We leave the magic of Disneyworld with a stomach bug and begin the long journey to Napa Valley, California.
I’m sick on the flight and use the convenient lunch bag located in the seat pocket in front of me. My seat mate is a Flight Attendent for American Airlines and is on her way home. She is lovely as she provides cool towels and ice chips. The working Flight Attendents view me with barely concealed disdain and are happy to not be involved.
We arrive in Sanfrancisco and follow a confusing maze of elevators, escalators and a shuttle bus to arrive at the car rental counter. We commit our first born to the complex legalease and excitedly find out what we will drive for the next seven days. There is no map available, our smart phones stuck on dumb as data roaming is a fortune in this country. We scare up a map from the car rental office and begin to navigate our way to Napa Valley using a map that looks suspiciously like a placemat at a roadside restaurant.
It’s dark when we arrive. We spin in circles around the town trying to locate our timeshare trade. It all begins to look familiar. We stop for directions, spin around a couple times more and arrive. Our credit card is required as there will be daily charges for rudimentary services that usually are included. There is nothing to do at this point but pay, the clerk appears bored with further discourse.
Our room is a mobile home with quaint trim, struggling to be a cottage and falling short. It attempts to make up for what it lacks with too much furniture crammed inside. I spend much time stacking the furniture in a corner to save our shins and toes.
We unpack, crawl into bed and decide to recuperate tomorrow. Perhaps our mood will lighten, perhaps wine will help.