Tale of a very short trip

The US border officer asks me a few curt questions and then, looking at
Yannick: "Where's Dad?"
"Oh Geez" I think, "do you REALLY want to know? How much time have you got?" But I simply answer: "There is no dad."
I just told him that Yannick is the fruit of my union with the Holy Spirit but he seems to consider that a valid answer and coldly waves us into the United States of America. Yannick is back in the country where he was born.

One hour before getting to Rockport, it starts raining. We are Saturday, 2 PM. It rains non-stop until Monday 1 pm.

Everything is damp. Clothes are damp, sheets are damp, towels are damp, paper curls on itself. Skin develops a permanent stickiness to it. There's more water than air in the mixture we breathe. A thick grey fog hides any scenery. The ambience is dismal.

It's not a completely wasted trip. I renew my supply of T-shirts. Yannick renews his supply of salt-water taffees. My car renews its alternator. Yellow Tail Shiraz is only $ 6.99 a bottle.


In spite of the sound of the breaking surf just under my window, I sleep badly both nights; haunted sleep, bad dreams and nightmares.

On Monday, after watching Australia lose to Italy at the last minute because of a stupid penalty, and after thoroughly studying the perfectly gloomy weather forecast, we call it a trip.

Between 1 pm and 4 pm that afternoon, the sun shines. A strong wind blows from the sea, the air is cool. I read in the sun for forty minutes, not even thinking about sunblock, and in that interval my forearms and legs get a first degree burn.

The drive back is under pouring rain from start to finish, about 500 miles. Through the mountains of Vermont, the rain is so bad I can barely see anything at all. My hands never leave the wheel, I know I'm going too fast for that kind of weather and I stay totally focused.

And then we're home and oh, so happy to be. The cats are pissed off but not to the point of not curling up with me for the night. Bob Marley blares through the house while I unpack the suitcases. All is well. No regrets.