This time last week I was getting ready to wake up early the next morning to travel to Squam Lake in New Hampshire for the Squam Art Workshops. Andrea and Cheryl and I were the flying half of the Canadian contingent. We woke up at OMG-WTF-WERE-WE-THINKING o’clock in the morning to catch the Porter Airlines flight that NO ONE flies. Which got us into Boston and in our rental car shortly after rush hour.
Quick drive up I-93 and we were registered and lying on the dock with our feet in the water in no time.
It was an incredible few days. We lived here:
(I was way too shy to be all fan-girly and tell her how long I’ve loved her music and how I first heard Bruce Cockburn talk about her on the radio when I lived in New Hampshire, ran out and bought Plumb and have spent the past 16 years stalking the folk section of every record store I go into — while shoving yarn into her hand. Sigh.)
I learned that I hate to sew. I love fabric and thread and all things fibre. I love the finished product. But the actually sitting down at the machine and sewing? Not my thing.
Cat blew my mind open.
Doesn’t look like much, I know, but there is so much learning and discovery in those little stitches. (Yes Cat, I recorded everything I did!)
There were blurry knitters…
And not so blurry ones.
Megan sold yarn at the Marketplace.
Natalie sold her patterns and some of our yarn…and tried very hard not to notice me taking photos of her booth.
There was colour inspiration.
And then it was time to leave. On our way back, we decided to take a whirlwind side trip to Portsmouth NH, where I lived for 2 years.
My little town has grown up.
Nineteen minutes in Portsmouth, and then it was time to hit the airport.
So, you know how you need to be at the airport 2 hours ahead of time for international flights? Well, we fully intended to be. We left Portsmouth a little late, I fully admit. But not that late. And nothing could have prepared us for the perfect storm of a disaster that was graduation weekend in Boston. Combined with lane closures on the highway. Mixed in with regular weekend traffic. But I really think it was the ambulance wailing up behind us and the subsequent harried shuffling of cars that declared we were in big trouble.
We were going to miss our flight.
Seriously. It was a conspiracy. Someone is going to write a sitcom about the rental car shuttle bus. That stopped at EVERY. SINGLE. STOP. whether it needed to or not. And really? We got the TRAINING shuttle? With the trainee driver, who was also learning english.
Cue the German mother and son with 10. Yes, you heard that right TEN pieces of luggage. Including hockey sticks. And a saxophone. That explosion you heard round the world? That was Andrea having an aneurysm.
Which explains what happened next. Andrea, running up to the counter frantically waving her arms insisting that she needed to get to BOSTON NOW. Yes. Boston. The city we were currently in. Not Toronto, where our families and lives were waiting for us.
Whatever she said next, worked. The lovely Dionne from Porter Airlines got us on our flight, and seemed slightly confused that we were so happy about it. The Homeland Security guy even laughed as we quickly told him our story on our way through the body scan machines at security. Heck, we even had time to do some last minute souvenir shopping before getting on the plane.
Also: almost missing your flight means you get your beer first.
By the way, Cheryl, Andrea and I swore a blood oath not to ever EVER tell you we missed our plane. Taking that secret to the grave.
Not missing our flight, after arriving at the airport 35 minutes before takeoff? No chance in hell we’re keeping THAT a secret!