What a luxury. An airport just minutes from my home.

I live in Vermont. Luxuries don’t come easy here — but I have it made. Hop on the cropduster and be in Boston in one hour, after a stunning ride over the Green Mountains. One hour! It’s like a miracle, considering that it takes 2 hours to get anywhere in VT. 

I’m all set for a quick flight home to see my Dad, erasing hours in the car — but the miracle dissipates into thick, heavy clouds over Killington. 

Can’t get in or out, says the somber desk agent. Don’t know when.

If it were another era, I’d be foaming at the mouth, frantically trying to switch up my flight or harangue the agent into offering every possible option.

Instead, my practical side swings into action. Hm, I think. Maybe the Chef will drive me to Boston. It’ll take 3 1/2 hours and I’ll catch a later flight.

Within a minute, the Chef zooms up and begins to map the entire trip while idling in the parking lot.

Um, honey? Maybe we should start driving, too? I suggest.

Of course! she replies, cheerfully blasting down the road under gloomy clouds.

We stock up on drinks before starting the longest drive in the world, otherwise known as Rt. 4. (If anyone tells you that Rt. 4 takes “an hour or so” in whichever direction to wherever, immediately tack on an extra hour.)

I’m gonna take the backroads and avoid Rutland, says the Chef and I inwardly roll my eyes. The Chef is all about the “taking the backroads” since her family has lived here for a million years. Thing is, practically every road in VT is a backroad. Highways are the luxury.

Okay, but don’t take the “backroads” all the way to Boston. I’d like to actually make the 4:30 flight.

No worries! says the Chef. I’ll get you there, as she races up the notorious backroad that drops my cell at the most crucial moments of a conversation. I hold it like an old TV antenna, waving it around while checking with the local airport one last time. The sky seems to be brightening and the 1:30 flight out of Boston is already a wash.

You know what they say: Don’t like the weather in VT? Wait 5 minutes.

The agent is slightly more animated now. The pilot should be here at 12:35. At least we think. No guarantees. You still wanna go?

Yep, I say. Let’s do it.

No Boston? asks the Chef.

Nope, I reply. Back on the cropduster. We’ll do a roadtrip soon.

We circle round and say our goodbyes yet again. As she starts to pull away, I call out, stay close to the phone in case we need to go to Boston. Unless I decide to reschedule the whole thing.

She laughs and drives off with that God, what a crazy Gemini look on her face.

As I re-enter the waiting room, five passengers are still slumped in their seats, as if continuing to absorb the mass dose of awful news the doctor just delivered. Not a good sign.

I’m fortunately still in a calm place because a) I am only visiting my Dad and b) I could walk home in an emergency (my acute survival instincts kicking in). There’s only one thing to do: pull out the NYT crosswords and get to work. Boston recedes with every florescent minute, and the clouds are more ominous than ever. 

At 1pm, 90 minutes after I should have been on the original flight and 30 minutes before the connecting one I’d miss, the weary agent walks in with cellphone in hand. She informs us that the pilot is landing in Lebanon, NH and a cab can take us there.

How long? I ask.

About 1 1/2 hours.

It seems there’s no avoiding the longest drive in the world.

The cross-legged Zen woman immediately explodes into a rant. Let’s face it: if you live in Vermont, you generally leave with reluctance. If you don’t live here, Vermont is the last place you want to be if you are trying to get home. It truly is the Enchanted Forest that can quickly turn into Midas’s labryinth.

I mentally calculate that if I take the shuttle across Rt. 4 to Leb and catch the cropduster, I’ll be in Boston by 3pm-ish, enough time to catch the 4:15. This excludes the likelihood of Rt. 4 construction delays from the floods, slow drivers and large trucks. I call my airline and they assure me of available seats if I can actually get my ass in one.

The cab arrives but the name does not inspire confidence: Gramps Shuttle. The driver hops out, grabs my bag and says, Let’s get you to Leb. Another kid’s meeting us there. Just you two.

It’s a smooth, uneventful trip for the first 15 minutes, the driver taking the same backroad as the Chef. There’s good heat and a lack of chatter. I relax and close my eyes. Everything’s okay. I’m on my way.

Suddenly, the van veers into a gas station and pulls next to a car. W.t.f.? 

I add another 10 minutes onto the longest goddamn drive in the world.

Stopping for snacks? I ask.

No, he replies, heaving his way out of the driver’s seat. I have to go home and deal with my wife’s bullshit.

The transfer of power happens mercifully quick. Driver #2 pops in: a friendly, red-faced elf.

Come up here, he says, patting the passenger seat. You can keep me company.

It speaks volumes that I don’t feel creeped out but merely warm and lazy.

Nah, I’m comfie, I say.

Okey-doke, he replies, sloshing a Diet Coke into a holder. Let’s get you to Leb.

About 45 minutes more? I ask.

Uh, about 20 minutes more than that. 2:30, probably.

It’s nearly 4 hours since the “quick” trip to the airport and I’m still in Vermont, 20 miles from home.

After 45 minutes+ 20 and the story of military service, moving to VT, teaching, the spot where he got a ticket right up there, the flood and rebuilding projects on various bridges and roads, the truck driving just as fast as us in front, enough heat? and then switching it off as we’re boiling, then freezing, his wife loving the Pyramid’s salt cave, his buddy going through a bad divorce, we finally make the turn into the Leb airport at 2:30. It’s brighter sky in NH, probably because they don’t pay taxes.

Here we are, he says. Bet you’re glad to see this.

Don’t leave yet, I says, genuinely grateful for his help in getting me there. I want to make sure I have a way back to VT.

Don’t worry, he says. I’ll use the bathroom and make sure you’re on the flight.

The airport is deserted other than the bored Avis lady but one tiny plane waits encouragingly on the tarmac. I take a long drink out of the fountain and a burly guy appears in the corner of my eye. He shouts, she’s here, and I head to the counter.

Hi, he says. We’ve been waiting for you. It’s just you today.

Really? I’m so glad I made it, I reply.

Gramps calls from the door, Everything okay? and I wave goodbye, thanking him again.

Security ambles out from the break room and flicks on the detector. I practically have to strip naked but overall, it’s a friendly experience. I joke that I have no choice but to get on the plane, as my VT connection is now gone.

Security points to distant hills over the parking lot and says, See? Vermont’s right there. (NH employees — so clever. It’s because they don’t pay taxes.)

Ah, rose quartz and what’s that? Security asks.

Actually, it’s lithium quartz and blue quartz, I reply, holding them in my palm.

For protection. Yes. I carry some rocks, Security says, smiling. Okay, all set. There’s your plane. Right out there.

I thank Security and head to my plane. Yes, my plane – waiting for me. The tarmac guy holds the door and I say, I feel like Oprah. He smiles, takes my bag as I choose the seat closest to the windshield.

Hi, says the pilot, shaking my hand. It’s just you and me today.

Where’s your co-pilot? I ask.

He’s on a cigarette break and you know we don’t allow smoking on the plane. He smiles at his little joke, flicks a few lights and cranks the engine. The propellors give a long, whiny whirr and we bump our way into the glorious sky.