La Vuelta

Home, Seattle, WA November 11, 2007

Ah, sleeping at home is so good. Ben next to me, giving off body heat and an occasional snort. Carly lying across my legs, snoring from a deep, uncomplicated sleep that I will never achieve, home or not. The mattress familiar and my little foam pillow cradling my bulging cervical disc just right. Even the traffic roaring behind us on Aurora soothing in its familiarity.

I got home last night about 11, after Ben arrived at the airport with a tiny Jaguar convertible to get me. It took a lot of shoving and rearranging to get my golf bag into the back seat in such a way that we could get the top to close against the 40-degree night air. I held my driver between my legs, and shrunk back in my seat as far from the passenger side airbag as I possibly could, given the fact that my seat was so far forward I could barely get my legs in the car. But we arrived home safely and by the time we got inside the door to greet Carly, I was over my anger at my husband’s impossibly silly idea to come to get me in a tiny review car instead of the nice, comfy – if old and dirty – Explorer.

The 13-hour trip home was uneventful, mostly. The driver, who had agreed to take me from the Posada to the airport for 800 pesos, tried to strong-arm me into paying 1000 pesos when we got there. I angrily retorted – struggling loudly with being angry in Spanish – that we had agreed it would be the same price as the ride he had sold me from the airport to La Posada six days earlier. If he’d been cruel and had stopped a mile or two short of the airport before trying his extortion, he might have gotten by with it. I would have had no choice. But, once I was at the airport door, I could just hand him the four 200-peso bills I had set aside for him, and walk away. Not much he could do.

The man sitting next to me on the flight to L.A. wore his noise-canceling head phones most of the way – no music, just the filter – allowing me to ignore him and work on a book review I’m writing. His name was Randy, he told me near the end of the flight, when he dropped the ear cuffs to chat. He is a jet mechanic for FedEx at Boston Logan, hence his concern with his hearing. He had been sailing in the Gulf of Baja with a former boss who is now a friend.

My seatmate on the flight to Seattle pissed me off by talking loudly (is there any other way?) in a combination of a language I couldn’t identify and staccato English into his cell phone for about 15 minutes until we pushed back from the gate. I never talked to him, nor he to me. We ate our chicken Caesar salads (my second in as many flights) in silence. I read the Travel + Leisure magazine I’d picked up in LAX, and blazed through the airline magazine’s crossword puzzle. It seemed vaguely familiar. Had I done it before?

I am looking back on the trip with some sadness. I didn’t have as much fun as I should have for the money I spent. I made a bad choice in a hotel so far off the beaten path. I didn’t play any golf, even though I lugged my clubs all the way down and back. I didn’t accomplish much adventure shopping, returning with only a piece of jewelry and two table runners. Ben commented that I didn’t even get much of a suntan, although he helpfully noted the raccoon eyes I acquired from my big sunglasses. Ah, the joys of returning home to those who love you unconditionally.

Next time, and there will certainly be another trip soon, I will not go until I have a reliable buddy to go with me – Ben or someone else. And, I will think twice before I again choose serenity over access.

Hasta luego!