I dropped the kids off in the late morning and was on the road by noon, headed towards Boston. My hair was bright red and I felt super cool. Every time I stopped at a rest stop, I received one of two reactions–either I got hit on and/or checked out, or I was avoided. Old ladies avoided me. It meant I didn’t have to wait in line for the bathroom, ever.
The drive wasn’t that bad–I had hoped to make it up to Boston in the typical 7-8 hour time frame, go and get my wristband/admission ticket, and just go back and chill at the hotel. I had good music, my kids were in good hands, and my husband was gone with the National Guard, but all of his team was cheering me on from… wherever they were.
Once I realized the power my awesomely red hair had, I also realized that that combined with my incessant and sometimes wild dancing in the car made me totally irresistible. This guy kept looking at me:
It’s entirely possible that he was making fun of me the whole time that he was looking at me, but he also let me in front of him in traffic, saving me five minutes or so of trying to fight my way into the post-tollbooth crunch. So, whether it was lust or pity, I had no problems.
Some pictures of one of the bridges I went over (which, of course, I am now drawing a blank as to which one and too lazy to go look it up on Google). I love taking pictures of bridges.
I managed to time it just right to hit New York City at 5:00 on a Friday. As such, although the posted speed limit promised me this:
I was stuck driving at this speed instead:
However, going so slowly through New York made me realize something I don’t think I ever had before–or maybe I’ve just never taken 95 that far north. Anyway, all along 95 are enormous apartment complexes. Including right above it–there are what amount to bridges over 95 (or tunnels under the city?) that are home to hundreds of New Yorkers.
All I could think of while I waited to keep driving through was that I totally could have called someone in that building earlier and asked how traffic was, and they could have looked out their window and said, “Oh! It’s not moving!”… and then gone back to cooking their dinner.
I finally made it through, and the rest of the drive up to Boston was uneventful. I got my ticket and wristband and went to the hotel, which was clearly waiting for me.
Thank you, Holiday Inn. I appreciated it!
I had some drama getting my room–Boston is one of those rare places that actually has smoking rooms, and somehow I managed to get one. I went up to the room, and the smell was so strong that I couldn’t possibly stay there for two days and retain any semblance of a singing voice. Although the front desk had originally assured me there were no other rooms, when I explained that if they couldn’t find me a non-smoking room, I was going to have to find another hotel, suddenly a room became available. I moved my stuff into the non-smoking room and was much happier.