Hit the Road

I’m home from a whirlwind tour of the Mid-Atlantic States, and boy, are my arms tired. My legs, too, and back; let’s just say I missed sleeping in my own bed. Yes, it was spring break, and we, or rather, I, decided my family would take a road trip to Baltimore, my home town, then on to Washington, D.C., before finishing up at my friend MJS’s house for a quick one night visit. Three towns in five days, which is doable, even for the inflexible, such as my family.

 I had to remind the people who live with me more than once that we were on a trip, not a vacation. A vacation involves relaxing and doing nothing. A trip, on the other hand, has a definite sense of purpose. My husband wanted a vacation, to the beach, but in early April, the beaches of South Carolina aren’t much of a dream destination. Early April in South Carolina is either too hot or too cold, with lots of pollen sprinkled on everything like demonic fairy dust. On the beach is wind, the kind of wind that sends a sheet of stinging sand so forcefully into you that tiny grains will be embedded in your flesh until summer.

So instead of staying in-state, we took a nine hour drive, door to door. We all prepared for the long trek differently. I printed out directions for all the stops we planned on making, as if my husband’s car, his phone, and my phone did not have a GPS. I would like to point out, however, that in the process of driving, all four of our directional sources offered different routes. Even the electronics can’t agree on how to get somewhere. My older daughter, E, decided the best way to get ready was to forget to charge both her phone and her iPod, ensuring the most boring nine hours ever spent by a thirteen year old in the 21^st century. She was actually forced to look at the window at the countryside as we drove, like in the old days before television.  And S, my younger daughter, packed an assortment of movies and her cheapest pair of headphones, ensuring that the rest of us could not listen to the radio any louder than a mouse’s fart without her complaining to turn it down.

The girls settled into the back seat after fighting over who had to sit behind their father. My husband is above average height, 6’2”, and prefers to have plenty of leg room when riding in a car. That means whoever has to sit behind him had better be a double amputee. Unfortunately for my daughters, well, they inherited Daddy’s height, so neither one of them wants to be the one trapped behind him, lest they must fold their long limbs origami style before trying to wedge themselves in the back seat. The only person who can fit comfortably behind him is me with my stubby legs, but I was driving the car, so ha ha to the rest of those mouth breathers.

I really can’t complain though, because as much as my family doesn’t like a road trip, they are all pretty good on one. In the thirteen years we have had children, we have only had one vomit episode, and that’s with regular drives to the mountains. No one has a Chihuahua bladder either, so it’s not like we have to stop every fifteen minutes. It could be so much worse, and yet, we never seem to remember than when it’s time to get on the road. Instead, we all bicker and whine so much that by the time the car pulls out of the driveway, none of us is speaking the rest of us.

Here are some observations of the highways between our home in South Carolina and our arrival in Baltimore:

People don’t just talk slower in the South; they also drive slower. The concept of moving with traffic is not that important. North Carolina drivers never had the idea of the fast lane emphasized in their driving education, so the left lane is as good as any place to demonstrate that Southern drivers drive like they talk.

Then all hell breaks loose in Virginia. People suddenly have found a sense of urgency, which is in direct conflict with the troopers’ sense of establishing public order. If I could offer you one piece of advice, don’t drive over eighty miles per hour. Not only do the troopers frown upon it, but driving too fast would make you miss all the cows. Cows to the left, cows to the right. The smell of fresh cow shit filling your nostrils. Virginia is a lovely sight and smell to behold.

For thirty seconds, we were in West Virginia. I have decided that counts as a state I’ve visited. That’s thirty seconds more than I ever thought I would spend there.
Maryland looks a lot like Virginia, only with fewer troopers. And everything is either a pike or a beltway. What happened to highways and interstates? It’s like entering a country with the same language but different slang. We had to take our luggage out of the boot when we stopped, taking care to avoid our spanners and bumbershoots.

I’ve never wanted to be a long distance truck driver, but I understand the appeal. Away from your family for hours, nay, days on end, no one complaining in the back seat, the open road ahead of you, the possibilities endless. Just you and your Basset hound or a chimp to keep you company, and a five hour shot or some meth to keep you awake. All you need is a CB handle and you are good to go.

Kind of makes you want to take a plane instead, doesn’t it?