Isn’t that how the poem goes? It’s how my journey went, anyway. We’ve safely arrived chez Grandmere, and, fortified by one or two glasses of wine, I can reflect on some travel miscellania.
Indeed, the early part of our 14-hour drive was marked by fog. For the first 40 minutes of our first 30-minute leg we were wondering whether we’d be able to see anything, narrowly dodging people who just *had* to check their lane-side mailbox during early morning fog.
I recalled earlier Christmas trips to Grandmere’s, including one in which I was four months pregnant and took a maternity vitamin on an empty stomach at 7:00 a.m. En route to Starbucks, the first stop of our journey, and some 35 minutes away, I fainted (in the passenger seat, mercifully). One swoon and 13.5 hours of car time left = delightful. (I always measure my travels from cafe to cafe; how do you measure yours?)
Then there was the time we had bought a new Saab (which, amusingly, may become a collectors’ item now, unless the company is purchased) and, somewhere over a great Pennsylvania body of water I was feeding my (back-seated) daughter applesauce (from the front seat) and must have turned the key to “off” with my knee (remember where the Saab key-turn is located). So there we were, confused and coasting in neutral over a bridge.
* * *
Along with fog, this December trip was marked by a typo: Did anyone else see the New York Times’ party section identifying Linda Evangelista’s son as a daughter? Innocent mistake or passive-aggressive commentary?
And it was also marked by a cameo: I admit to finding Will Ferrell’s mug in a NYT engagement photo unreasonably amusing. Perhaps it was also the effect of being on the road for 13 hours at that point.
All of this is to preface my announcement that regular programming will now resume. My pulse is already racing with possibility.