PART 1: Getting There…
The wheels screeched and rumbled, braking, bouncing, striking the runway. Our plane careened forward another few minutes, inertia tugging me against the seat-belt, before coasting to stop at the gate. I peered out the mini-window of the CRJ. Dirty beige plastic framed the striking scene: In the distance sat mountains, stoic, frosted in snow like sifted sugar. Tall pines painted Crayola “forest green” reached beyond my peripheral sight. Fog, stretched like a roll of gauze, gently draped the shoulders of each granitic peak. How lovely, I thought wistfully, taking a mental snapshot. If I lived in Vancouver, this view would greet me when I came home.
But I live in New York City. I had just completed leg one of a long journey home from Penticton, B.C., following the close of the 2013 Wine Bloggers’ Conference. Rather than Pacific Northwest grandeur, my friendly flight-hub of Newark welcomes weary homebound travelers with glimpses of central New Jersey’s local highlights: smokestacks and power grids. But I wouldn’t see that view today. My plane landed at midnight.
The trek to-and-from Penticton proved exactly as I imagined: a trek, especially for those on the East coast. Even with a major hub (Newark) and direct 6-hour service to Vancouver (United), an hour-layover followed by a quick 30-minute hop to Kelowna on a small regional plane (Air Canada), Penticton was still another hour-drive further south. Flying to London is faster.
Truthfully, the travel time and sequence of connections exhausts. I endured first-time flyers holding up the security line for pocket-change; gruff stewardesses, stingy on the soda pour, refusing to give up the whole can as though protecting a baby cub. My seatmate wore a crinkly, stiff jacket the entire flight. His coat folded like origami each time he moved, scratching my skin. I scrunched my arm for relief from the itchy fabric, nearly bruising my ribs in retreat, while he smothered the armrest into submission.
Sorry Mr. Emerson, but you never endured the United/Continental merger. Unless one is privileged enough to ride the Orient Express from Singapore to Thailand First Class, the joy of modern travel is no longer about the journey, it’s the destination (plus a little anticipation mixed with relief your plane landed)—so it better be good. And British Columbia is that good. The exercise in patience taxation is worth it. That view I would return a thousand times for; the mountain-fog-and-pine-tree postcard through smudged pane that greets you when plane meets earth. And knowing what lies beyond as you pick-up your luggage in a rush to break out of the airport penitentiary: pristine wilderness, genuinely genial people and the alluring wines of the Okanagan Valley.
Part 2: Coming Soon…
3 responses to “The Journey? No, the Destination. Okanagan Valley, British Columbia”
Great meeting you and riding on a seaplane! Have a great time in Spain!!
You too. I just got back from Spain, actually. Headed to Portugal next. Cheers.
love Portugal! enjoy the castles! and the wine of course!