The Joy of Learning What You Love

I can’t remember where my love of travel began but the earliest trip I remember taking was with my parents and sisters to Cape Cod.

I believe I was six. For weeks before we went and for weeks after we got home, I was fond of pointing Wellfleet out on the map. That’s where we stayed.

If I could have pinpointed Holden Inn on any map, I would have. My Mom and Dad still have a black and white picture of the three of us sitting on a full-sized bed with an iron headboard in summer pjs, grinning from ear to ear. (cliché!) Today I wonder how many times Mom had sprayed us down to get rid of the sand.

The girl that took care of our cabin was an art student. A talented art student. My Dad is always eager to establish a pleasant connection with service personnel—it’s a great way to get great service--and he did it on this occasion as well. I don’t remember her name, but I remember her kindness to us girls. A couple weeks after we got home, we each received a post card from her, on which she had sketched each of us from memory and said how much she’d enjoyed our visit. It was excellent work. She also did a water color of the view from where we stayed for Mom and Dad. I wonder if they still have that.

There are a few things that stand out about the trip. One was the fact that I learned I loved cantaloupe. I was talked into trying it at breakfast the first morning and no one had to ask after the second day what it was I wanted with my breakfast. I still love cantaloupe.

I also remember the raft my dad bought to use on the water. Wide red and black stripes made him easily visible and I believe we took turns riding with him. It was a sturdy fabric inflatable raft. We owned it for years.

I remember that the water was horribly cold. Mom said, “It makes your teeth ache!” and so I stuck my feet in again to see if she was right. She was.

I also remember the sand dunes. They were huge. And compared with the water, they were wonderfully warm. I loved it. I’d loved the beach since I went to Long Island for the first time when I was three and was thrilled by the “huge sandbox.”

We hunted for shells. I’m sure there were times when we fussed and fought, and if I was six, it meant my sisters were three and one-and-a-half. Knowing what I know now about traveling with kids, my parents pulled off quite a trip. We lived in Philadelphia and we drove up there.

It rained our second-to-last day there and was forecast to continue for a couple days. I’m guessing, but I imagine my folks weren’t anxious to be stuck inside trying to entertain three young kids, so Dad elected to head home a day early. Dad called the desk and asked if, rather than refunding what he’d paid for the final night’s stay, he could take a couple towels home for a keepsake. They readily agreed, and were in fact a little shocked by the request. They said they counted missing towels as part of the CODB—cost of doing business. But they still kept the payment for the night we didn’t stay.

That’s how I learned to keep Holden Inn separate from Holiday Inn. It wasn’t uncommon for me over the next few weeks when recounting the wonders of cantaloupe, to make a dash for the bathroom to read the towels and be sure story of where we stayed was accurate. I’m sure my indulgent listeners (grandparents) got a chuckle out of that.

P.S. Out of curiosity I did a web search for Holden Inn. It's still there!!! The Holden Inn