At 7am Friday morning, the 19th, Dad arrived at the hotel where Daisy and I were staying. I kissed Daisy goodbye, threw my giant, tightly-packed suitcase into the trunk, and we were off down the road.
I will mention here at the start of this story that I've never traveled alone with Dad before. We've traveled together with him lots of places over the years, but never just me and him -- the boys, so to speak. Dad and I are very similar people, and Daisy and her mother are very similar. I've often said (and I've likely written it here before) that Daisy married her father, and I married her mother. In most marriages this would cause problems -- but, I am very lucky in that I adore Mama. She is absolutely the best mother in law I could have asked for, and I feel the same way about Dad.
That does not mean that traveling with Dad would be easy, however, and I knew that it likely wouldn't be. While we are very similar on many things, there are many other things that we are very different on. Dad is a Vietnam veteran -- he was a helicopter gunner. He is tall and lanky, eats like a bird, has a great distrust of authority figures, is very stubborn and set in his ways, and can be quite argumentative and combative (not physically, of course) when he wants to be. He also, at times, lacks tact and sympathy/empathy. I have always gotten along with Dad really well, probably much more so than Daisy's sisters' husbands.
But that doesn't mean I'd travel well, or travel badly with him. Truth be told I was operating on about four hours sleep per night, in a hard hotel bed that destroyed my back and didn't let me stretch out the way I needed to, and running on energy drinks that had a little more than half the caffeine I was used to. I was tired. I was frazzled. I was in control of practically nothing. When I get into that state, normal Brandon goes away and a completely different Brandon takes over. It's sort of like when I'm working versus when I'm not working.
The drive to the border was mostly uneventful. We drove through a little rain, and through a lot more traffic than Daisy and I had encountered while going up there, but got to the border around 1pm or so.
"Don't make any jokes and don't say anything stupid when they ask you if you have anything to declare," Dad said.
What, like in 2015 when Dad was asked that question and he said "yeah, we've got a ton of liquor and cigarettes in the back"?
"I'm not an idiot," I said, rolling my eyes.
"Where are you coming from?" the border agent asked. Dad answered.
"And why were you there?"
"Funeral of my father-in-law," Dad said, or something to that effect.
Immediately -- just like when Daisy and I had come across the border a week prior, the entire personality and mannerisms of the border agent changed, and he became very apologetic. He also handed back our Covid vaccination cards as soon as we gave them to him with our passports, saying he didn't need them and that he wanted us to hold on to them (which I found interesting; he didn't even look at them).
"Do you have anything in the car that you're bringing back from Canada?"
We shrugged. "Just clothing and some food," Dad said.
"No ashes or cremains of the deceased, I take it?"
"No, no no," Dad said. "Those were buried in Nova Scotia."
The absurdity of that question made me laugh internally, but I get it. Dude's gotta be cautious, has to do his job and due diligence, etc.
"No alcohol, tobacco products, marijuana, etc?"
"No sir," Dad replied. Truthfully, too. We weren't bringing anything back from Canada we didn't take in with us, aside from a bit of souvenir clothing and some ketchup chips. I did have my Vuse pod vape in my pocket, and in some places that would likely be classified as a tobacco product because vaping laws are stupid, but it had maybe 2ml of juice left in the pod, and I'd already used up and tossed all of my other disposables before I'd left.
"Again, sorry for your loss," the border agent said. "Welcome home."
And we were back in the states.
Well, sort of.
The border crossing at Houlton/Woodstock is actually well inside Canada, by a few hundred yards, maybe a half mile or so, etc. Between the border crossing and the actual border is the duty-free shop. For those of you who don't know what that is, it's basically a store without taxes where travelers can purchase things for their journey. As it was on the Canadian side, everything was in Canadian dollars and tax-free, so stuff was far cheaper than it would be stateside. When I was there in 2015, I picked up cartons of cigarettes, multiple cartons, for like $20 each -- so so much more cheaply than in the states.
This time around, I had a mission: procure the maple syrup candy.
In 2015 when Daisy and I were last there, we'd come across these hard candies -- like, individually wrapped, life-savers-style hard candies -- that were made with maple syrup. They were amazing, and we'd only gotten one bag of each flavor (regular and blueberry). I went in there this time and bought three bags of each flavor. If I'd had more room in my bags I would've cleared off the racks. It was something like $18 total.
And then we were on the road and in Maine.
For those of you who have never been there, Maine is a beautiful, forested state with mountains, winding highways, peaks and valleys, and giant lakes. There are seaside towns and seaside cities. There are moose, there are deer, there are bear, there are wolves, there are fishers, and (so I've been told) there are lighthouses. The road between the border and Bangor is not a long one, comparatively speaking -- it's about 100 miles, give or take, all highway until you get into Bangor proper. Bangor is in south-central Maine, about an hour's drive from the ocean on the eastern side of the state. The locals there call this "Downeast Maine":
I mean, I guess.
Anyway.
I'm not sure I'd feel such a connection to Maine had I not been there before and if Dad wasn't from there. Because Dad is from there, this was like a trip through his old stomping grounds. He knew exactly where to go and how to get to each place, and we were on two missions before we returned home:
1. get some food in a restaurant that Dad wanted to eat at, where he hadn't been for a long time (Governor's Restaurant and Bakery, in Bangor), and
2. find Coffee Brandy and bring it back home.
Again, for those of you not familiar with Maine -- Coffee Brandy is exactly what you think it is.
It is literally coffee flavored brandy. And you can't get it anywhere outside of Maine, apparently. We've checked. The girls gave us the mission of getting as much of it as we could fit into our checked bags to fly home with. Whether they'll do the same when they return as well remains to be seen (I'll get to this later).
We got into Bangor around 3:30pm. The real "driving" portion of our trip was all but done. Dad navigated us to The Governor™, where he purchased a double-meat lobster roll and I had a decent but hastily thrown-together caesar salad as my one true meal of the day.
"Just a caesar salad and water?" the waitress asked. "You don't want chicken in it or anything? Do you want a roll?"
"No," I said, "just the salad and water."
Truthfully I didn't even really want the salad, I just knew I would be ravenous if I didn't eat something and I didn't just want to sit there and stare at Dad while he ate his lobster roll, trying to hide my impatience and frazzled inner self. That would serve nobody. When the checks came (yes, plural, Dad wanted to pay for his lobster roll separately, I guess), I paid for my salad and went outside to vape and get some fresh air before we made the next leg(s) of our journey.
The next leg(s) of our journey were, of course, to find the Coffee Brandy. Our first stop was Walmart, where they didn't sell liquor, but they did have the underwear I like on clearance -- remember how I mentioned that I had run out of clean underwear in Canada? Yeah. So I bought a pack of those and grabbed a puffer vest that was on deep clearance as well, as I'd wanted one for some time. It fit like a glove and I'd really wished I'd had the time or foresight to get two of them....and then we were off once again.
Dad, knowing Bangor far better than I, knew of a small grocery chain up the street where yes, they would sell the Coffee Brandy. We entered and almost immediately got separated, and I became lost. You see, in Bangor, every adult elderly male is tall, thin, and white-haired, just like Dad. It's a sea of Dads. They all dressed like Dad, they all looked like Dad. They all sounded like Dad. I wandered that store for twenty minutes trying to pick out Dad in an ocean of older white men in vests who all sounded and looked like him, is what I'm saying.
We did get the Coffee Brandy. It added nine pounds to my luggage, but I was able to make it fit. I was also able to have the foresight of packing two Hefty Forceflex trash bags into my big canvas backpack just in the off-chance that we'd need them for something -- we did. We tied the bottles of liquor into them and made the bags airtight/liquid-tight in the event that the bottles would leak in flight.
I prepare for everything, apparently.
We returned to the Bangor Quality Inn and I checked us into our room. It was a simple room -- some of the most basic lodging possible: two double beds, a bathroom, a table, and a sink. Dad immediately showered and got into bed. I stayed up for a bit and walked around the parking lot to wind down. I tried to call Daisy, but she didn't answer. Then I showered and got into bed myself, and was out like a light within twenty minutes.
When I awoke, it was dark. Very dark. We'd set our alarms for 4am because the flight out was at 7 and we'd need to get through security and get something to eat. I checked my phone and it was barely 2, but I could not sleep anymore -- I'd slept almost 8 full hours and could not lay in that hotel bed anymore. On the other bed in the dark, Dad was out like a light still. I got up, dressed in the dark, and went out to -- yes, you guessed it -- wander the parking lot again to kill time and vape. When my Vuse ran out, I yanked the pod and tossed it, and debated flying back with the actual Vuse power base/battery, because it really was a neat little device, but I did eventually decide to just trash it as I wouldn't need it when I was at home -- and it wasn't worth trying to justify taking it through security when I had no further use for it.
Dad would eventually awaken, and we made our way to the airport -- checking out of the room on the way.
I mentioned before that the Bangor airport is tiny, and it is. The rental car lot is relatively small and a two-minute walk from the entry doors. You walk in, drop the keys off in the slot, and then print your boarding passes at the little kiosk, where you also swipe your card to pay the $30 to check your bags. They give you a printout, attach the sticker to your bags, and away it goes -- and then you go through security. The entire process takes about five minutes total.
Going through security at the airport is fun. At least for me. For me the trip is always quick, because I empty my pockets and make sure I'm wearing flip-flops and no belt to keep it all fast. Dad, however, I'm not sure I've ever seen wear flip-flops or not wear a belt during the over ten years that I've known him, so it will always take him longer to get through. He was right in front of me, and not only did he get pulled aside for additional screening, he also got wanded and basically shoved off to reassemble himself.
Me, I was in and out, x-rayed and into the airport, where I put my wallet and keys back in my pocket and slipped my flip flops back on. Dad, however, lost his belt.
Momentarily.
His belt got trapped beneath the rollers and the bins and took a few extra minutes to roll through. He was able to find it and get it back on, but the entire process left him looking like he'd been assaulted. I'm sure he was just as tired as I was and I'm sure he was frazzled.
Our flight to Charlotte didn't leave for another 90 minutes or so, and as we were at our gate within five minutes of going through security (again, small airport), Dad got a breakfast sandwich from one of the little kiosk deli places and tried to relax a bit. I, meanwhile, had to pee like four times (I'd drank an energy drink -- my last one -- and an entire one-liter bottle of seltzer when I'd gotten up that morning, in order to carry less and not have to check more liquids in my bag.
I also stopped at the little gift shop next to our gate, and used basically the very last amount of space in my carry-on canvas backpack to purchase a purple t-shirt with MAINE on it in big letters, a pin for my military jacket, and a bar of handmade vegan soap that was apparently "mermaid kisses" scented (or something like that, I can't remember if that's accurate or not).
I am a...sentimental person I guess; everywhere I go, I try to bring home some little trinket or mug or t-shirt that proves I was there, that I can point to later and be like "hey, I got item X at Y place when I was doing Z thing in year 20XX," etc. I have a lot of items like this. I know people who are like "oh, I'll just go order something online when I get home" and I think that mostly defeats the purpose. I did do that this time around for two things though, and I'll get to that.
The plane to Charlotte was a large plane, an Airbus A320, and it was...relatively comfortable, I guess. we got on it on time, the flight lifted off normally and landed normally in Charlotte...which I found was a very large airport. I had thought it would be small, because I mean, Omaha has a small airport, and Omaha and Charlotte as cities are probably roughly the same size -- though I will admit that about all I know about Charlotte is that I always wanted to name a daughter Charlotte and that it's where Nascar holds the Coca-Cola 600 every year.
Well, Charlotte's airport is huge, and it was shoulder-to-shoulder full of people. We scanned the board to see where our connecting flight to Omaha was, I went to pee, and Dad...disappeared.
I called him. "I'm making my way to our gate," he said.
"Okay. I'm right behind you, somewhere, I guess."
In reality I had no idea where he was or how far ahead of me he had gotten. The airport was bright, it was loud, and it was full of people in my way, people that if I wanted to get where I was supposed to go, I almost had to drop my shoulder and charge through them like I was still playing high school football.
I want all of you to know that I am not generally an aggressive person. In public situations such as this one, I try to be very polite and kind, because I would want that same sort of treatment myself. However, there are some situations that if you want to get through them, you have to be aggressive and not defensive. So I have to admit I took, ahem, some liberties with how deftly I moved through the crowds. I didn't, like, knock down any children or old ladies, but if someone was in my way, I made sure they weren't. I was not feeling well, I hate being surrounded by people, and I just wanted to be home -- where my cats and my vapes and my silence all were.
The gate was completely full. As in, there were no empty seats anywhere around, and there were probably close to 50 people -- all of them waiting for our flight -- just standing around at the gate. Dad had gotten there and was sitting on one of the outside aisle seats (and it was probably the last one available when he'd gotten there). I stood on my feet with my heavy-ass canvas backpack on for close to an hour before they started boarding. When I did get to board, I was in boarding group 8. Eight. I don't even know how there is a group 8 on a small puddlejumper plane like we were on (yet another Embraer ERJ).
I guess I shouldn't call them "puddlejumper" planes since they can fly really long distances pretty quickly, but for a fat guy like myself they're tiny and cramped and leave a lot to be desired versus the larger, more comfortable planes like the A320.
And finally, after waiting there an hour and after strapping into this cramped little plane for another half hour, we were in the air towards Omaha.
Throughout my flight I dozed off several times; I was in the middle seat on every flight we flew on with the exception of the last flight down into Bangor on the way there, so it's not like I could really relax or look out the window or do anything actually interesting other than just doze off. Dad was two rows behind me on the aisle seat. I was very grateful that I'd purchased a travel neck pillow after the very first flight on the way in.
The plane landed in Omaha, on time and without incident, where the local time was around 12:30 PM and the temperature was about 85 degrees. We had but two things left to do:
1. hope that our checked suitcases arrived without incident, and
2. secure an Uber ride home for each of us.
Now, mind you, Daisy's best friend (the one who'd been watching over the houses/cats) was originally going to pick us up and take us home from the airport, but she'd had a slight medical emergency the day before we'd left, and let us know the only time she could get into the doctor was right when the plane was landing in Omaha, so she had to bail on us. I didn't mind it -- your health is far more important than picking up people at an airport, of course -- but that also meant that Dad and I would both have to spend money separately on Ubers to get from the airport back home.
"See if you can split it," Daisy told me.
I had to explain to her that it really doesn't work that way, because it's paid for by the trip, not by the passenger -- meaning yes, I could have told them to take me home and then take Dad home too, on my reservation, but it would've charged me for both trips, and we were going in opposite directions, and then there's all sorts of different variables like surge pricing and time/distance and the like and yeah it doesn't really work like that.
I had some passing experience with Uber and Daisy and I had used one to get to the airport the week prior (yes, our car was still safely locked in the garage at home the entire time) and knew how the app operated. Dad, however, barely knew what Uber was, and had never had the app on his phone and had never needed to use it. I told him it was basically an independent-driver taxi service (because, well, it is) and that they always have drivers waiting and ready at the airport -- or very close to it, so it shouldn't take too long to actually get in a car and get home. He got the app on his phone, put in his card info, and made sure it was ready to roll prior to leaving Bangor.
Once we were off the plane and safely on the ground in Omaha, we made our way through the not-crowded-at-all airport to the baggage claim. My giant, seafoam-green hardshell suitcase with the neon-green luggage tag was one of the first suitcases to hit the belt, and I grabbed it. It was not leaking fluids, so this told me that the coffee brandy had survived the trip.
And we waited. And waited. And waited for Dad's suitcase to show up. Everyone else had their bags and took them away, and it was me, Dad, and about two or three other people standing at the moving belt hoping and praying that their baggage was not lost. I could sense the anxiety and dread of the few other people standing around us.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Dad's bag got shoved through the rubber door and was on the belt. We were done. We had our things. We could go the fuck home again.
By this time, Dad had figured out the Uber app and had placed an order for pickup. I did as well, and we both made our way across the street over to the attached parking garage -- the bottom of which was the Uber pick-up area. Our pickup cars were there within 2 minutes (no, really) and we made our way to each one. I watched Dad get into his car and the driver head off in the opposite direction at the same time I was in mine and on my way out of the airport, and....our traveling together was over.
Twenty minutes and $30 later, I was standing in my living room with two very happy-to-see-me cats and a third howling upstairs from Daisy's office, where she'd been held captive for the past nine days. It was the afternoon of Saturday, August 20, and I was finally, finally home.
What has happened in the interim? Well, that's a story for our final post in this series.
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