END OF DAY EIGHT
DAY NINE
I bid farewell to a few more items of clothing.
We’re on our way back to Raleigh.
The sky looks like a week-old bruise and the downpour persists.
We’re thirty minutes onto the interstate when Siri chirps, “Flash flood warning – now.”
Ruby’s wipers swipe valiantly, but are no match for the blinding splashes of big trucks with fast drivers. We pull over to the side.
The storm calms to a drizzle, and, thanks to JP’s excellent driving, we make it safely to Raleigh by early afternoon.
Since check-in isn’t until four, we decide to spend a few dry, educational hours at the Natural History Museum.
No sooner do we enter the Mesozoic Era, when a plague of insane seven-year-olds descends upon us. No chaperone in sight. Like wild beasts loosed from their cages, they’re everywhere doing everything but looking at the exhibitions. Running seems to be the activity of choice with yelling, a close second. Some nefarious imp has smuggled in Jelly Bellies and is playing “Hit the Mammoth’s Eye.” In retaliation, the museum cranks up the sound system and lowers the thermostat so that we’re surrounded by dinosaur growls and exotic bird calls while weathering the second Ice Age. JP and I squeeze through the mayhem, careful not to get Juice Box spatter on my new white jeans.
We flee to the safety of our hotel. The room isn’t quite ready, so we decompress in the lounge with many glasses of complimentary champagne and a harpist’s medley of Simon and Garfunkle hits.
Our day concludes with a quiet evening in a lovely room overlooking the koi pond.
END OF DAY NINE
DAY TEN
I relinquish the last of my holiday trousseau to “Anya” who had kindly left tiny gold boxes of assorted chocolates on our pillows the night before.
The plane takes off at one.
JP wants to make sure we have plenty of time before our flight, so we check out at nine and say goodbye to dear Ruby.
We meander around the very boring airport for three hours, board, and eventually touch down in Austin.
My phone reads 4:00. The plane to Albuquerque leaves at 4:20.
“But,” I tell JP, “It’s really 3:00 because of the time difference.”
We stroll through the now-familiar airport researching what’s for lunch.
“Wait!” cries JP in horror. “Our cellphones automatically account for the time difference, so it really is 4:30, not 3:30!”
We race to our gate in a panic of deja vu and board with zero minutes to spare.
Back to the toilet seats.
Back to loud babies and large grownups.
Going back home.
I squeeze JP’s hand. “Thanks for saving our butts – again.”
He smiles, “We could have been so fucked.”
We roll onto our driveway at dusk.
I gingerly approach the back door where my dear carry-on waits like a lost puppy. I believe I see a tiny teardrop trickle down her leather strap. Or, maybe it’s condensation.
I look at JP.
JP looks at me.
We both look at The Bag.
What a trip.