“Well, I’m planning on flying up to Portland, Maine next week,” I told my friend. Dead silence. Clear disapproval. I understood that. It’s early July still in the midst of our much misunderstood pandemic and I was doing something crazy. Getting on an airplane.
But how else was I going to get to the summer cabin in the small town of Rangeley in western Maine, where my husband and I have spent the last 25 years? He was driving up earlier with a packed car – and I tend to commute back and forth from Washington, DC. So a number of flights in my future.
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