Doing Nothing

When I am asked, “Are you busy? What are you doing?” I usually respond, “Nothing. I’m not doing anything.”

But having spent a week and a half on imposed “vacation,” I’ve discovered that I really don’t know, or have forgotten, how to “do nothing.” All of my claims of nothingness are lies. While I was NOT doing what I should have been doing. I was actively AVOIDING doing whatever I was supposed to be doing. I am an advanced practitioner of avoidance behavior; not good at doing nothing. But, in this case, I’ll define “doing nothing” as “making no personal decisions,” just showing up at the appointed places on time, wearing the appropriate attire.

My sister, Patty, and her partner, George, who live in Anchorage, very generously flew me first to Seattle (for my niece’s wedding) and then to Palm Springs for a week at the winter home they’d recently purchased. Both Seattle and the California desert are very different from my home on the Chesapeake Bay, not to mention theirs in the frozen North.

I find traveling to relax an oxymoron, even if someone gives it to me as a gift. It’s just plain stressful. First, there is the wardrobe review and enhancement ($$$), then the arrangements for the dog, alerting customers of the temporary business closing (-$$$), paying essential bills so as not to return to a dark, waterless house, and a degree of cleaning for obvious reasons. Before flying across the country, I had to drive my truck from my little coastal town up to Washington, DC to catch my flight. My 2003 Buick Century was a kadunkadiddle (one-headlighter), so I had to drive my 2004 Dodge Dakota on the 2 ½ hour trek to DC. Because the flight departed at 8AM and TSA required arrival at least 90 minutes before that, I had to get up at 2AM (after maybe three hours of sleep), and be on the road as close to 3AM as I could manage. I’d arranged for off-site parking in the basement garage of a hotel in Crystal City. It took me an extra 15 or 20 minutes white-knuckling around Arlington after taking the wrong off-ramp, to arrive in Jed Clampet style at the ritzy parking garage. (I be stylin’ ALL the time!)

A shuttle bus got me to the terminal in plenty of time to wander around saying, “I’m lost. Where do I go now?” A kind employee told me, “You’re not lost! You’re at the airport!” Then he pointed to the escalator that I needed to ascend.

I really can’t complain about the trip from there. The flight was long, but smooth enough, landing on time in Seattle, where Patty met me. About an hour later, after taking the light rail to a somewhat distant destination George met us in a rented car and drove us to the beautiful Lodge where most of the events were to take place.

I spent several days adjusting to the 3-hour time difference. The Seattle visit can’t be described as “doing nothing” due to the flurry of events to attend. There were dinners, receptions, parties, an outdoor wedding, brunch, and hikes around Lake Washington under towering fern and moss-covered trees. Incredibly for Seattle, the weather was perfect and sunny for the entire visit!

By the way, the beautiful silver-haired bride and her beaming tall and robust groom were the happiest and most “together” couple I’ve seen in ages, having spent the preceding year working with a wedding planner nailing to the Nth degree every last detail of the several events. I’m very glad I could be there.

Departing from the Seattle-Tacoma Airport was more confusing than arriving had been. It’s a collection of sprawling concourses connected by trains, with people diverting you to unknown detours for unexplained reasons. Had I been able to stick with Patty and George, it would have been easier, but they had TSA bypass privileges and I did not. I found the best method of making it to my proper boarding gate was to act stupid and let a succession of complete strangers repeatedly point me in the right direction.

When flying, I always vie for a window seat, making sure that I arrive at my destination with a stiff neck from hours of twisting in one direction. I wish the pilot or somebody would keep a running commentary of what we are flying over.  What river is that? Which mountains are we flying over? Is that Mount Rainier, Mt Hood, or Mt St Helens? Are we flying over Central Valley? Wow! That looks like a GIANT dried up lake bed! What is it?

I was surprised at Palm Springs Airport to discover its Sonny Bono Concourse is under open skies with only looming canopies to provide shade. They are not concerned with keeping rain, snow, or inclement weather out.

Apparently, there are no clouds in Palm Springs. The daylight sky is always unmarred blue. Gigantic brown mountains suddenly erupt from the flat desert floor on all edges of the valley. (I’m talking flat, flat, flat, flat – BOOM – mountain!) Palm trees and other deliberately planted green things offer a visual respite, and the bougainvillea with their bright purple reds offer the most delightful splash of color against the endless tan sand and rocks. It is hot, but as they say, “It’s a dry heat,” and as long as I stayed in the shade of the patio and didn’t try to sit on the Subaru’s black seats (NEVER try this in shorts!) or try to go barefoot on any kind of pavement, I was not bothered by the 108-degree heat.) It was too dry to even sweat. It occurred to me I’d never find any mold or mildew in Palm Springs.

The plan was to do just enough to avoid boredom, not overschedule ourselves. I did little more than eat, sip, sleep, and dabble a little in the cool backyard pool. We went to Walmart, Costco, and four incredible consignment stores from which you could furnish the Hearst Mansion if you cared to. There was also the lunch at “George’s” where they serve burgers (without ketchup!) and insults; and the trip to the Palm Springs Art Museum at the very base of the mountain. We would have taken a ride to the top of the mountain for an incredible view of the Coachella Valley, but the tram was shut down for its annual maintenance.

Before breakfast (and the heat of the day) we walked across the road from our Del Webb community to the Weston Resort Hotel which sported the most incredible manicured landscaping and golf course. We even picked fresh grapefruits from the dozens of trees in its front yard.  That is one place in town where there is actual grass… and lots of water flowing from fountains into manmade lagoons and lakes, stocked with imported carp and ducks.

Oddly, my sister and I are different enough that we dare not discuss politics or religion, but the same song or turn of phrase will pop into our heads and out of our lips at the same moment. While the three of us assembled a huge jigsaw puzzle, I discovered that the only other person on Earth who knows ALL of my songs is Patty. We know them all… from the 1950s TV and radio jingles to the campfire songs, the folk ballads, the Top-40s hits of the late 50s, 60s, 70s, and beyond, the Gilbert and Sullivan gems, and Mozart’s The Marriage of Figaro (although neither of us knows the words to that one). This is a particularly unique bond which when either of us dies will be gone forever. Fortunately, although we are in our 70s, neither of us has plans to die anytime soon. After all, our two grandmothers lived to be 99 and 100 respectively.

Returning to Virginia included a sunrise flight from Palm Springs to Seattle with a connecting flight (after a 3-hour layover) to DC. The flights were fine, although my head is still stuck facing leftward. The only problem with the window seat is my 72-year-old bladder and the two people sitting between me and the aisle. After 10 days of strange food and a disjointed body-clock, I found myself on the 5-hour flight wishing I hadn’t consumed that Baconator and Dr. Pepper at the Seattle Airport. Oooooo, I had silent bubbling pains which I was relieved did NOT turn into SBDs or worse. Happily, I made it to the safety of the airport without exploding, leaking, or disturbing my fellow passengers.

All that remained was to wait for the shuttle to the parking garage at the Hilton, with a prayer that the truck would crank up and run as smoothly as it had on the way up. All good, except of course I spent an extra 15-20 minutes making wrong turns until I reached I-95 South and headed for home in the midnight darkness and sprinkling rain. I rolled into my driveway a couple of minutes before 2AM, worried that when I picked up Perkins the next morning, she would be so spoiled by her babysitters that she wouldn’t want to come home to Mama.

Naturally, when friends discovered I’d returned they wanted a full report. But since I spent nearly the whole time doing nothing, I presented them with two highlights from the trip that I’d recorded on my cell phone.

First, I’d recorded all five heats of the Weiner Race on the grounds of The Lodge, earlier in the day of the wedding. Unfortunately, the dogs had not been adequately instructed on their expected behavior and fewer than half of them actually crossed the finish line. They had more important things to do like dancing around each other mid-field, sniffing each others’ private parts. By the fifth heat, they’d run out of dachshunds and invited the Weiner-Wannabees to race. The one with the 15” legs had no trouble outdistancing the Shih Tzus, Chihuahuas, and Basset hounds.

Second, the big show-and-tell item was pictures of Patty and me standing under the flared skirt and panties of the giant Marilyn Monroe statue in downtown Palm Springs. Don’t ask. I don’t know…. Life-sized replicas of that statue (you know the famous image) can be found all over Palm Springs.

Finally, I smiled, thinking how nice it was to be home to sleep in my own bed and have my morning contemplation in my own porcelain echo chamber, enduring the watchful eye of Perkins the Velcro dog, of course. At last, I can “do nothing” at home.