Tired as all get out, yet singing and tea have pushed my cold back, and I’ve got high hopes for sleep tonight.
I’m often horrified by how large Connecticut is. It has no right to be as vast as it is, and the time consumed by crossing these mammoth expanses of nothing in this state is painful.
Today we drove from Baltimore to Danielson, CT and though the 10 hours spent driving included stops for food and gas and a lot of wandering-Bethlehem, PA-getting-lost-time spent trying to find hedgehog ice cream, somehow most of the tracel was actually spent in Connecticut.
We’ve of course recently driven through Texas – which is a state reknown for being large, and really, when confronted with the sheer distance of getting from point A to point B (or, in our case, from exit 896 to exit 576) you have no business being surprised.
Connecticut, on the other hand, catches you off guard and then endeavours to be smug about it.
In Texas, it’s a linear thing. You count down the exits and follow your progress with numerous mile markers which punctuate the plains betwixt billboards for gentlemen’s clubs and vasectemy reversals. In Connecticut, they lie to you.
Let’s take 395 North as an example. Innocuous enough. You get on at exit 79 and we were going to exit 91. The end of a long drive, 12 exits doesn’t seem so bad. Seems even better when a sign IMMEDIATELY crops up announcing the emminent arrival of exit 80.
But it’s a lie. There’s no distance given. Just an exciting list of things to be found at exit 80. There’s the list of restaraunts. Then a list of gas stations. Then the sign that lists amenities at exit 80 (restaraunts and gas stations). Then we finally have a ROAD NAME for exit 80. Then there’s a SEPARATE sign which tells you where that road can take you. Then there’s another sign listing amenities, except this time it includes hotels… the next sign then lists the hotels. Then there’s another sign warning you that exit 80 is actually still a mile away. You get the idea. Then you’ve got the half-mile mark… then there’s the exit sign itself…. then… yes… there was exit 80 B. It was like a horror movie that never got to the point. Exit 82 was particular frightening, as it hit us with 82E. (The next one was 82W, thank God). Exit 87 was particularly guilty of over-advertising. Exit 87 had better lead to the best damned place on Earth, because you read about it for about half-an-hour before finally passing it.
In any case, we finally arrived at the Desert Rain in Danielson, CT. People actually knew us! That was pretty awesome – we played hard, though I went easy on my voice, and got taken in by a nice couple at the bar. We’re at their place now, and I feel my consciousness wearing very, very thin… shame my phlegm isn’t equally… er… thin.
Sigh. I just did one of those sneezes where EVERYTHING ends up in your throat? Only, their bathroom is like, a mile down the hallway and to the left… Yeah, you want to hear about this….
