Going home

 

Friday—our last full day in St. Lucia—was absolutely gorgeous.

This was the weather we had paid big bucks and flown thousands of miles to see.

We spent Friday at the pool, soaking up every bit of the abundant sunshine that we could, making up for the rain of most of the rest of the week. I hoped to build up stores of vitamin D and serotonin to last the rest of the winter, like a bear fattening up to go into hibernation.

It works that way, right?

We woke up Saturday, departure day, to everything clouded over and wet again, which did make it much easier to say goodbye.

We had breakfast, handed over our packed bags to the butlers, and had a couple hours to kill.

We lounged on a hammock by the beach a good long while, until we decided to grab lunch, at which point it started—guess what!—raining.

It was time to go home. I had had enough of tropical rain showers, my stomach was begging me to return to my regularly scheduled diet, and it would be good to see the kids again.

Little did we know our hour-and-a-half layover in Atlanta would turn into twenty-two hours; involving several planes’ worth of misplaced luggage by Delta, 45 minutes watching a luggage carousel spin around that remained completely empty, a lost wallet (can’t blame Delta for that), a missed connection (obviously), a forfeited nonrefundable hotel booking, miles walked on a rapidly developing, severely itchy, swollen rash all around the bottom of my swimsuit line, angry crowds, a midnight taxi ride, cancelled flights, exiting a plane that we had just boarded due to the discovery of mechanical problems, multiple concourses, a new plane, and the conviction that Jason and I had become permanent residents of Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport.

{The rash was not due to excessive airport walking, although my friend later theorized that I was so stressed I literally got my panties in a bunch, which is a not unreasonable hypothesis. It was actually the latest and most severe iteration of a rash I always get after a week at the beach; however, it usually shows up on my ankles and wrists and is the worst on my knees. It was on one knee only this time, enough to swell and then turn purplish and leathery, per usual; but the swimsuit line area was a new development and not one that I enjoyed, particularly when Delta sent us on foot from concourse A to Z to collect our luggage that they misdirected and then neglected to tell us about for two hours. Or when we had to deboard the plane we finally made it onto, to be told that they had a new plane ready for us…in concourse E.

My vague theory about my regular beach rash was always something to do with sand, since it showed up mainly on my knees, but my newer theory (since sand really had hardly anything to do with this week) is that maybe I’m allergic to sunscreen, which the internet says is not common but is a thing.

But I still hate the Atlanta airport forever.}

By the time that ordeal was over with, we couldn’t wait to see the kids and be home again.

It’s really good to be home. My tummy is happier, my rash is faded, we still have a little tan from that last day. St. Lucia was gorgeous, as before, although often covered in clouds and rain this time. But the unending time with Jason was so deeply welcome and that’s the vacation memory I cherish most of all.