Addicted? I Can Quit Any Time I Want To
In 1989, about a month after I moved to New Hampshire, a few
of us flew out to the West Coast for a week of dance camp.
We flew to San Francisco where we played for one of the local
dances. Our host had a boat so we spent a very pleasant
afternoon on the bay and did some other "tourist" things.
Then, we went up into the hills near Mendocino. The camp was
at a national park, or maybe a state park, one of those old
CCC projects from the 1930's. It's nestled among the coastal
redwoods and was a gorgeous location. The camp was exactly
as enjoyable as you would imagine.
At the end of the week we were dismayed to discover that
whoever had booked our travel hadn't paid a lot of attention
to the geography. They had us on an early, 8AM-ish flight
out of San Francisco on Saturday morning. A mere four or five
hour drive lay between the end of dance camp Friday night
and our bright-and-early flight on Saturday. And our plan
had been to hitch a ride to the airport with someone from
camp.
Of all the luck, someone else had a similar schedule. I think
they were going to Gilroy for the big Garlic Festival and
had to be there early on Saturday. They also had enough
room in their car for the three of us and our gear! We agreed
that we would leave around 2AM or so. Naturally, we just
stayed up. Everyone else did, too, and when we loaded the
car they gave us a big send-off and we drove into the night.
This place was in the mountains, and the first time we went
around a curve it was as if the camp had never existed. It
just disappeared into the darkness behind us. We drove through
mountains for, I don't know, an hour, and by the time we
found ourselves on a major highway it seemed like the entire
week had been a dream.
As it started getting light we were in the outskirts of the
Bay Area: civilization, people, cars. The sun rose as we got
near the airport. We boarded the plane and flew to Boston,
arriving late in the afternoon. Drove the two hours or so
back to New Hampshire and home.
My house was empty when I got there, as my housemates were
all out on adventures of their own for the next week. I had
the place to myself. By bedtime I really started wondering
what, exactly, had happened over the last week. Was some of
it a dream? For that matter was any of it real?
I woke up Sunday morning in that familiar post-camp fog of
pleasant memories and fatigue, both emotional and physical,
coupled with the fact that I felt a little dislocated. I mean,
I had just moved to the area and nearly everyone I knew was
out of town. Stir in a little jet-lag from the long flight
and the time zone difference and I was a wreck.
This was absolutely the weirdest return trip I'd ever
experienced, starting with the whole driving-away-into-the-
dark thing and ending up in an empty house in a new town.
And I also realized that I hadn't had any coffee, at all,
since Friday evening. Nearly two days with no coffee!
For some reason I decided this would be a good time to go
"cold turkey" and just de-caffeinate myself for a few days.
I already had a head start, right, and I didn't have to be
anywhere. So I leaned into it and swore off coffee at least
for the time being.
I tried to stay with it but I lasted maybe two days, three
days tops. I've never felt so out-of-gas and mopey in my
life.
True story.
Suggested reading:
My First Time at Greenfield
In which I find a new home. Metaphorically speaking.
I Can Quit Whenever I Want To
In which I kick the coffee habit. Until about lunch time.
Full Moon Over Peterborough
In which Bob shows the dancers what he's made of.
Perhaps Samuel Butler was right
In which I learn that "on the job training" is not always the best choice.
Friends, Romans, Countrymen... Grab yer partners!
Caller Bernie Chalk came not to bury Caesar but to do-si-do with him.
Some experience required.
You never forget your first time.
Time Travel!
Return to those days of yesteryear
The $20 Fiddle Tune
We're not in it for the money, but neither do we turn it down.
Is That Guy Okay?
A case of mistaken identity.
Every Fiddle Has a Story...
... but they can't talk.
Mmm, Ham...
In which Pete and I rely on the kindness of strangers.
Not Sure Who Won But I Can Tell You Who Lost
In which I wind up with farm fresh historically accurate Colonial-era egg on my face.
Happy New Year
In which the New Year creeps in on little cat feet.