For someone who hates to pay full price for anything, our little town in Florida can be a breath of fresh air. Not only is there a TJ Max/Homegoods right up the road, the place is blanketed in consignment shops.
For someone who hates to pay full price for anything, our little town in Florida can be a breath of fresh air. Not only is there a TJ Max/Homegoods right up the road, the place is blanketed in consignment shops.
After scanning the huge selection at the also huge YMCA here, I thought I might have found a yoga class. It wasn’t as though there weren’t several to choose from, but at this point in life my yoga abilities aren’t what they used to be, although I’m not at the chair yoga stage.
In a movie or television show when a fatherly type sits knee to knee with a younger character and imparts words to live by. Not my family. They had plenty to say, but I can’t remember anyone sharing their philosophy of life or offering any thoughts to steer me on the right path.
This year we decided to try the auto train, in which our car, loaded to the
gills with My Guy’s paints, computer, and tax documents (yes, he’s been a
finance guy all his life but it would be more restful to pay someone else to do
our taxes) would be shipped along with the other 144 autos doing the same thing.
There is some irony here in that we still had to drive the first portion down to Lorton, Virginia since the northern infrastructure
has bridges too low to accommodate the taller car transport trains. And the
first day is often the most traffic-heavy, bringing us through New York state,
Baltimore, and around Washington D.C.
Still, aside from the possibility of
horrific death on the highway from a tire blowout at top speed, it all went
well and we loved the hotel. It even had a spectacular breakfast for free, with
omelets on demand.
We were glad we’d booked our own
little cabin, especially when we saw these poor souls clutching pillows and
blankets in the terminal. I assume they were going to spend the night sleeping
upright in standard seats.
We finally boarded, and bumped our suitcases up the teensy stair to our cabin. We stood in the doorway, a little aghast at the size of it. At least there was a nice long couch and we presumed the slab against the ceiling would come down to form a bunk.
And yes, we had our
own bathroom, but flashes of the night before’s hotel room with its roomy tub
and huge sink area passed cruelly through my mind. We both immediately resolved
to continue the rest of the trip dirty, rather than shower by sitting on the
commode while waving a hand-held sprayer about.
Being a complete newbie to all of
this, I panicked a bit over the sleeping portion. Where were the pillows, the
blankets? Maybe that family covered in bedding knew more than we did. I eyed
the towels in the eensy bathroom as possibilities for make-shift pillows.
I thanked my December return to yoga
when it was time to climb the ladder into the top bunk. I was the chosen one - there was no way we
were going to get all 6 ft 2 inches and hefty build of My Guy up there.
Up was no problem, and I learned I could
manage down pretty easily if I put one foot on the sink. The scary harness
to keep me from plunging to my death in the night was a little off-putting. But it
was the coffin-like environment up there that got to me, without the ability to
sit up, since the ceiling was literally no more than 10 inches above my face.
Dinner was quite good, although it was
two long cars away and involved grabbing hand-holds to pass from one car to
another as the track roared on beneath us. Especially tricky for My Guy, for whom a
sidewalk can sometimes offer a challenge.
And surprisingly, we slept fairly well, but we were happy to be reunited with our car the next day. Summary? Never again. It was more expensive than driving and still took three days to reach our destination.