Caution. Don’t spend eight days alone on Block Island at the idyllic Sea Breeze Inn with its sunrise view of the ocean and salt ponds, a hammock, and a delicious breakfast of fresh fruit and muffins, if you ever plan on coming home.

Re-entry is pretty brutal.

The manager, Gaby, had to peel me out of there.

"Should I call you a cab," she said when it was time for me to go to the ferry.

"I guess," I said wanting her to do anything but.

Maybe I’ll miss the boat. Maybe I’ll have to spend another night. Maybe…

But it wasn’t to be. The driver showed up promptly and delivered me to the New London high-speed ferry at the docks.

The ferry ride is a perfect decompression zone. Out on the top deck, the wind blew my hair in all  directions and no one could tell that the tears in my eyes were tears of regret for having to leave my island paradise.

The Amtrak station in New London is just steps from the ferry and on the meditative train ride, I slept and read and thought back on my week spent finishing a new draft of my novel, eating delicious fish at the island’s best restaurants Eli’s and Harry’s), taking my rented Raleigh bicycle for a spin up and down the hills of the island, running 2 miles and back to the Southeast Lighthouse, writing daily postcards to OSFO at camp, and reading (The Emperor’s Children by Claire Messud and Suite Francaise by Irene Nemirosky) sitting on an Adirondack chair at the Sea Breeze.

The cab I took from Penn Station with my big suitcase, computer, and bag of gifts for the family, took longer than the train ride from say, Bridgeport to Penn Station. First I thought the cabbie was purposely taking the longest and stupidest route to Brooklyn:

He went across some side street in the 20’s to the FDR and down to the Brooklyn Bridge. He said he was doing it because there was too much traffic on 7th Avenue and Broadway.

Duh, there was congestion a-plenty on the FDR and we were literally stopped dead in our tracks while a work crew on the Brooklyn Bridge packed up.

Finally got home an hour after leaving Penn. The meter read: $36.00, an unheard of fare from Penn Station to Park Slope. I mean, have you ever paid so much?

I tried to be very Zen about the ride, tried very hard not to lose it and say to the driver: serves you right for taking the FDR.

All of that did not bode well for my re-entry, which was pretty rocky. Things got worse before they got better. But seeing Hepcat and Teen Spirit (OSFO is still away at camp) and a glass of wine with Mrs. Kravitz at the Third Street Cafe, helped a bit.

A walk down Seventh Avenue. Dinner. The outdoor film in JJ Byrne Park. Slowly I got my  bearings.

Block Island is feeling farther and farther away.