Kiss of Death

I'm talking about what happens when we travel. It's always been like this.

My earliest vacation memory as a child was being at the Jersey shore when I was five or so. My parents were sitting side by side on the bed closest to the large window staring at the rain that was pouring down. I was on the other bed, not bothered in the least by the rain, because I had a new coloring book and box of crayons. This might have been my first trip to the shore, so I probably had no idea what I was missing.

Years later, when we returned from two weeks in Florida, everyone commented that we weren't tan. Well, no, the state had had the rainiest spring in its history.

When I got married, I suppose I wasn't all that surprised to find that my husband had similar memories of family vacations. Basically, if something can go wrong, it will.

But we were intrepid, occasionally referred to a "don't you ever learn?" We traveled whenever possible. We dealt with whatever bumps in the road came our way because, well, what else can you do?

Getting lost before GPS technology was a favorite. The car breaking down in the middle of nowhere, despite being thoroughly checked over before leaving, was also popular. This mostly happened before cell phones made life safer and easier. There were hotels that insisted we hadn't made a reservation. Okay, it wasn't the hotel itself, just a person behind a desk, but you know what I mean. Then when we produced our letter of confirmation, they apologized but said the rooms were all full so they would refund our money. Gee, thanks.

Most recently, when we got to Nevada, the smoke from the California wildfires finally reached Reno. And less than two weeks after we enjoyed the beauty of Lake Tahoe and the surrounding countryside, a new fire broke out and is devastating the area.

You'll never guess where we were making plans to go this fall.

Really, I'm so very, very sorry New Orleans.