Little travel tip for you: Never go on vacation outside of your natural germ-zone during flu season. Even armored with a well-aged flu shot and having religiously ingested what MJ calls my “witches’ brew” of vitamins and herbs for months ahead of time. One of those little beggars is going to catch up with you. Out of spite. Because you planned so meticulously and for (almost) every eventuality, for a change.
MJ has a convention (work-related and therefore tax-deductible) in, of all places, Charlottesville, Virginia. Nearby Monticello, home of Thomas Jefferson. We looked at maps, Googled, etc., and thought: Hey! Wouldn’t it be a great vacation to get out of suffocating South Florida for a week or so, have us some REAL winter, see Colonial Williamsburg for the first time in about 15 years. Then we could drive over to Charlottesville, stop and see Monticello along the way, then have fun at the convention. Right?
So, we (rather, I) studied maps and timetables and crafted a schedule with only a modicum of structure. It was after all, primarily my vacation in a Winter Wonderland. And for the first couple of days, it was fine. We wandered, we ate at Colonial Taverns, we attended concerts in the Royal Governor’s Palace. And then, I literally could not drag my sorry ass out of bed one morning. I sent MJ out to the museums alone and I slept. All day. And then, how shall I say this delicately? I suffered a digestive failure. I couldn’t eat. At all. Water and ginger ale and the occasional cup of coffee (and if you know me, you know that coffee is like mother’s milk to me — I carry my own Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and filters with me on vacation so I won’t have to drink the swill they stock in the hotel rooms and so I can have as much as I want, whenever I want — and that’s another beef I’ve got with Doubletree: they don’t have real coffeemakers in the rooms! They’re those little individual “pod” things! Now I’m stuck drinking “pod” coffee for the next 3 days!), so one lousy little cup of coffee, drunk nervously because I don’t know how my body is going to react, is not one of life’s little pleasures. I’m not sure at what point that sentence got away from me, but you catch my drift.
Now, on day four, I have managed 4 little cheese cubes, a strawberry the size of a thimble, and 5 green grapes. And Wednesday evening, MJ had a little nap before supper and I went down to the hotel restaurant to bring back some food. When I got back, he sat down, had 5 or 6 spoonfuls of soup, and became violently ill. Same as me, but more intense. WAY more intense. No, not just in the “I’m a man and therefore a delicate flower” intense. This will sound completely wrong. I know it, but I’m going to say it anyway. I feel cheated. The last time I was this sick – and I’m not writhing on the floor or anything – was when I had my gall bladder out 3 years ago. Upstaged again. ->Smack!<- OK, I’ve punished myself.
Being the less ill of the two of us, I got us packed up and out of the hotel in Williamsburg this morning to drive here. It was 27 degrees. There was ice on the car. The automatic window on the driver’s side was frozen shut for awhile. And there was my (almost) 50 year old, 6′ 2″ toddler, bundled in his parka, whining “Can’t we just hibernate here for another day?” No. We can’t. There’s a “Winter Storm Warning” for the entire area we have to travel through for tonight. If we wait till tomorrow, we might have to deal with snow and/or ice and/or sleet, none of which either of us has any adult experience with driving in, and I’m not starting now. I don’t feel so great myownself, remember? I just have more experience acting.
I will say this much, though. Aside from the mentioned skinny bitch manager type in the previous post, I don’t think you’ll find any nicer people than the ones here in Virginia. From the housekeeping lady who, with a couple of jokes and a “blessing on the day!”, came back twice with more towels and coffee (“I knew it was for you!”), to the serving lady at the convention “snack stand” who only charged me one dollar for the chicken soup that was really supposed to cost $2.75 because I only wanted the broth (for MJ) “and there ain’t nothin’ in it!” So sweet… really… not fake “hotel-employee-trained-by mindless-Disney-automaton-hospitality” sweet, either. The real deal. It still exists. Cool.
