Snow Much Fun Not Skiing at Sunday River
POST 56: March 9, 2023
I'd like to state for the record that I had some intention of snowshoeing during our long weekend in Maine.
Many forces conspired against this plan, however, including: dark, wind, a kick-ass hot tub, King Domino, two good books, an abundance of red wine, and my preference to spend time (inside) with similar-minded family members.
Let me set the stage. There is a zero percent chance that, if left to my own devices, I would have booked a nice Airbnb (or a crappy one, for that matter) a couple of miles from what many feel is the East Coast's best ski resort: Sunday River. My sister, though, is ski-crazed, and she and my son had been talking about skiing together. Since he's a high school senior and may never again agree to join us on a family vacation, and her 50th birthday was on March 6, the stars aligned for this particular getaway.
Fast skis on fresh powder, heated lifts, and Cinnabons halfway down the mountain: could a birthday, from my sister's viewpoint, get any better?
Why yes, yes it could, as my nieces, brother-in-law, and I proved by gifting her with surprise visits from both of her daughters.
Coordinating the suprise part was no easy task. My sis and bro-in-law were flying to Boston from Santa Fe. My niece Quincy lives and works in Edinburgh, while Daphne is a student at Kent State University in Ohio. But we pulled it off successfully--twice.
Quincy's plane arrived an hour early from the UK, so she and I decided we had ample time to high-tail it to Harvard Square, indulge our bibliophilia at Harvard Bookstore, eat at Bon Me,and make it back to the airport in time to surprise Diana. We may have miscalculated--it was difficult to tear ourselves away from books and food--and we ended up running from some remote airport parking area that I hadn't even known existed over to closer parking and into Terminal B with our bellies full of pulled pork sandwiches and JP Licks Kowlua ice cream.
It wasn't pretty.
What was beautiful was my sister's reaction to seeing her eldest baby approaching from the other side of an empty baggage carousel. Let's just say there were tears of joy all around.
Picking up Daphne the next day was slightly trickier. In fact, it would've been impossible if my sister wasn't The Most Gullible Person Alive. Quincy, my daughter Lucia, and I had to stall my sister until 2:15 p.m., when Daphne's plane was due to arrive. After lingering at two coffee shops (much to Diana's irritation, although she tried to hide it) and binge buying at Trader Joe's, we finally prepared to leave for the airport. I texted Daphne the location where we'd pick her up, along with "She has NO idea you're flying out here!"
Only, as I realized the second my finger hit that damn blue arrow, I had accidentally texted my sister and brother-in-law, not my niece.
My survival instincts took over. I grabbed my sister's phone out of her hands and flung it into the back seat, where it may have hit Lucia or Quincy.
"What are you doing, lunatic?" my sister demanded.
"I--uh, that umm--text was supposed to be for Gabe." I have no idea how I managed to come up with that tall tale under pressure but I was pretty impressed with myself. Maybe I should've been a CIA operative.
"What? Were you--" my sister looked disgusted, as she had every right to, thinking that I'd been sexting my husband with her, my daughter, and my niece surrounding me in a Mini-Cooper.
I gave a "yeah, I'm pathetic" half-smile and shrugged.
"Ewww." She remained stunned for just enough time for tech-savvy Quincy to delete the text from my sister's phone before handing it back to her.
"Now," I announced, "we are taking a shortcut to Maine."
The "shortcut" involved driving south on Interstate 93 (Maine is decidedly north of Massachusetts. Fun fact: Maine was actually part of Massachusetts until 1820, following a politically motivated vote for separation that the New England Historical Society amusingly refers to as "The Mexit from Massachusetts."), then going to Logan Airport. As we wended our way around the airport access road, I commented that I sure was glad the secret shortcut still existed despite all the construction (Fun fact: Logan Airport is ALWAYS under construction.)
Only when I pulled up to the curb at Terminal C did my sister get an inkling of what was going on. I will protect her privacy and dignity by not quoting her or sharing all of her reactions. I will say simply that Diana was beyond thrilled to see Daphne, and that those of us who remained in the car were sure she was going to die when she bolted across the bus lane to greet her daughter.
Fortunately, nobody was injured, and we arrived at our Airbnb a few hours later. It was one of those shiny, happy vacation arrivals, when you realize the place you rented looks even better than it does in the pictures. Which was especially good in this instance since three of us only left the house twice: to shovel snow, and to hunt and gather non-snack food since that's all we'd tossed into the cart at Trader Joes.
The skiers in our group claimed they had so much fun. And good on them for living their best shivery, exercisey, surrounded-by-seas-of-humanity-and-scents-of-sweaty-snow-boots lives.
I'll just refer you back to the opening paragraph--i.e., the bit about the kick-ass hot tub--along with the awesomeness of pulling off that Double Daughter Surprise birthday gift for my sister, and I think you'll understand how I managed to have a spectacular time at Sunday River without hitting the slopes.