We returned from our travels last night at around 7:00. I’ve been clinging to that nice vacation feeling all morning by continuing to read my silly novel about time travel and Scotland. (When I’m done, I’ll watch the show.) I have several urgent work matters that are glaring at me at my google inbox. I have to return phone calls from family wanting news. Later. Later.
We’ve been gone for eight days, which I think is our longest family vacation ever. The first three days were a traditional vacation on Block Island, a little football that Long Island kicks up to New England. We stayed at a motel-ish place a few miles away from the town that primarily serves People Who Live on Boats. Before this trip, I knew vaguely that were such people. My sister-in-law’s dad sailed his boat from Connecticut to Key West for about six months last year. Here, we had an up-close view of the life style, because the motel, which called itself a resort, had a long dock for the People Who Live On Boats.
Every morning, we got a donut and coffee from the store at the motel/resort and strolled down the dock to check out the new boats that came in over night. Some were huge with walls for flat screen TVs. Others were smaller with feral children eating Cheerios’ on the floor. At the end of the dock, they had a bar with a deck. In the evening, Jonah took Ian to the movies at the motel/resort, and Steve and I drank gin and tonics with the People Who Live on Boats.
In between the morning donut and the evening gin and tonic, we drove around. We swam in near-empty beaches. We found places to eat. We hiked. Next time we go back, we’ll book the hotel and the ferry ride six months in advance.
Those three days were the traditional vacation part of the trip. The next five days were about Jonah’s college tours. Next post.