The Retirement Adventure Disaster

Can I honestly say it was coincidence alone? If not, then perhaps prophetic? On the eve of MLK Day, I had a dream. Better yet, I had a detailed, well-researched, multiphaceted plan for a retirement adventure for Anne and I. A detailed plan… researched … every detail checked and crosschecked … I’s systematically dotted … T’s crossed. I had a dream and it looked something like this.

The mall holds no fond attraction for me. There is nothing there of interest or need for me. About twice a year, I feel must go there for the sole purpose of convincing myself of that fact. This was not to be one of those times. It was a part of a larger universe. I started our adventure with a half day at the mall for Anne to shop. My grand concession … four hours of torture endured, thanks to my Kindle and a soft chair.

Tucking the mall experience into the remote recesses of my memory, I set the Garmin for High Street in Holyoke. Our destination, Fernandez Family Restaurant. I had seen an ad in the Advocate and had checked it out. The online reviews raved about the Puerto Rican pork and rice there. I had to try it. Open Sun 5:00-7:00PM. I had a plan.

The sign on the door said “CLOSED Sat/Sun”. I knew that my adventure was ruined. I did not pretend otherwise for the sake of others. I whined and moaned like an only child. I said “why me?” several times out loud. The rage I felt, however, did not assuage my hunger, which was sizeable. I remind you; I had a plan … multifaceted.

Plan B was Baku’s Nigerian Restaurant in Amherst and the marinated goat meat stew. Game on! I set the Garmin for Pleasant Street in Amherst. I had seen an ad for it in the Advocate and checked it out. I had to try it. OPEN Sun 4:00-7:00PM. I had a plan.

The sign on the door said “CLOSED Sunday”. My ruined adventure began to putrefy. That, however, did not assuage my hunger, which was more than sizeable. We found a restaurant called Judie’s instead. The food was excellent. Nevertheless, I would not be pacified … I had a dream and the dream wolves had be by the hind leg.

We set the Garmin for Mead Drive on the Amherst College campus and the Mead Art Gallery. I had done some research. OPEN Mon-Sat 9:00AM-5:00PM; Sun 9:00AM-9:00PM. It was MLK weekend and the campus was quiet and uncharacteristically dark. The sign said “OPEN Sun 9:00AM-9:00PM”. The door was locked. The lights were out. I had a plan.

My hand hovered above the red phone, waiting for the ring … for the Governor’s call. My dream walked silently down the narrow hallway and complacently seated itself in the chair. The guards, equally silent, tightened the straps on its arms and legs and connected the electrodes. Anne’s hand reached for the door handle. Simultaneously, the phone rang. Pardoned.

The sign said “OPEN” and the dim lights were welcoming. We entered the LimeRed Teahouse on Main. Not just for tea mind you, for bubble tea. Like in the plan. We professed our ignorance at the counter and quizzed the server for recommendations as to condiments to enhance our bubble tea choices. For both, boba (a chewy tapioca mutant) was the answer. We seated ourselves and silently sipped our concoction … cocoanut milk tea for me and a passion fruit tea for Anne. Despite the disappointment I felt, I focused my heroic efforts on the task at hand, salvaging the night with my spirited conversation and rapier wit. Even though the teahouse was filled with Asian Americans, excepting Anne and I, I tested the climate with an ethnic joke about eating tea with chopsticks, accompanied with delightfully animated hand gestures simulating the event. The blank expression on Anne’s face led me to add “get it?” If Anne’s comment “just because I don’t think something is funny, doesn’t mean that I don’t get it” is a viable indicator, then I suspect that my wit was not appreciated at that moment nor its full intellectual merit recognized. In lieu of laughter, Anne and I launched into a spirited debate as to whether the boba had actually been added to her tea … such debate initiated solely upon our observations of an unrecognizable froth atop my tea and the absence of such a frost atop hers. Before we could reach a reasonable conclusion and prove myself right, the server appeared at our table with a dispenser of unusually fat straws and informed us that the boba sinks to the bottom of the cup and that we should recover it forthwith using said utensils. We did. It is an experience that we shall not soon forget. Crudely put, I would liken it to my imagined experience of a mother sucking boogers out of her baby’s nose with a soda straw. Visually … think leech fest.

My retirement adventure was a complete and dismal disaster. Closed for the holiday. Tonight, I will tuck myself in … dejected … a little disgusted …but enlightened.

The next time I have bubble tea … NO CONDIMENTS.