The Sanibel Gals: Part 1 (The Arrival)

What was I thinking...lo, those many months ago...when it was discovered that the school calendar had allotted us a rare four consecutive days off for Veterans Day? What should I do with this incredible window of time, I wondered, thinking happily of blissful hours camped on my couch, my fingers atrophied around the remote, my shirtfront littered with Cheese-Doodle crumbs. Oh no...this was one prophesy that would go unfulfilled as I was suddenly swept up in the excitement of trip planning...becoming one of an eight-party excursion to the shell-collecting capital of the United States. Yes folks, I became an infamous member of the group now known as "The Sanibel Gals."

Divided between two flights, we departed immediately after school on Friday. Arriving at the airport, we were greeted by additional school personnel scurrying away like beach-clad rats departing a sinking ship. Our friend Traci had an appointment with a well-positioned mouse down south while Nancy was off to Nashville. We bid one another a fond good-bye as we all boarded our respective planes. The first leg of our journey was frought with danger and discourse. Some fool brought on an open bag of peanut M&Ms and naturally spilled it, sending peanut pebbles rolling down the aisle and under seats. To hide our embarrassment, my friend Bev and I ducked behind a SkyMall magazine but, unfortunately, got so caught up in the outrageous merchandise that we filled the airplane compartment with our obnoxious comments and laughter. The fire-burning portable hot tub reminded me of an episode from Twilight Zone where hitchhikers were unwittingly boiled into a stew.  I mistook the single-handed barber for a personal massager.

I was distracted, momentarily, by the bright and bubbly conversation between my friend Kathy and a fellow traveler. "So, where are you from," she asked conversationally, leaning against the seat as we waited to disembark. I glanced at her to see if she was swinging one end of a long, feather boa. When the nice man shared that he was from Buffalo, she lit up happily and shared that, she too, was from that area. I leaned in and asked if she wanted me to poll the rest of the passengers as well. "What are the odds," I marveled, "that a flight from The Queen's City would include a local resident?"

Our layover in Atlanta was a delight as I lugged my 80 pound rucksack out of the overhead bin, through the airport, onto the train connecting us to our appropriate concourse (Where a group of obnoxious teachers corrected the automated voice that helpfully announced our destination, "You have reached Concourse B...B for Bravo." "That's not the sound "B" makes..." we remarked sulkily, "~br is a consonant blend." None of the train's weary passengers appreciated this impromptu lesson in phonics. Waiting for the next flight, I was beside myself with excitement when I discovered an automated trash receptacle, reduced to begging strangers for their garbage just for the pure pleasure of using it.

Our room at Sanibel Island

Arriving in Fort Myers at the dead-of-night ("11:30 hardly qualifies as the dead-of-night," my friend Geri remarked rudely.), we made our way to Sanibel Island. We located the resort with no trouble but were unable to locate the promised key or, even worse, our reserved suite, forced to wander around the property bellowing for help. At long last, we made it into our beautiful rooms, collapsing gratefully on our beds, the Gulf of Mexico mere meters away (I'm currently engaged in a unit on the metric system). What more beautiful sound, I thought sleepily, than that of waves crashing on the shore. "I should probably warn you," our friend Dawn said as she fluffed her pillow. "I scream in my sleep."

Geri leaving our little screened in porch for an island adventure