Getting There
At first glance, it might seem like this page might be too much about Tom Jones, to which I say BACK OFF. You have your idea of a vacation, I have mine. There's room in this world for all of us.
Ever since I moved to Indianapolis in 2002, I’ve wanted to eventually move to Maine. There, I thought I’d walk the Marginal Way each morning, listen and write to the ocean waves in the afternoons, and have lobster rolls and moxie with my Maine man by night.
Eleven years later, I’m pretty sure I want none of it. Except the lobster roll. I definitely still want the lobster roll. Just from Arnold’s in Eastham, Mass, not from Maine. Along with a side order of their onion rings built for a family of four. Oh, and a brownie to rouse me from the coma. Yes, just that. That’s all I want. Delivered and in the off-season to avoid the lines, of course. But just that.
What has become of me? I think I got old is what. There’s a lot of aging between 40 and 50. People like to say 50 is middle-aged, but shoot me now if I have to be in this world at 100. God only knows what will be on TV by then. I always wondered why older people stayed home so much and now I know: I need a drink or a nap just from a trip to the store lately. It’s all work.
Be warned, this post could be over the top with positivity and as such, extremely annoying. Plus, there are pictures. Vacation pictures. Everybody loves those, right? Aunt Flo’s slides of the road trip to Phoenix? Come on!
I left Indy Friday morning and drove to Binghamton, New York. I dreaded this drive so, because I had planned to take I-70 through Pennsylvania, it being the shortest route between Point A and B. I hate highways. The trucks, the mini-vans, the people in the left lane who should be in a parking lot or an institution – highways are where idiots go to collaborate and travel in impassable packs. And this highway, this I-70 in particular, is from the devil. If the Universe wants to punish me, he or she could just sentence me to an afterlife driving an endless loop of I-70. But luckily, a conversation about I-86, the Southern tier expressway across New York state, was had at the last minute Thursday at work and given the stamp of perfect solution. A few more miles but a road less traveled, reminiscent of Highway 36 out to Colorado last year.
This trek is the extent of my experience with the actual state part of New York, but I highly recommend it. Just beautiful. Low clouds hang on the mountains and valleys of lush farmland (though I never could tell what exactly was being farmed). I can’t find any information online about what this area is called, but I sure hope it’s called something. It deserves to be official!
My Easter weekend visiting my good friend, Lisa, in Lexington didn’t start out so well. Friday was full of tornadoes, storms, wind, rain….and holiday traffic. Though not crucified, I was definitely persecuted. :) At one point in my quest to avoid wrecks, I found myself passing a sign that said “265 END” and making a U-turn at another sign that read, “No bridge to Kentucky” in Utica, Indiana. Thank God it was daylight, because I could definitely have missed the signs and ended up in the river. Biblical, right?
Anyway, the five-hour trip for a three-hour destination aside, it couldn’t have been more fun. I miss having a gal friend to chat with and laugh with and make fun of boys with. And Lisa was the perfect antidote for all three.
I met Annie (I still just want to throw a big ol’ red ball to her) and Austin (who I wanted to take home despite not liking cats at all), got a tour of her cute house, and went to dinner at Ramsey’s for a nice meal and a catch-up.
Saturday morning, we spent some time shopping in Joseph Beth Books and then met up with a couple of friends of Lisa’s at the Bronte Bistro for lunch. Then, off to the Three Chimneys Farm for a tour and a close-up visit with Big Brown, the winner of last year’s Derby and Smarty Jones, winner of a past Derby, I believe.
