My Recent Airline Experience:

1.  I leave work on time to get to the station where I will park my car and take the bus to the airport. When I arrive, there are zero long-term spaces available. After some finagling, I pay for three days and leave my car in the "pick-up parking only" lot, which means I have a front-row spot at the station.

2.  The bus is caught in stopped traffic because some idiots smashed into each other on the Zakim Bridge, making inbound afternoon traffic worse than outbound commuter traffic.

3.  There is no one in line at pre-check, and the few of us sail right through. A random guy and I get pulled aside at Logan by TSA to be checked for bomb residue on our hands. Yes, I look like a post-menopausal terrorist, apparently. This is the fifth or sixth time in a row that I have been "randomly" tagged. The last two times, TSA demanded my cell phone (also for bomb purposes).

4.  My gate is changed. I sit a gate away so I have room and availability to charge my cell phone. My only company is a lovely lady sharing my flight and a random bird that keeps wandering around between our feet.

5.  Our flight is delayed by people who do not understand how to deplane. They keep dribbling out with huge spaces between random blobs of humans. People - Grab your stuff and get off the plane. Worth the wait -- the sunset is amazing through the cloud bank.

6.  The rental car line is ridiculously long, even at an almost ungodly hour of the night.

7.  I miss Whole Foods by five minutes and end up getting the first fast food that I have had in a decade or more. It's a Wendy's chicken sandwich, passably edible.

8.  I sleep better than I do at home except for a random 3:30 a.m. leg cramp that feels like I might need to have my lower leg amputated. Takes a solid fifteen minutes to walk and settle down again. Old age is not for sissies.

9.  Everything is great, the weather and the company and the hotel, until I return to the airport. Seriously. I don't even hit traffic, and the line to the rental return is well-organized. I get to pre-check, which in Charlotte means me and 300 of my closest friends. It's okay because the regular line is probably 500 deep. I almost don't get past TSA because they're looking at my license. Now, this I could understand when I cut off all of my hair last summer, but now I look exactly like my license picture, long gray hair and all, minus maybe a dozen pounds. Again, TSA gives me crap.

10.  Two minutes after I sit at my gate, a notification comes through that my flight will be delayed 90 minutes. That's 90 minutes I could've spent NOT sitting at the airport. At least I get to watch the end of the Giants-Cowboys football game.

11.  The flight is delayed on the tarmac as there are too many planes in front of us. 

12.  The woman sitting next to me smells so badly that the girl on my other side curls into a ball for the entire two-hour flight, and I am forced to pull my jacket around my nose. Seriously. Take some Gas-X or something. We are all stuck with her rear-end the entire flight.

13.  The flight is delayed in landing because Logan closed one of its runways and there are still too many planes in front of us. I sit near the front, so I manage to get off the plane within ten minutes.

14.  The express bus back to my car is late, and, when it does arrive, we make the rounds to the other terminals. I am at B, so A is already on the bus. Then C, which has a lot of people, then D with the same situation, then E, the international terminal, with a bunch of people. I have never seen the bus so full, People are standing. Where did all of these people come from? 

15.  At the bus station, my bag is one of the last out because, hey, too many people on the bus after me. At least my car is all paid for and in a front spot. I manage to make it home and am showered and unpacked quickly.

I love, love love traveling. But, this TSA schtick is starting to get old. The next time I fly, which will be in a few weeks, if I get TSA-picked-on again, I will be filing a DHS-TRIP form. Other than that, the delays and gate changes and even the bird are all entertaining. (That lady's butt, not so much.)

AND SO IT STARTS

Back to school, yet again. 
Only one or two more "first days" 

(hopefully, one)

 to survive -- 

the multiple online trainings, 

the speeches, 

and the overpaid and undertalented presenters. 

Most of us spend the time on our devices. 

I play a few rounds of Rummy 

and complete a Sudoku or two. 
We're not trying to be disrespectful. 

We're trying to stay awake. 

The nights leading into the first few days 

of school 

always involve restless and sleepless nights. 

So, most of us do the best we can to 

make our surroundings more palatable. 

Posters go up, color gets splashed around, 

and plants go in the window.

Then, the students show up,

splashing color into the room,

taking up the empty space,

and bringing to life the void

that occupied the space since June.

Back again -

For now.

ROCK IT LIKE A HURRICANE

The hurricane skirted by our coast recently. It brought with it waves, excitement, daring, stupidity, and tragedy.

We live in the Merrimack Valley, which means that the mighty Merrimack River is our major waterway. It empties into the Atlantic Ocean in a channel that is known for its treacherous undertow. This means that people who jump off the jetty to swim often get pulled out or under, only to wash up as bloated corpses days or even weeks later. Seriously. They slip in the water without a care in the world and then get swallowed up into oblivion.

I've boated through the channel on a good day, which means everyone except the captain lies down on the bottom of the boat for balance and safety. Every time we hit a swell (they're continuous), the boat goes perpendicular, and we are "standing" and watching the boats behind us attempt the same maneuvers. It's an experience not for the faint of heart. We lived through it and no one got tossed overboard. 

Do boats go through there every day? Sure. Are there calm days? Sure. The problem is that the ocean up this way can look deceptively placid even when it's aiming to murder you.

Rip tides are a frequent event up here. Not frequent enough to keep us out of the ocean, but frequent enough that every summer a few people get caught in the rip currents and either have to get rescued (if they're lucky) or have to be recovered (if they're not). Sometimes the rip tides can be spotted from the beach -- an area suddenly looks flat, or waves crash on the shore all except in one place where they just . . . don't. 

In all the times that I've been to the beach, once (and only once) have I been involved in a rogue wave situation, and my friend and I were lucky because it only involved us chasing our chairs and our flip-flops into waist-deep water as it receded. Thinking back on it now, though, we probably should've called it a wash and let the stuff go with the major undertow that sucked the beach dry after the wave crested.

But, like the coastal water babies we are, we can't resist hurricane-induced surf.

We head out to the beach and notice that the waves just keep coming in and coming in, right on top of and with each other. It's fascinating to watch and even better to hear because the roar doesn't stop for a breath; it keeps sounding like an unhinged alarm clock. There are two surfers in wet suits (dumb to attempt surfing this but smart to be suited up) and one who just walks into the ocean wearing shorts and a t-shirt. We see them go into the water, but we don't see them come out for a very long time. Finally, about twelve minutes goes by and one of the wet-suited surfers reappears near the shoreline. My only worry is that if we can't see them, rescuers can't, either. 

After a while, we head toward the inner areas, places that are still windy and choppy, but are marshes or small bays or coves, more protected from the wide open stretches of beach. There are two windsurfers taking full advantage of the steady, strong breeze. They are smart -- they're staying along the edge of the water, along a parking lot, a residential street, and houses. In other words, they are both protected and visible. And they are flying. Literally. Maybe four to six stories in height.

It is pretty cool to watch and not nearly as nerve-wracking as watching the surfers disappear into the Atlantic Ocean.

Later, when the hurricane makes its closest pass, the news stations report on swimmers drowning (people in the violent surf who probably shouldn't have attempted the thrill) and at least one boater lost at sea after passing through that turbulent (on a good day) channel. None of these people had any business being in or on the water in such conditions, but we all misjudge (sudden rip tides and rogue waves and sharks and jellyfish). 

After all, it's not like the hurricane actually hit us, right? Wrong. 

The sea is its own master. It can turn on its wrath with the rapidity of Poseidon punishing Odysseus. The ocean doles out waves and excitement and daring that often make great photo ops, but it also indiscriminately punishes stupidity and delivers tragedy. It demands and deserves respect and will always exact revenge in the face of hubris. If you're lucky enough to be its witness, the camera is a better option than a wetsuit, swimsuit, or life jacket. Just as long as you rock it like a hurricane and don't roll it like bloated roadkill.

SCENIC NON-VISTAS

Eastern New Hampshire's idea of a scenic vista and my idea of a scenic vista are sharply different.

I am galivanting around the Lake Winnipesaukee area for a few days. The weather is iffy, but the rain mostly holds off for me to take a few side trips in the mountains. For a couple of years now, I've been itching to drive over toward Alton Bay and check out the two "scenic overlooks" that Google Maps claims are worth stopping to see. After all, they have "camera" icons marking them.

I've been to the Mount Washington valley. I've also seen the views from Whiteface in Lake Placid. I've been to the top of Pack Monadnock, Bradbury Mountain, and even Mount Agamenticus -- smaller mountains, but still with worthy views..  I've seen the hundred-mile view in southern Vermont. There's a hike in Simsbury, Connecticut, that's also worthy, especially if you climb the stairs of the Heublein Tower once you reach the top. There are great views from the Poet's Seat tower in Greenfield. When I lived in Southern New Hampshire, we could easily see mountains just driving around our small town. I'm also a bit spoiled because very little compares to the middle of Lake Champlain with the Green Mountains on one side and the Adirondacks on the other, wrapping people up in a complete circle of beauty. The ghostly image of Mount Rainier from the Seattle Space Needle was pretty dang cool, too. 

I start my misadventure in Meredith, NH, where there are some sculptures around town. The views are battling with the passing storms, providing some dramatic cloud cover. I snap a few pictures, then head back toward Gilford, where there is a thick, heavy, dark gray cloud hanging over the entire area, and I make it out of there just as the rain lets go. I'm on my way now, heading east toward Maine, with my GPS locked and loaded for "scenic view" number one.

The first thing that I notice is that the view is more of a hill than a mountain, and it's so overgrown that there really isn't much to see. I give it a "meh" rating and hope stop number two is more impressive. This second scenic overlook has just me and a dump truck driver, who is in desperate need of a cigarette. I jockey for position along the weedy and bush-laden guardrail and away from any ash and fire potential. If I stand just so, at a certain angle, I can almost sort of maybe make out part of the lake and some small mountains. Mount Major is behind me and under the road I'm on, so I'm still looking back toward the same view that I had in Meredith, just from a different angle.

Disappointment is the day's buzz word. The weather is iffy, anyway, but I am truly surprised that these two overlooks have been . . . overlooked for upkeep. If I hadn't grown up around here and been trekking to the White Mountains pretty much all of my life, I suppose I wouldn't bother coming back. Certainly nothing to see here. Even the Madison Boulder is more impressive than this view. Okay, to be honest, the Madison Boulder is damn impressive on its own, but that's a story for another day.

I don't know. I guess Alton's idea of a scenic vista and my idea of a scenic vista are a couple of mountains apart. I'm still glad I made the trip, but I doubt I'd go route 11 ever again if I can avoid it. It's interesting and it's scenic in a backroad New England kind of way, but, if you're looking for photo ops and expansive views, don't get tricked by the signs.

SUMMER WINDS DOWN

As usual, the weather for the last two weeks of my summer break are "iffy" - at best. So, when a sunny, warm day rolls around, I try to take advantage of it. It's Saturday, the second to last Saturday before the complex's pool closes. With the air temperature reaching the mid-80's, I grab my towel and a book and head to the lounge chairs, expecting a weekend-sized crowd to be there.

No crowd. Not a single soul other than the lifeguard.

I am there for about fifteen minutes when one of the regulars shows up. He immediately grabs the same two lounge chairs I always see him using on the opposite side of the pool. He flings towels over them, puts in a Dunkins order on his phone, and promptly disappears. Apparently, he is high-hosey-ing those chairs, just in case.

Just in case of what, exactly, I'm not certain. I am still the only person here.

I usually read for a while, swim for a bit, then read some more. I decide to hit the water only to discover that the heater has been turned off. The water is a cool (and I do mean cool) 74 degrees. That is pretty close to the temperature of the ocean water. A quick cool-off is needed, but then I'm right back out again.

I hang around reading for another half hour. By this time, Chair Claiming Man still has not shown back up. The empty loungers have been warming two towels for over an hour. Even more interesting, I continue to be the only person poolside. As I'm leaving, I hear a family unloading their car on their way to the pool (good luck -- it's pretty chilly), and I pass a neighbor on her way to the lounger chairs. At least the lifeguard won't be bored while waiting for Dunkins DoLittle to make his reappearance.

I know exactly when the weather will return to Summer Mode, with perfect days in the 90s: The first two weeks that I am back in school, suffering through mindless professional development, useless meetings, and lunches with at least one person who was supposed to be transferred elsewhere . . . but wasn't. (I'm way too old and jaded to be diplomatic, so I'll have to eat at my desk instead of the lunch room because ain't nobody got time for her shit.)

Maybe I'll bring a towel to work with me and claim a few chairs for myself. Perhaps I can escape reality through the same portal my pool-mate did. It will appear that I am there (at work), but I will be somewhere far more interesting. It will be like pulling a magic trick at lunch: I'm there, but in an alternate dimension, perhaps back in Summer, where the weather is way too warm and the water is way too cold.

SUMMER SHENANIGANS CONTINUE

My siblings and I like shenanigans. We are always getting into some kind of adventure or, as often happens, trouble, but it keeps us spry. It's the kind of stuff we pulled as youngsters. 

Of course, we aren't as daring as we once were, like suffering lacerations and a broken nose while on roller skates (the old four-wheel type) tied via long rope to my sister's bike. Or trying to throw another toddler out the second-story window at church nursery school one Sunday morning. Or building giant snow horses instead of snowmen so we could scale the icy things to play on them. Or taking our downhill skis through the very hilly and tree-filled backwoods around our property -- amazing that we didn't smash our helmet-less skulls.

Now, we are into tamer pursuits, for the most part. We did replace skiing through the woods with sledding at supersonic speeds past stumps, trees, and boulders (still helmet-less), and playing snowball baseball by swinging shovels full-tilt. 

We still have a smidgen of daredevil in us.

When my sister and I take in an easy hike to Cascade Falls, we don't expect much. We have had exactly two days of rain in the last three or four weeks. Imagine our surprise when there is actually water running over the rocks. This is where normal people would snap some pictures and stay on the trail.

We are far, far from normal people.

Instead, we go off-roading. After all, we are both wearing sensible shoes. We take to balancing on the rocky and jutting surfaces as if we are the Flying Wallendas (and, a couple of times, we almost become them).We tiptoe over crags, jump over small water features, and climb up small rock faces, all in the name of shenanigans.

We do get some artistic photos. My sister leads the trail, for the most part, so I get a lot of pictures of her rear-end. We work our way along the rocks and through small paths made by others who ventures off the trails as did we until we reconnect with the trails we are supposed to be on. (Don't panic! We were both Girl Scouts, and I was an Assistant GS Leader to two different troops. We only stepped where others had and did not damage any wildlife.)

Surprisingly, we end up on the family-friendly trail after crossing a bridge. We are greeted with Ruby the Rock Snake, a human-created sculpture of rocks laid along the trail to extend Ruby's length, and a concrete block game of hopscotch. Naturally, we dive right in to both activities and are pleased that we are still able to hop and scotch with the best of them.

I'm sorry to see Summer winding down, but that just means a whole bunch of new shenanigans once the season changes. 

STOPPING TO SMELL THE (REAL) ROSES

I'm notorious for stopping in random towns and random places when I'm out driving around because, to be completely honest, I despise the highway. Traveling by interstate may get you where you're going a lot faster, but the scenery is blasé, to be polite. Monotonous. Repetitive. The view from I-95 in Maine is often the same as it is in Connecticut, North Carolina, and Florida: Trees! Some houses! An occasional cow! Pretty standard stuff.

So, I like to wander off the overly-beaten path. Oftentimes, I get lost. (I get lost a lot, actually.) Sometimes my travels lead somewhere unexpected, like finding an old schoolhouse in the middle of being lost in Vermont, or having a quiet lunch by myself while being lost along the edge of a vineyard in New York. 

Perhaps, it even means passing by a sign pointing to a place I didn't realize existed in its location. This is how I stumble onto New England Botanic Garden at Tower Hill.

I knew there was a botanic garden in Massachusetts, but I thought it was closer to Boston. Instead, it's tucked into the middle of the state, much closer to Worcester (but not too close). It's off a backroad, but an easily accessible backroad, and there's no hectic city traffic to confuse my nonexistent sense of direction. After passing the sign a half dozen times in the last month or so, I decide that a hazy summer afternoon of temperatures in the high seventies means that it's time to stop and, quite literally, smell the roses.

And smell the other flowers, and the plants, and the trees, and the rocks, and the statues. Well, I do not smell the sculptures because that might be too weird, but the place is a treasure trove of vision, smells, and serenity. I'm wearing my comfy and sturdy flipflops, so I at first stick to things that say "easy walk." Then, I see "moderate" and decide, yeah, I can do that, too. There is one trail marked "difficult" and it's the summit trail. 

It's only a bit of a quick climb through the woods over ruts and rocks and roots, and the elevation isn't pitched too sharply, so my trusty Clark's sandals and I take to the trail. It turns out to be so worth it. At the top it is only me and an older couple. They've hiked up to celebrate their fifty-fourth wedding anniversary. They take the bench, and I stand in awe of the view. We are looking out over Wachusett Reservoir with the smoky image of Mount Wachusett sixteen or so miles off.

After that, I feel pretty invincible, so I hike all the way down to the pond, which is a silly idea in the afternoon sun and heat with nothing but an uphill climb to get back to the visitor center. This is when I have my Robert Frost Moment. I come upon two paths that diverge right there at the woods; one is well-established and one is less-traveled. I now have two choices: Do I hike back up the steeper, groomed path through the shady but buggy woods? Or, do I go for the grassy, meandering, full-sun path that rises a little more gently back to even ground?

Of course, I decide to go field-bombing. I swerve off to the left, just me and some butterflies and some haying grass, and start the trek back to even ground. About halfway up, though, the sun really is too much, so I find a connecting path and walk the last hundred yards in the shade. Technically, I took the path less-traveled, but I kind of worked my way back to civilization before I keeled over from heat stroke.

I will wander back there again, though. I realize as I'm leaving that I missed a part of the garden. I also didn't spend a lot of time perusing every little placard. I'm more of a looker than a learner when I encounter museums and places with lots to see. I'd rather take in all the visuals than synthesize information. (Explains why my nephews and I zoomed through the National Gallery of Art in D.C. -- gotta see everything!) In the end, I might veer off the beaten path, but I'll make sure every detail gets a perusal, and, if I miss something, it's just another reason to return.