Flying to New Hampshire today. 7:40 AM flight. Set the alarm for 5:30, left the house at 6:15, dropped the car at the Park & Fly in Fort Lauderdale by 6:45. Shuttle bus to airport, security check, walk to gate, departure is on time.
Forty minute flight to Tampa, ninety minute layover. Hit the Starbucks, ordered a small coffee and a blueberry scone. Rich comments on the calories in a scone. Seriously? I’m in a freakin’ airport. Leave me alone. He has a coffee and a breakfast sandwich. No comments are made on the calorie count of a ham and egg sandwich on sourdough. I take a stroll around the terminal but I will not pass this off as the day’s walk.
Am I the only person who loves airports? In an airport I know I’m going somewhere, unlike my day to day life.
Flight to Manchester departs on time. I love flying Southwest. We land at 1:15. As we begin our descent into New Hampshire, the stark contrast of the landscape compared to Florida is immediately apparent. Miles of green trees, the White Mountains in the distance, lots of land between the houses. As my kids would say, we are back in the 603. It feels strange to be visiting a place that was my home for thirty years. This is the airport we used to return to.
We drive to a friend’s house. Rich comments on how different the roads are from Florida. The highway is less crowded. We travel country roads.
Rich and his friends have golf plans. They drop me off at my friend Liz’s house, where we will be staying for the next four days. Her and I grocery shop for the party we have planned for the evening. Everyone wants to see us during our brief visit. We run for the car, our shopping cart splashing through deep puddles, as a torrential downpour begins. Thunder and lightening, sheets of rain. A Florida style summer storm. Back at the house we meet up with another friend. The guys return from golf a few minutes later. They got in six holes before the storm rolled in. The partying begins.
At midnight, we return to the airport to pick up our oldest daughter, who is flying in from Denver. The band of gypsies is reconvening in NH for a family wedding on Saturday, minus our youngest daughter who is in Yellowstone for the summer.
No walk today. I knew when I got up at 5:30 there would be no walk. I suppose some people would have found a way to squeeze one in, between flying, visiting friends, etc. I am not one of those people. Today was about friends and family and traveling. I am not Type A, I am not obsessive, I am prone to slacking. That’s why I have a walking bank. I’m using the last extra walk in the bank. I believe my math is correct but if not, oh well.
Rich is golfing again. He golfs more here than in Florida. It may have something to do with the large amount of golf buddies he has in New Hampshire. My daughter and I are going to Portsmouth, to walk, shop and lunch on a beautiful summer day. We have heard from friends and family that the summer has not been so nice. It amuses me how much New Englanders’ complain about the weather. After I moved to Florida, I followed their Facebook posts. It was a tough winter. Lots of snow. Spring no longer exists. It rains a lot, it’s still cold. Fifty-two degrees on Memorial Day weekend someone told us. Then summer arrives. This year it started with a lot of rain, nine days in a row at one point. Now it alternates between rain and heat waves. Late afternoon thunder showers are common during the heat waves. The people who complained about the cold and snow and ice, now complain about the heat.
I was one of the people who complained about the cold and the rain but never about the heat. Remember? I’m the one who wrote a book about dreaming of owning a B&B in the islands. In the summertime, my biggest complaint was the lack of hot, sunny days. Either way, no one moves to New England for the weather. Now that I live in Florida, I never think about the weather. I put on my capris or shorts, always sandals, and head out the door. As someone said to my husband when he heard we were moving, “Good for you. You can’t shovel sunshine.” This is true.
Friday was a top ten day in Portsmouth.We must have brought the weather with us. I promised the bride we would. The town was hopping. We put the car in the parking garage, where I came across a poem by Robert Frost in a stairwell. The NH poet laureate would be on my mind often during my weekend in the Granite State.