Homeward Bound

Sitting at my desk in Santa Rosa Beach for the first time since September, trying to get ready for an in-person hearing this afternoon, my first since the pandemic lockdown began nine months ago. Apparently the governor has let the executive order allowing virtual government meetings expire, and so my opportunity to engage in zealous advocacy while wearing flannel pajama bottoms and fuzzy slippers has vanished.

Travel yesterday, from Corning to here, was at times surreal. I flew the first leg to Detroit, stepping out of the regional jet and into a terminal that should have been bustling with holiday travelers. It wasn't.

Most of the shops and restaurants were shuttered. I took a walk up and down the concourse to pass the time and get a little exercise, then boarded for Atlanta.

I had been ordered by P to wear this N95 mask at all times, which makes my face a little swampy. The folks at Delta informed us as we leveled off that we could take down the mask to eat or drink, then announced they were serving free beer and wine. Don't mind if I do, thank you very much.

Then, inevitably, there was a nap. Breakfast wine tends to do that.

Hartsfield was a little more busy, but still nothing like what you'd expect this time of year. As I emerged from the escalator onto the B Concourse food court, I spied Pascal's Restaurant to my right.

I have always loved Pascal's, a purveyor of fine Southern cooking and Atlanta institution since the middle of the last century. And I hadn't had any deep-fried deliciousness in months---P won't fix it for me because it gives me heartburn, and--let's face it--Yankees can't cook. Whatever willpower I brought with me yesterday vanished at the first whiff of their fried chicken, and soon I dug into a piping hot plate filled with the flavors of home.

For those of you unfamiliar, that would be Pascal's famous fried chicken, turnip greens, black-eyed peas and real, crunchy corn bread that I mashed up into the peas before dousing the whole thing with hot sauce. I washed it all down with a big glass of sweet tea, and contemplated taking a nap right there in the food court.

But I didn't, noticing that the place was sufficiently crowded with maskless diners that I had probably found my best chance of catching Covid. I located my gate and, shortly after, the Sky Club where I sat staring out the window drinking free cabernet and calling my folks as I have almost every weekend for thirty years now. I only had to hang up on one---those of my generation should figure out a way to sue the One America Network for fracturing families by feeding retired old white men a steady stream of agitprop.

But I digress.

The flight to Panama was full except for the empty social distancing seats. The heartburn Peg's helped me control with her steady diet of sticks and twigs was in full blaze by now, fed by a belly full of grease and chicken, but I still managed to sleep part of the way. It's a short hop, maybe an hour from wheels in the well to landing, so I didn't sleep long.

Walking out of the terminal into a warm blanket of 70 degree humidity reminded me of one of the things I miss most about this place, after weeks of the frozen north. I ran a couple quick errands in town, then drove out to the home of some dear friends who offered their spare bedroom for a couple days as an alternative to the Hampton Inn. I washed down a big bowl of another Southern seasonal classic, homemade Brunswick stew, with a couple Jameson's as I caught up on all the news since we left in September, then shoved a couple more Tums down my maw because the Pascal's chicken still had my innards in full boil. Having endured a very long day, I then fell asleep the moment my head hit the pillow.

This morning I arrived at the office for the first time since September, and only the second or third time since March, to find my partner Gary had installed Bigfoot tracks into my office.

I'd already taken down the cutout by the time I took this photo--it's something of an phenomenon on Facebook, if you're interested.

Wishing I'd been able to find my Prilosec this morning, and disappointed to find my stash of Tums was not in my desk drawer where I thought I'd left it. I'm thinking this morning's steady trickle of coffee and stress isn't helping. I should listen to P more when it comes to diet, obviously.

Time to get back to work. I just met my new paralegal a few minutes ago, a nice lady about my age who just moved down from Rhode Island and seems to carry a certain gravitas I find reassuring. We've got plenty to do to get ready for this afternoon, when I'll try to charm a local governmental body in my rusty old trial lawyer way. And so it goes.