I am not a traveler.
Let me rephrase that; I am a militant non-traveler . . . and yet, here I am, in Mexico . . .
after a four hour plane ride, an hour wait for ground transport, an hour in a 12-seat shuttle bus with thirteen other passengers, seventy-five minutes of check-in comedy, and seventeen of my in-laws.
We’re together to celebrate my dear father-in-law’s upcoming 80th birthday, which is the ONLY reason I accepted this challenge to my homebody-ness. I’m told that other folks actually do this – and I shudder as I type this – take vacations – on a regular, like annual, basis. I am dumbfounded.
It’s been eleven hours since we left for the Newark airport and I am finally reunited with my luggage. Whew, I feel some semblance of control re-entering my system.
The resort is lovely – thanks to my generous sister-in-law.
The room is spacious – thanks to my generous sister-in-law.
The booze is free did I say thanks to my generous sister-in-law?!
Okay. I’ll make the best of it.