[Editor's note: Ann was away last week on vacation! In Florida! Wanna hear about it? Wellgreat!]

MONDAY, MARCH 5
Today we get up at 6:30 am, put on our best boot-cut indigo denim Gap jeans, a Forever 21 turtleneck, our Gap red leather blazer, and our black Franco Sarto boots, and fly to Florida. The flight is average, which is to say excruciating. We read six magazines: Mademoiselle, Glamour, W, The New Yorker, In Style, and People En Español. We land in Tampa, and The Relative stands to greet us. It is 7 pm and 73 degrees. We retrieve our luggage and head for a white convertible. There is more to Florida than old folks, strip malls, and voter fraud. There is also warmth and hammocks and binge drinking.

TUESDAY, MARCH 6
High 61, low 43. Partly cloudy. High winds. We are besieged by a mammoth storm, which means high winds and low temperatures. The Relatives seem pleased. "We need the rain," they say. We look at our suitcase full of summer frocks and platform mules. "We're going to need to borrow some socks," we tell them. The Relatives live in Crystal Beach, a small beach town south of Weekie Wachee, a park where ladies dressed like mermaids swim underwater and breath through hoses to entertain the tourists. There is no mail delivery in Crystal Beach, and a five month-old-baby is in the running for the honorary post of mayor. There's a lot to do--biking, swimming, boating, walking, hammock swinging. Unless you happen to be there during the ten days a year that the weather is less than perfect. We spend today watching TV.

WEDNESDAY, MARCH 7
High 63, low 47. Partly cloudy. We wake up and cannot find the coffee. The Relatives are AWOL and we cannot find the coffee, so we hijack The Relative's car and head out to the interstate where we are almost killed by a mail truck. It is "the season," and cars are everywhere. Incredibly, there's no Starbucks, so we drive to Einstein's Bagels, the closest coffee joint around. It shares a parking lot with Ross Dress For Less. The cash register is broken so we have to wait in line, semi-conscious and uncaffeinated, while the staff scurries around in bright T-shirts. "Grrrrrrr," says the aged man with the walker, standing in front of us. "Grrrr," we say. Finally coffee is obtained and we return to The Relatives. They gather around us atwitter. "You went out on the interstate?" they gasp. "In The Season?" "We had no choice," we growl. "There was no coffee." Confused, one opens the fridge and points. There, on the middle shelf, is a full bag of coffee beans. We have seasonal affective disorder.

THURSDAY, MARCH 8
High 68, low 43. Partly cloudy. Today we take advantage of a break in the weather to go antique shopping in Tarpon Springs. This is a Greek fishing village, where tourists can buy bleached sand dollars and jars of olives. It's also known for antique shops. We like to scour these when visiting The Relatives, because four years ago we saw a vintage Bionic Woman doll for $20 and didn't buy it. We've been tormented ever since. Now we are fated to wander Tarpon looking for her equal. Today we are unlucky and find only a partially clothed Donnie Osmond doll and a knee-length blue fur coat. But on the way back we stop at a thrift store where we purchase, for no reason, a blue skirt with three blue whales sewn on the front. We get it home and show The Relatives. They seem puzzled. "It's casual," we explain.

FRIDAY, MARCH 9
High 73, Low 51. Thunderstorms. We wear our whale skirt--which is too big and requires scout belting--and go in search of hummus, despite the fierce rain and thunder. First we head to the Winn-Dixie where we approach a stockboy who is studiously loading yogurt into the dairy case. He is in his 40s and wearing a back brace. "Do you have hummus?" we inquire sweetly. "Pummus?" he says. "No, hummus." "We don't got that," he says. A smartly dressed too-tan woman sidles up and says, "I think it's in the cheese island." We do not know what a cheese island is but figure we'll know it when we see it. We find the cheese island, but it has only feta spread which looks like hummus but is entirely different. Then, on the way out of Winn-Dixie we see a Mediterranean deli just across the highway. Surely a Mediterranean deli would have hummus, we think. We cross the highway, which is not easy, and enter the deli. "Do you, by chance, have hummus?" we ask. The clerk looks up and smiles. "What's that?" she asks. On the way back to The Relatives we pass a store that offers Guns! Cigars! Espresso! but we don't stop.

SATURDAY, MARCH 10
High 69, Low 53. Partly cloudy. Today we go to Clearwater. The city is home to the Church of Scientology. The Scientologists practically own Clearwater. They have a huge old hotel and several large office buildings. The city, for its part, pretty much lets them be. Except for a few years ago when they asked the Scientologists to stop dressing like the Coast Guard. Apparently they were working on some nautical theme and this was creating confusion. Now the Scientologists all wear a sort of bland military costume which looks sort of fascist but makes them easy to spot. We hang out in front of one of the Scientology centers with this vague idea that we might meet Tom Cruise, but there is a stretch of dark clouds on the horizon and everyone seems to have taken cover.

SUNDAY, MARCH 11
Today we get up at 10 am, put on our boot-cut indigo denim Gap jeans, our French Connection ballet scoopneck black shirt, our vintage glittery gold cardigan, our black Franco Sarto boots, and our red Gap leather blazer, and fly home. It is an average flight--until we board our connecting flight in Dallas. After sitting on the runway for a half-hour there is a commotion a few seats up. Apparently two young men want to get off the plane. A flock of flight attendants gathers around, nervously glancing back and forth with clenched smiles. We are number one for takeoff. Then the captain comes on the intercom and announces there are two young gentlemen who are "uneasy" about the flight and want to get off, and we are going to comply. As the plane spins around and heads back to the terminal, the cabin is abuzz. News quickly filters back that the men have had a "bad feeling" about the flight. Premonitions of doom. Something about a number 4 in the flight number. As they exit the plane, the rest of us have to wait an hour while they find and remove their luggage. Then we continue on, bug-eyed and anxious. We only relax when we safely arrive at PDX. We tell our companion about the strange events. "That's funny," he says. "You were on flight 531." "So?" we say. He shrugs. "There isn't a four," he says. Next year, The Relatives can visit us.

Wish You Were Here! ann@portlandmercury.com