Last weekend I drove from the Lehigh Valley to Boston and back. My wife, the lovely Mrs. C, rode shotgun, and wisely reclined her seat to nap and did not watch the festivities as I navigated my way across I-287 around NYC to I-95 and northward.
I have a few words for the drivers of the Atlantic States Corridor: "Are you People INSANE?!! What Qualifies one for a driver's license in the States east and north of PA, the ability to count to one using one hand?!!!"
For those of you in need of a refresher course, the Left Lane is the PASSING Lane. It is not the drive 40 MPH and talk on the cell phone Lane! I-95 between I-287 and the I-91 Hartford Split is 50+ miles of 6 lane Superhighway, but it is my humble opinion that it is occupied by far too many mentally inhibited people who should not own cars.
I also have a few words for Commercial Truck Drivers. Those big signs saying "No Trucks in Left Lane" are for you! That's so when you are climbing a hill, and only driving 25 MPH, the rest of us can pass you! But when you morons go three wide and block all three lanes for two miles, that is annoying!
Am I done ranting? Not on your life! I have a few words for our friends who sell those wonderful "Garmins". Yeah, the things that are supposed to help you find your way. We get into Rhode Island, and Mrs C announces she is hungry. Okay, I'm up for that. I needed a break from navigating the exceptionally heavy traffic that alternated moving at 75 MPH to stay alive, to a dead stop every 10 miles. So I pull into a scenic overlook and get the Garmin out to see what's close. That's a feature that the ol' Garmin offers. We name things in our family, from cars, to Garmins, and our Garmin is called "Greta". Why "Greta?" not because it's British, like the voice Mrs C chose under options to listen to, (and as far as I know the name Greta isn't British) but because it's alliterative, that's why.
True Story: As I was slowing down, and making my way to the scenic overlook exit, the Black BMW that passed me as I started doing this loses control, slams the left guardrail, and spins out 200 yards past the overlook taking out two other vehicles. I appreciate the divine intervention there Lord, thank you! Thank God no one was injured.
Anyway, Mrs C took some pictures of the Ocean bay at the Overlook, while I got old Greta working. Mrs C came back to the Car, and we were off. Mrs C decides we should eat at a place called, I kid you not, "The Middle of Nowhere Diner." That's the real name of the place, folks.
Less than 5 minutes later we exit I-95 North at Rhode Island exit 4, and follow the Garmin's directions off the main roads 4 miles or so to this place. it turns out to be a Cape Cod sized house converted into a Restaurant. It has a Counter with six single round stools and a walk down to rear porch enclosed Dining area. The place was packed! It also has a banner strung above the entrance way: Voted Rhode Island's best Omelet by Rhode Island Magazine! (Yeah, Rhode island has its own magazine, circulation approximately 7!)
Yes, The middle of Nowhere Diner's appearance screamed, "Greasy Spoon". The booths were some kind of old red vinyl seating, and as sat I felt like I was squatting, they were so low to the floor. The tables were a odd brown wooden parquet design, that might have been constructed from whatever wood was left over from doing the floors a half century before. But these features gave the place something most chain restaurants will never have: a unique character. A Chain Restaurant, say, a Cracker Barrel, a Denny's, an Applebee's, or a McDonald's, many find comfort in the familiarity of a known quantity, but Mrs C and I, we like to experience the road less traveled.
The building was old and weathered, but to our senses it was a new experience to be explored.
The bathroom was no bigger than a hall closet, but it was clean, the kind you expect to find out in an old country diner. I half expected a mouse to pop out through the small pipe hole in the wall for the water supply and say hello as I washed my hands.
The Waitress asked us where we were from, and earned herself a generous tip by giving Mrs C. extra napkins for travel, you know those ones you get when you want to wash your hands? That kind, the ones that are great for getting sticky stuff like pancake syrup off your fingers.
Mrs C. confided to me she would not want to look at conditions in the kitchen, but the food was delicious! I had a potato and cheese omelet, made with red potatoes, that I couldn't finish, while she had Chocolate Chip pancakes. I'd eat there again, but seeing I have sworn off ever, and I mean EVER, driving on I-95 again,that probably won't happen. EVER.
So after we finish eating, we pay in person to a cashier at the counter as we leave. That's the way small town diners are and restaurants should be, where a smiling member of the diner owner's family thanks you for your visit, and wishes you a safe journey. You don't get that at the big chain, but you do get a big price. With tip, we barely spent $17. Try dining at a Big Chain for that.
Now we have to find our way back to I-95, so we get in my Red Vue, named Ruby, and turn on Greta Garmin.
I believe that Greta Garmin hates us. She sends us to an intersection and tells us to turn right, so I do. We end up going more than 15 miles down back roads that have no signs, no lines, and no guard rails, with Greta cheerily telling me to continue, "14.8 miles, then turn right!" Every once in a while the road will merge with another road, or diverge, with the Greta cheerily directing me to "bear right" or "Merge left" on what the Garmin map shows as the "John Henry Highway". We did pass houses once in a while, but I never had a car in front of or behind me, though I did have to slow down to accommodate 3 or four oncoming pick up trucks during the adventure.
Finally we come out to a main road, and I can see signs for I-95 straight ahead, about a 1/2 mile away, in front of me. But Greta is demanding I turn right down a dirt road! "Turn Right!' she demands. "Turn Right now!" I ignore her and head towards the Interstate. "Recalculating!" she intones, with what I detect to be not so subtle disgust, in her condescending proper British English.
At this point, after almost a half hour of exploring mostly uninhabited woods where the Friday the 13th Horror films were quite possibly filmed, if not the Blair Witch Project, I've had enough.
So, Greta Garmin, like Hal, the Ship's Computer that went crazy in the Sci-fi movie classic Space Odyssey, 2001, is unceremoniously and without further discussion by Mrs C and I, unplugged and put away.
Greta was giving me an arrival time at my destination in Milton, Massachusetts of three hours later, but after I turned Greta off, I made it the 80 miles up through Providence and into Milton in under 90 minutes. Mrs C suggested that perhaps the British lady whose voice personalizes Greta Garmin merely wanted us to drive into the Ocean and take her home to Britain, and now that I've had a few days to think about it, I have to agree.
When we returned home Sunday, I took the Mass pike (I-90) west to I-84, came down through Hartford, and over to I-87 south, down to I-287, then down to I-78 and home. It was 18 miles longer, but almost an hour in drive time quicker than the way there.
There was a lot less traffic, and a lot less stress, and I didn't ask Greta for directions once.
Hey anybody want to buy a Garmin? her name's Greta! She's for sale! Cheap!
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1 comment:
You write very well.
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