Before knowledge of the deadly pandemic, I gave notice to retire as high school English teacher after 24 years in the classroom. Since the pandemic’s abrupt decision to end that role, I had three months of remote learning experience which helped to seal the deal. June came as I faced quarantine, retirement, limited summer vacation, and sidelined from the revolution I so wanted to join. I honored the quarantine, thankful that I could, knowing that I was entering a nofly summer. I acknowledged my retirement as the new school year approached, wrapped in its remoteness, without me, and ventured out on one last “summer vacation.”

In planning my trip, I noticed this one did not face a deadline, a return to work order, or an itinerary that demanded movement and money. This vacation and I, metamorphosized into an altogether unfamiliar vacationer and her beloved vacation. I did this in the exotic region of Assateague Island on Maryland’s eastern shores and a small enclave beautifully situated on Ayers Creek where things stopped.

The Airbnb upstairs quarters were adorned in expansive curtain free windows, skylights, and floor to ceiling glass doors that led to a balcony overlooking a sprawling lawn reaching out to Ayers Creek. Every morning greeted me with the rising sun. The place was purposeful, minimally dressed, nothing more needed than light. (On the sixth night, a full moon appeared in a ceiling port hole, drenching me in its beam). I was present to receive it. I awoke without an agenda, no itinerary, tour guide, or train to catch. No time to consider. I sat with the binoculars on the balcony, to watch two laughing gulls do just that! Coffee in hand, I was still.

The summer heat engulfed me, the rising sun a threat, the blanket of humidity oppressive. So I waited it out. By late afternoon, I joined a salt marsh paddle, slow and steady, a breeze brewed and carried us to the homes of many birds. In our slowness, we encountered eagles (perched on a branch above my head, sharing in my stillness). The “great blues” appeared at every turn, barely noticing us, others hesitantly, somewhat annoyed. The cormorant classically hanging its wings out to dry, so cool, stopped in all its glory, as natural as its flight. Our guide spotted every little tern, turtle, crab, and reed. Her specialty was finding eagles and their nests, from her winter watch for the Maryland Conservancy eagle count. I had nowhere to go.

Except to Assateague, which is a magical place at any time, but when sitting at its shore, with just two other families more than socially distanced, it is another world. I did not get on a plane to come here and entered with a lifetime senior pass.

A trio of Assateague ponies came prancing down the beach in a frenzy, whinnying and flirting with a welcoming pony from the opposite direction; they greeted in a circle dance, in front of my blanket under the moon. Their show was for me, I was sure of it. The full moon hung over us, as the sun parted. We followed it to the bay side finishing the night with the glorious display of a star just doing its job and loving it!! Taking the time to call it a day.

My time there was not squandered. Many vacations bring the pressure of itinerary and must sees in 36 hours. This one, with COVID as its parent, reminded me to walk slowly, step out of the way, and behind a mask, let my eyes do the work. I am the student now.

Julia Gillern is/was a high school English teacher who resides in College Park, MD.

 

In a sargassan depth, the selective memories of travel’s discomforts cease to bubble and quietly sink to the mud opening the mind to the pleasures of the new, the discoveries, the escape. Planning the excitements for a body in motion (the savannas of Florida once left safely behind) and seeing hills become mountains, regales with small thrills.

Trip plans will accommodate the serendipitous, leaving room for discovery (and the search for a good carrot cake.) What hints does the map produce? What confirmations does the super brain, Google, provide? Planning travel reveals a world of possibilities and delivers that carefree feeling of anticipation of things wonderful, like having a lottery ticket before the drawing.
Every state a kingdom with its own customs and I, Marco Polo, will attempt to bring back rare chilies from the west, traveling from grits to salsa to grits.

It all sounds like great fun but I’m afraid we must recover the selective memories of the discomforts of travel from the bottom of the Sargasso Sea.

Our skins will contract and shiver when confronted with non-Florida weather and demand a proper covering. We’ll pass through heavy rains where there was drought and fires where there were heavy rains searching longingly for the habitable provinces. Einstein would marvel at the warping of time while trying to cross Texas and the rearranging of molecules in the body trying to get accustomed to such a different diet.

Reconciling the pleasures with the discomforts, knowing that smiling for hoteliers and patiently watching them fumble with registration and not having the room key work at first and getting moved in and ready for lunch at 3PM and finding the restaurant closes at 2PM and, as in all hotels, finding Flamenco dancers practicing in the room above yours is just the sub motif of a wonderful vacation. Freeze that smile, it helps. Memorize the discomforts beforehand to eliminate the element of surprise and rob them of their weight. Admit the discomforts but keep the pleasures hypothetical. They will seem more profound when they appear. If you know your pleasures beforehand they will be diminished. Try foods you’ve never had before; take side trips (the road less traveled) from the main route. Often, memories are created once you get lost. You’ll be interacting with your journey!

Frank DiGangi is from Hawthorne, FL

 

Many retirees live to travel, but we are not among them. Why not?

Aside from being happy homebodies, we traveled a lot when we were young, and travel isn’t what it used to be. We’re on vacation every day and don’t need a break. We live well and cook great food at home. Plus, we’re bad at travel. Dale won’t plan, and I over-plan, researching hotels and restaurants in search of the perfect experience. We’re almost always disappointed and sad to see the money go.

We did some soul-searching and figured out a few things. For some of us, traveling was easier before retirement, because we knew more money was coming in. Right? Time to earn it back. When there’s a fixed pot at the end of the rainbow, you tend to be more cautious. At least we are.

There’s no one-size-fits-all for retirement travel. Easy for some, not so much for others. Still, most of us do want to enjoy new experiences. Maybe it’s just a matter of figuring out what we like and don’t like and learning to do it better.

One thing we learned this week is that we’re sort of low-brow people in search of a low-rent rendezvous. We went to Napa for an overnight trip, and it was an expensive letdown. The wineries were lovely, but later it seemed like we had opened our wallets to charming thieves and said, “Here, take it.”

A big deal up Napa way is bringing your own wine to a restaurant. Best as I can tell, there are rules. You don’t bring a wine they serve at the restaurant. It should be something special. They charge a “cork” fee unless it’s a special day where they don’t charge to uncork your wine, but even then, there’s an etiquette to tipping and tasting. Of course, they stick it to you on the wine if you order theirs.

We had beer! And that was the best part of our meal.

I’m confident there are better and less expensive ways to explore the wine country. We’ll go back at some point. For now, we are going to focus on visiting natural wonders, and there’s no shortage of them within a few hours of our home. Dale’s on board and said he’s eager to visit Death Valley.
In the summer. Because then you know what it feels like to be in Death Valley in the summer.

Donna Pekar is an aging badass (for real) who lives in California and writes Retirement Confidential.

A guest at my posada barely touched her breakfast. When I asked, she held her stomach—a familiar complaint due to strange flora in a new food chain.

“Maybe you should see the pharmacist at the end of Calle Santander,” I suggested.

“I think I need to see a doctor,” Corinna replied.

“He is a doctor.”

I didn’t see Corinna at supper. But the next morning she dove into my special crushed macadamia nut pancakes. Obviously, she was much improved. When I brought over a fresh glass of mango nectar—I always pulp and freeze a huge supply at the height of the season—she gulped it down and asked for more.

“Thanks for the referral, yesterday.” Then she giggled and shook her head. “I still can’t believe he’s a doctor. I mean his farmacia is open to the street, two steps from the constant parade of tourists and vendors.”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Well, a lady came to the counter…”

“That’s Juana, his wife.”

“She asked what I wanted. Well, I’m not used to describing my symptoms on a street corner and certainly not the state of my bowels. She just looked at me, like, ‘So out with it. What do you need a private room and a paper gown?’ So, in my best Spanish I said, ‘Could I speak to the doctor?’”

“She shrugged then yelled, ‘Hector!’”

“I looked to a corner of the shop where a short, heavy-set man in nylon shorts and a team-type jersey sat with two adolescent boys watching what must have been a televised soccer match. He levered himself out of the chair and edged his way over to me all the while looking over his shoulder at the game. He glanced up and asked what the problem was.”

“I pressed my hands on my belly.”

“He nodded once. ‘Vomiting?’”

“No.”

“‘Nausea?’”

“No.”

“‘Fever?’”

“No.”

“‘How many days?’”

“Four or five.”

“He reached into drawer and poured out ten tablets into an envelope. ‘Cipro,’ he said. Then held up two fingers. ‘Two each day.’ Then he held up five fingers, ‘Five days.’”

“From the corner of the room I heard a loud whoop and an announcer drawing out a long ‘G-O-O-A-L!’ The doctor raced back to the game. The wife rang up the sale.”

“Pretty efficient, huh?” I asked.

Corinna chuckled. “I couldn’t believe it…no appointment scheduled for three weeks from now, no insurance card, family history or co-pay. And best of all it worked like a charm.”

Retired trainer, and writing instructor, Joe Novara and his wife live in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Writings include novels, short stories, a memoir and various poems, plays, anthologies and articles. Read more at https://freefloatingstories.wordpress.com/

 

 

 

I gave over control, to Wendy the Thompson’s Tour guide for their trip into the Drakenburg mountains out of Durban South Africa. As we tooled up and around lush green mountains dotted with cattle and tourist lodges, I looked up San Cave Paintings on my iPad. One of the paintings portrayed stick-figure Bushmen-hunters attacking a cow-sized antelope—an Eland. It reminded me of football—the Xs and Os of primitive man’s playbook for winning the big game.

My wife, snuggled into the tea shop, I trailed Wendy scampering over tangled tree roots and across bridges before hop-scotching over rock-filled rills along the increasingly primitive path. I pushed myself, breathing faster and harder until we finally crested a rise in front of the cave to find a locked gate and no guide.

“Wasted effort,” I rasped.

We moved more slowly and carefully on the way down, shaking legs making it difficult to negotiate precarious footholds in the gloom of the sheltered trail. When Wendy stopped for a slug of water, I took the lead and scooted past a huge boulder into the sudden glare of a sun-strobed meadow and the shock of a wild animal watching me.

I stopped dead. Thirty yards ahead a female Eland, belly-deep in grasses, stopped grazing to return my stare. This was what the cave painters would have hunted to sustain their lives. If I were a Bushman, this is when I would have nocked my poison arrow and let fly. And if I remembered the documentary I once saw, that’s when the Bushman would have tracked the beast until it died and then would have apologized for killing it and would have expressed his gratitude for the sustenance it gave to his family. Beautiful animal. Such exquisite lines. So eminently paintable on a cave wall.

Back at the café, I locked eyes with my wife trying to recreate my experience for her. “I was in that animal.” Pleading for understanding I went on. “She was just there…in the now. And, don’t you see, that’s what eternity would be…now…always. The San saw it. They tried to grab it with paint and pictures. But I got the original.”

“Wendy, get us back to our hotel,” my wife demanded. “We got to get this guy out of the sun.”

Retired trainer, and writing instructor, Joe Novara and his wife live in Kalamazoo, Michigan. Writings include novels, short stories, a memoir and various poems, plays, anthologies and articles. Read more at https://freefloatingstories.wordpress.com/

 

Is a drive to the beach for a dip in the ocean the ultimate road trip? Yes, when it’s 5,000-miles.

Yes, when the last 400 miles are a pot-holed dirt and gravel road.

Yes, when it’s the Arctic Ocean.

Mike Lizonitz, 67, and his wife Patricia, 66, made the trip from Pennsylvania in their Kia Sedona, modified for car camping with a memory foam mattress under a homemade shelf for gear storage.

It was, Mike said, “Our last great road trip. We’ve driven to 48 states. We cruised to Alaska from Vancouver, but we’d never driven there.”
Mike said they didn’t feel their trip really began until they reached Mile Zero of the Alaskan Highway, 2,700 miles from home.

The Alaskan Highway is a 1,387-mile, two-lane blacktop, from Dawson Creek, British Columbia to Delta Junction, Alaska, near Fairbanks. Mike and Patricia car camped for $8 a night, stopped to visit Santa at the town of North Pole and left their mark at Watson Lake Signpost Forest in the Yukon.

At Fairbanks, they rented a 2017 Ford Escape specially equipped with full extra spare and donut, tool box, CB radio and medical kit for life on the Dawson Highway, the last leg. Dalton highway is a 414-mile dirt and gravel industrial road, riddled with potholes and without cell service. Facilities are spartan and spare, there are no gas stations or basic services on the last 240-mile stretch. The terminus is Deadhorse, an oil camp, at Prudhoe Bay.

Taking a day and one-half each way, Mike and Patricia spent the night, though never fully dark, at a self-serve campground sleeping in the rented Escape. The Dalton follows the Alaska Pipeline. Three quarters of the distance is forested, until the “Last Spruce. “Ahead was a vast grassland of the tundra.
Most of the traffic was semi trucks which kick up gravel, dinging windshields. They saw only two private vehicles in 400 miles. At Deadhorse they took a shuttle bus to the Arctic Ocean. Mike waded into the Arctic to his calves, while Patricia dipped her toes in.

It was a trip only 10 of 10,000 visitors who reach Fairbanks complete.

They gassed up at Deadhorse at an automated pump station, paying $5.49 a gallon. They spent $2,000 on gas for the entire trip.

They got back to Pennsylvania after traveling 9,997 miles in three weeks.

Jack Smiles is a feature correspondent for Times Shamrock Communications in Pennsylvania. He was born in 1947.