The vacationer awakens to a quiet blanket of white. “Ah, winter!” Three or four inches powder every surface, brightening moods across the city. The air temperature is something like 31 degrees Fahrenheit – perfectly tolerable – and there’s no wind.
Turning to his mobile device, he finds that his calendar is calling for – a vacation! (What?) To a far-flung Polynesian Island? Can it really be?
Yes, it’s true. And he doesn’t even need a passport to visit this place a quarter of the way around the world.
He wakes the kids. Such darlings! They stretch and rise happily, knowing there will be baked apples with freshly ground cinnamon for breakfast, accompanied by peeled clementines and steaming bowls of stewed prunes in oatmeal, eaten lustily with the far off sounds of the bearded and heavily tattooed cook, a lodger, gently strumming his guitar.
And then off to Logan International Airport, which may be the easiest airport to get to and navigate in the whole world (bring on the Olympics!).
He boards his plane and flies off, enjoying a great expanse of legroom and a serving of barely-cooked beef tenderloin, with salted potatoes and as many of those little bottles of burgundy as he wishes to drink. Now he remembers why he's always loved air travel!
From there, it’s all gravy: white sand, green sand, golden sand, and black sand. Snorkeling with the turtles. Lava flows. Leis. Mai Tais served at any time, day or night. As a nine year old boy might ask: "Why the f*$# don’t we move here, Dad?"
Dad can't hear because he's outside on the roof, raking off the snow.