I didn’t take the hotel, the $400 voucher, and the delivery to Portland at 11 the nest day, because Delta assured me that, even five hours late, this plane would be going to Portland. But sho’ ’nuff, I was cancelled and dumped at La Guardia at 1am, with nary an offer for a hotel or a taxi, and a promise of delivery at 4 the next day. Disgusted, my new best friend Dave and I rented a car, and drove that 4 x 4 through the rain to Portland. I must have looked so old, I thought, zonked out and snoring snorts as I laid back, open-mouthed in the passenger seat. He was about 30, I felt twice that when I got through. He did Connecticut, I did Massachusetts, he did Maine. I got in my own car in Portland and arrived just in time for my 10 o’clock appointment for an oooh so welcome two-hour massage.

I valve my energy so precisely for these classes that I am pretty spent when I get through. The extra burden of a full 14-hr non-stop gruel in the travel tunnel, with its bad food and constant noise was too much, and in the middle of getting the massage my gut rebels and voids everything with a wrench. But I feel much better, and after sleeping I am right as rain.


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