The Sweatiest Road Trip Ever - Day 11 - Maybe Florida Will Let Us Live. Maybe...

Day 11 - The Final Day In Florida

I work up early and made a cup of coffee to take down to the pool deck for some morning reading.

Not a bad start to the day.

On my way to the pool, I couldn't help but notice the last line on this sign. You had one job, sign guy.
Also, unlike the previous pool, it is apparently okay to swim here if you are ill with diarrhea. Good to know!

After my coffee, I went for a long walk along the beach. The waves had subsided a bit and I notice large, black areas of water near the shore. The ranged in size from a few feet across to 50 or 60 feet across. Because of how well the water in Florida had treated us so far, I naturally waded in to see what sort of sting, bite, puncture, burn, break, rash, or infection I could get.

The black pools were actually huge schools of tiny minnows swirling and swimming near the shore. It was sort of magical to watch and, contrary to Florida maritime law, did not hurt me in any way. I passed a couple who were obviously making their fortune off the fishy phenomenon. Or they were getting dinner. I actually have no idea which.

He had a huge net and was wading into the middle of a school of fish. He slapped the net into the water a few times and brought up a writhing ball of fish. She would run over with a 5 gallon bucket, he'd dump the fish in and she'd empty the bucket into a cooler that was up on the shore.

When the novelty of watching other people work had worn off, I went back to the hotel and we all spent the day at the pool, watching other people work.

The only real excitement of the day was when the maintenance crew descended en masse around the pool, quietly and calmly asking everyone to exit the pool for routine maintenance.

It seemed to us that routine maintenance generally doesn't not occur in the middle of the day while everyone is escaping the heat.

That can only mean one thing.

We eagerly watched the scene. Even though none of the maintenance guys weaved his way across the pool deck clutching a steaming turd in a pair of long-handled tongs, we have our suspicions.

While we waited for the pool to be sanitized and de-pooped, we walked along the beach where Alex continued his practice of flicking beached jellyfish back onto the water so other people could enjoy The Complete Pensacola Experience*.

*Now, 85% stingier!


When the All Clear blew, we spent the rest of the day lounging around in the hopefully poop-free pool.

The pool. Viewed from above. No poops from here! 

The Tiki Bar because, as per Florida law, every establishment, no matter what sort of business it is, MUST have a Tiki Bar on premises.

The menu is cleverly posted along the lazy river. Fiendishly effective!

Eventually, it was time for dinner and since we had dropped the vegetarian off at college, we made a solemn family pact to try as many BBQ places as we could on the way home. We weren't technically on the way home yet, but it seemed wise to get a jump-start on this endeavor.

Because you needed to see my food.

With smoky deliciousness still lingering in our mouths, we headed back to the pool for a night-time swim. It was quiet and warm and wonderfully relaxing. Which is good. 

Because tomorrow, we hit the road again.

The Sweatiest Road Trip Ever - Day 9: The Water is Very Stingy

Day 9 - 

We woke up somewhere. It's all starting to blur.

Tallahassee. That's where we are.

Tallahassee at a hotel. And the hotel has crappy, free coffee, but no free crappy breakfast. You have to pay for the crappy hotel breakfast here.

I staggered to the lobby for a cup of coffee and took it to the outdoor patio so I could escape the incessant horror of morning TV that every hotel is legally obligated to blast at us as we try to enjoy our crappy, free coffee.

I sat down on a seat with my coffee and my book.

Gratuitous photo of my butt. It appears to have rained last night.

After hopping back up out of the soaking wet seat, I went back into the hotel, turned off the TV, blasting Fox news at me, and settled in for a cup of coffee and a bit of reading. My damp shorts reminded me that we desperately needed to do some laundry. The good news is that this hotel did have a guest laundry facility. The bad news is that they didn't have any laundry detergent available.

I turned my socks inside out for the second time and we set off for Pensacola.

We stopped for gas before getting on the highway and Kerri sent Alex in to the gas station on a mysterious mission as I pumped gas.

He came out, staggering under the weight of three brightly colored cardboard boxes, each about the size of a manhole cover.

"Cinnabon!" he announced brightly.

If you have never experienced a Cinnabon cinnamon bun from a gas station in Florida, let me summarize the experience for you:

Ssssssswwwwwweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeet.

We raced on toward Pensacola and the hope of rum-based beverages and, possibly some insulin to counteract the Cinnabon Sugar Bomb.

This is technically the vacation part of our trip. Tori has been safely delivered to school. She's settled in and things are good. Now we have a few days to relax at a hotel in Pensacola, floating in the lazy river, eating chicken wings, and drinking beverages that stress the umbrella motif.

I'm sure this will clear up before we get to Pensacola.

The weather report says that it's only an 88% chance of thunderstorms. It will clear up. 

This plane at the rest stop looks beautiful against the backdrop of killer thunderstorms.

The weather toyed with our emotions for the entire 4 hour drive, but it had at least stopped raining when we arrived at Pensacola Beach.

Purple Flag = Dangerous Marine Life

Uh, ohhh.

Once in the hotel, the gorgeous lobby afforded us an excellent, panoramic view of the pool and the weather.

Maybe we can get in a quick dip before the hurricane?

In fact, the weather did clear up surprisingly quickly. We got our things into the hotel room and raced out to enjoy some beach time before it started raining again.

The hotel is right on the ocean, with a long, wooden boardwalk that connects the pool area with the white sand of the beach. The sand was clean and soft. The ocean, while very rough, was delightfully warm.

As a native New Englander, I am used to ocean water that actively wants to kill you. It is generally cold to the point of actual pain. The only way to enjoy the water is to power through the pain until you are numb. Then you may enjoy your insensate time in the water.

Not so in Florida. The water is warm and inviting. You can actually walk right in without fear of hypothermia. Alex and I did so. We raced into the water and flopped about in the waves: diving, splashing, and frolicking.

Yes. We frolicked.

And then I asked Alex, "Do you feel like you're getting stung by bees or something?"
"I do, Father" Alex replied. "That is a brilliant observation. I do feel as though I am being stung by something and I think it would behoove us to exit the water and inspect our bodies."

We did.

And that's when we saw all the angry, red welts from the jellyfish stings covering our bodies.

No, I don't have any pictures, you freak.

We calmly made our way to the showers located just outside the pool deck and rinsed ourselves feverishly, trying to make the stinging stop.

It didn't.

Alex ran up to the room to shower and I hopped in the pool and ordered a medicinal Rum Runner because it seemed like the best option available at the time.

Alex was in the room for a long time.

Kerri and I bobbed around in the pool while I bravely took my medicine and tried to recover. "That might explain the purple flag, warning of dangerous marine life," Kerri suggested helpfully.

When Alex did join us again, we said that he had looked up jellyfish stings online and saw that the treatment included NEVER rinsing the stings in fresh water, which only makes it worse.

Now I know.

It didn't mention the effect that Rum Runners have on multiple jellyfish stings, but I can attest that it didn't make them any worse. I'll be submitting a report about my research and my findings to The New England Journal of Medicine soon. History will thank me, I'm sure.

We ordered wings and fries to share by the pool, because it also seemed like that might help alleviate some of the stinging, but when we got the bill ($35 for wings and French fries), the stinging seemed to intensify somehow. Right near my wallet.

We went to a local grocery store and got food for breakfasts and lunches, because nothing says vacation get-away like grocery shopping.

Or doing laundry.

So, naturally, after grocery shopping, we found a laundromat. Kerri and Alex dropped me off with bags of dirty laundry and a pocketful of quarters while they went back to the hotel to put groceries away.

Do we know how to party, or what?

At the laundromat, I was greeted by a gentleman with a can of Bud Light, who warmly welcomed me to the party. I was the only person at the entire laundromat without an open beer and, while I was embarrassed by this social faux-pas on my part, the other guests were cheerful and welcoming.

As I loaded my laundry in the machine, the man who had greeted me, and whom I was now thinking of as the Mayor of the Laundromat stood in the doorway and opened his arms wide. "We got a good looking crowd here, tonight," he announced before staggering toward the dryers. "Hey," he hissed toward me. "When you're ready to dry, use this one. It's a good, hot one."

I thanked him for his helpful advice and stepped outside to admire the evening.

The air was very, very damp.

The Mayor and I discussed the weather briefly. We decided that there's nothing you can do about it. Because we are deep philosophers.

Ten or thirty hours later, Kerri finally pulled into the parking lot and collected me. I bade a fond, tearful farewell to my new friends. The mayor welcomed me back any time. I thanked him and climbed into the van with our clean, rain-soaked laundry.

Back at the hotel, Kerri and I slipped out for a quick swim in the warm night rain. We bobbed along in the lazy river as the rain petered out and the sky gradually cleared. One star, and then another, peeked out and shone down on us as we gently floated around and around and around.

The Sweatiest Road Trip Ever - Day 5 - Leonard, The Beach and The Elusive Cuban Sandwich

Day 5 - We Meet Leonard and I Begin A Quest

Things are a bit tense at the hotel.

I got up and headed out to the van to get my coffee mug. As I rubbed my eyes and staggered down the hall, an ominous silhouette came into focus at the exit to the parking lot.

?

I crept quietly closer to the door.

WT?

It's head snapped toward me and its beady eyes stared directly into my soul.

It's the ugliest duck in the universe. And I think he wants to eat me.

I crept closer, keenly aware of its relentless stare. When I reached the door, I paused. Did I dare risk an encounter with this duck? After all, I just wanted a coffee mug.

But it was my coffee mug.

And it makes me happy to use it when I'm traveling.

I WILL get that mug. Freaky-looking duck be damned!

I slowly pushed the door open and stepped, barefoot into the parking lot. The duck, in a brilliant strategic move, spun and waddled away across the parking lot, leaving behind a booby trap to try to foil my trip into the parking lot.

Nice try, duck.

Clever though it was, the trap was easily avoided and I grabbed my mug from the van and headed back inside, because nothing tastes as good as a hot cup of crappy hotel coffee when it's already 96 degrees and 237% humidity.

The duck had already resumed a defensive position while I was rooting around for my mug.

We shall meet again, duck. We shall meet again...

I skillfully avoided a confrontation this time by using another entrance, but I sense that this duck and I have unfinished business.

We dropped Tori off at school last night. She slept in her dorm and is scheduled to have orientation activities from 10-10 today.

So what do we do?

We go to the beach.

Eventually.

Maybe.

But first, we go to a big, horrible box store to buy all the things that Tori swore she would not need for school. Things we had at home because we bought them for Alex at a big box store, when he swore he would not need them for school.

A lamp. An extension cord. Coat hangers.

All piled up on our dining room table, 1,500 miles away.

Because she would definitely not need them.

Despite my incessant whining about how much I hate shopping, somehow we managed to survive the ordeal.

Now we should go to the beach, which I like a bit less than I like shopping at big box stores.

Can you guess which direction the beach is?

How about now?

The weather decided that we should come up with some alternate plans today. So, while I was spared an afternoon baking on the molten sand and avoiding man-eating sharks, I was trapped in a hotel room which, on a scale of Shopping to Beach, I rate as Awful.

We made a stealth run to Tori's dorm to deliver the items we had bought at the store. While we were there, Alex and I grabbed her bike from the outdoor bike rack/lightning rod and tossed it into Squanket.

Somehow, during the drive down, she had gotten a flat tire.

We made a run to a bike shop and grabbed a new tube.

In-room bike repair!

Maybe we could start a business of mobile bike repair.

Alex says, "No."

We managed to use up 4 or 5 minutes repairing Tori's bike and still the rain hadn't stopped.

In fact, if anything, it was picking up.

The storm drain in the hotel parking lot looks like Godzilla is about to emerge. Honestly, that would be awesome.

Of course, it might have something to do with the "high pressure jetting" happening next door at the Wawa.

Because that little fountain...

isn't supposed to be there.

The rain continued, but Kerri soon tired of my incessant whining about being stuck in a hotel room and she offered to take us for a drive, because we had obviously not spent enough time driving over the last several days.

"Yay!" I squealed, clapping my hands. "Can we go to an Adult Sup..."

"No."

"But..."

"No."

We slipped out the door.

The duck was waiting.

Should we tip him? I have no idea.

We headed out on the road to see what Fort Lauderdale was really like.

Here is what Fort Lauderdale is really like:

Interesting people.

A duck decoy bobbing in a storm canal. Maybe I can use this to distract the duck at the hotel.

I guess if your lock is broken, this is one solution. Not a good one, but a solution.

Kerri would not let me use her phone to "1-800-TellRobert" for my chance to collect $750k. I was going to fake a duck-related injury.

And then:

The skies cleared and the sun came out!

Rain, in Florida, does not cool the air like it might in normal places with weather that isn't trying to kill you all the time. Rain, in Florida, injects more humidity into the air and then things get lively.


Without the threat of being killed by lightning, we decided to risk a trip to the beach.

The sand is SOOOOO hot.

Sea turtle eggs!

We walked up and down the beach for a while and then decided that the beach would be more fun if we could actually get in the water.

It had been storming when we left the hotel an hour ago so we didn't bring sunblock, towels, suits, or shark-repellent. All obvious necessities for surviving for any length of time on a Florida Death-Beach™.

Back to the hotel.

The duck was still waiting. Not today, ducky. Not today.

We changed into bathing suits, lathered up with SPF 900 Sweater-In-A-Bottle Sunblock, grabbed our towels, and headed back to the beach, a mere 8 miles away.

That 8 mile drive took, conservatively, 40 minutes because of all the people driving around in their Taz trucks.


By the time we got back to the beach, the sky was black, the rain was pouring down, and the thunder echoed like the very laughter of the earth, mocking our inability to go to the beach.

As we sat in the parking lot, which, on the bright side, had plenty of spots available because of the weather, Tori texted us and said she had a free hour or so. Would we like to get together?

Of course we would!

It was, by this time, rush hour, so the normal density of traffic had quadrupled and the 9 mile drive to Tori's dorm took nearly an hour.

And, in that time, the rain stopped and the skies cleared.

Oh, Florida, you zany prankster.

We picked Tori up and headed to our hotel to enjoy some time bobbing around in the parking lot pool.

Tori was introduced to my new friend, the duck. She named him Leonard and it seemed appropriate. he's definitely a Leonard.

Hello, Leonard.

Tori had to go back to campus for more orientation fun and frivolity so we dropped her off and headed off on a quest.

A quest that I had been secretly planning for months.

A quest for a delicious, real Cuban sandwich.

I have read about these sandwiches. Mostly in books about Dexter, the serial killer, which, now that I write it, doesn't seem like the best place to get tips on eating food, but what can you do? They sound amazing.

A quick google search gave us the name of an authentic Cuban restaurant that served these sandwiches. the reviews didn't mention anything about serial killers, so that was a bonus, too!

We fought bravely through the traffic and then wandered aimlessly around the outdoor shopping plaza where the restaurant was alleged to be. just as we were about to give up all hope and resign ourselves to a Five Guys or some other horrid something or other, Alex spotted it!

The restaurant!

Tasty sangria? Check. 

Alex's yummy meal with 3 different kids of rice because he refuses to try any new food ever? Check.

Kerri's delicious chicken and rice? Check.

A delicious Cuban sandwich? Nope.

There are only two possible explanations for the barely adequate Cuban sandwich I got:

1. It was just a lousy sandwich.
2. A fictional serial killer mislead me about how delicious they are.

I was simply unable to believe that Dexter would deceive me about how tasty these sandwiches are. So, despite the fact that everything else we ordered was fantastic, I decided that they simply didn't know how to make a proper Cuban sandwich here at this Cuban restaurant, owned and operated by actual Cuban.


There could be no other explanation. And right then and there, I made it my one mission on Earth to find a delicious Cuban sandwich.

Maybe Leonard has some ideas.

Virginia Vacation Journal: Day 5

Today began with more waffles and more of the ceaseless news coverage of The Royal Wedding, an event that, in my mind, cannot possibly compare with the spectacle and the drama of The Natural Bridge’s 15 kinds of hot dogs.

After a surfeit of waffley goodness, we packed up the car and headed off across the state to Richmond. We politely asked Sybil, our GPS, to find a route that avoided highways and we were pleasantly rewarded with a 3 hour trip through some of the most beautiful, winding countryside I have ever seen. It was lush and green and hilly.

What has frequently surprised me on this trip is how high the speed limits are in Virginia. Our route today had a posted speed limit of 55 mph, but the winding, curving, twisting road terrified me at 40 mph. I had to pull over several times to let other drivers zip past us on onward toward oblivion.

We eventually arrived in Richmond and found the hotel. It was about 10 minutes away from Richmond International Speedway where, it appears, there will be a huge NASCAR race on Saturday. I’m glad we have other plans, because I’m reluctant to join the throngs of people who have set up chairs along the side of the road so they can sit in the baking sun, holding up homemade signs that say “Need Tickets”.

(Many, many Porta-Potties are available for the NASCAR fans at Richmond Speedway)

It was heartbreaking to pass a father and son, dressed in matching tank tops, seated along 6 lanes of heavy traffic, begging for tickets. Especially since it was the middle of a school day.

More upsetting than red-necks in tank tops begging for race tickets was the realization that we really didn’t need to come on this trip.

The outskirts of Richmond looked no different than the outskirts of Boston or San Diego or Denver. They are entirely homogenous and indistinguishable. Chain restaurants, fast food, and gas stations squatting along six lanes of traffic is the norm all across the country. There are slight regional differences, but is there really a big thrill in seeing a Hardees versus a Burger King on every corner?

This unpleasant phenomenon is precisely why I revel and delight in small, outlandish tourist attractions like The Natural Bridge Garden of Earthly Delights. There is nothing like it on the entire planet. Little tourist traps go out of their way to do everything they can to get you to unbelt some money and the results–while sometimes tragic, like the Wax Museum–are always sincere and memorable.

They are unique, and I love them for that.

Our hotel, while not unique, and most definitely a chain, is the one place I deviate from my rigid “No Chains” rule. Judging by the squalid horror of many of the hotels we passed along our way, I’m okay with this slight variation from my self-imposed exile from Homogenous Nirvana.

(You know it's a good hotel if the Oreo Racing Team stays there!)

After settling in, we took a ride through Richmond, because 3 hours in the car just wasn’t enough for us! My hope was to find a nice spot downtown and get out, stroll around, and find a great place to grab some dinner.

My plans were foiled by the fact that there is no downtown and we most certainly did not find many places where we felt like getting out and going for a leisurely stroll. Several neighborhoods we passed through inspired us to hunch down in the car, lock our doors and find the speediest escape route.

Of Richmond, I can say only this, based on my 45 minutes spent in its borders: Avoid it.
I’m sorry, Richmond, but whatever shining delights you may hide, they are outweighed by the depressed, dilapidated street scenes you presented to us at each new corner and around each new bend.

My thoughts on Richmond were echoed by the waitress at dinner tonight. We were talking with her about our trip through the city and she gasped. “You went INTO Richmond City? Oh, dear, God. Well, at least you were there during the day. Whatever you do, don’t go back there at night.”

The warning was kind, but entirely unnecessary.

We finished our dinner and returned to the hotel to swim. It seems that race fans are not terribly interested in swimming. We had the pool to ourselves and played a boisterous game of Marco Polo. We had a wonderful time splashing and laughing in the warm, clear water.

It wasn’t until we returned to our room that the screaming and crying started.

Virginia Vacation Journal: Day 3

The problem with the reservations was the amusement park. We arranged our trip so we could make a sort of U shape through Virginia. We planned on entering on the western side, heading south and east and ending up at the beach for a couple days. Everything was fine until Kerri found a great deal for amusement park tickets for the middle of the week. King’s Dominion promised thrills, excitement, and absolutely NO REFUNDS for any reason ever.
Even if the park happens to be closed when you are in Virginia.
Which it is.

Actually, they are open one day that we will be here.
Saturday.
The day we will be at the beach.
Several hundred million miles from King’s Dominion and its twisty, turny fun.
So, rather than lose the money that Kerri spent on the absolutely non-refundable-for-any-reason tickets, we have rearranged our schedule.
Now, we’re going to spend two nights in Lexington and three nights in Doswell, right next to King’s Dominion and Richmond.
No beach.

Today, after waffles, we packed up and headed off to Skyline Drive, a beautiful 105 mile road across the tops of the Blue Ridge Mountains.
I stopped by the front desk to double check my directions and there was a lady in front of me doing exactly the same thing.

“What’s the best way to get to Skyline Drive?” she asked the desk clerk.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been there,” the clerk answered.
“Isn’t it like a half an hour from here?” asked the incredulous woman.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been there. Let me check.”

The clerk ducked behind the desk for some time. Just when I thought that she had effected a stealthy escape, she popped back up holding a large binder full of pre-printed Google maps.

She looked over two maps thoughtfully before offering one of them to the lady in front of me. “Looks like this one will get you to Skyline Drive.” Then she held out the other map. “So will this one.”

“Which one would you recommend?” the lady asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been there,” the clerk answered. She looked at the maps again. “Looks like this one will take you over the mountains through Luray,” she said, pointing to the first map, “And this one will just get you there on the highway.”
“Will the way through the mountains be all hilly and twisty?” the woman asked.
“I don’t know. I’ve never been there,” the clerk answered, “But since it’s through the mountains, I expect it will be hilly and twisty.”
“I think I’ll take the map for the highway. We were on a hilly road yesterday and it made us all carsick.”

Avoiding the hilly road to get to a 105 mile mountain pass seemed a bit shortsighted and I predicted spectacular carsickness on a grand scale for this family. I tried to get a peek at her vehicle so I could look for them on our drive today, but she raced away too quickly.

I confirmed our directions and we set off. We opted for the hilly, twisty road as a sort of appetizer for Skyline Drive.

It was a beautiful ride. We got on Skyline Drive about 30 miles along the way, but since the speed limit was 35 and the views were spectacular, the 75 miles we were on the road took us almost four and a half hours.

We stopped at many scenic overlooks to enjoy the scenic scenery.

 (Scenic scenery.)

We crossed the Appalachian Trail more than once and were spared the olfactory ordeal of actually coming within smelling distance of any thru-hikers.

(Hiding from smelly thru-hikers.)

After Skyline Drive, we finished our drive along The Blue Ridge Parkway instead of hopping on the interstate. It probably added an extra hour to our drive, but although my rear-end is sore, my eyes are happy. It was another gorgeous drive through the mountains.

(More scenic scenery.)

The timing of the drive today meant that we missed lunch, so we arrived in Lexington hungry. We checked in at the hotel, a Country Inn & Suites, and went out in search of dinner.

After dinner, we returned to the hotel so the kids could swim. The only reason they wanted to come on this vacation in the first place is because we booked hotels with pools.

The lobby of this hotel is brown. I mention this because my mother is a frequent traveler and has developed an odd theory about travel. Brown lobbies are an unmistakable, irrefutable sign of a lousy hotel. If she goes into a hotel to book a room and the lobby is brown, she turns around and leaves.

The pool area in our brown lobbied hotel is dark and somewhat disreputable looking. If the hotel has a bad section of town, the pool is it. Sitting in the dim, moribund lighting sapped my will to live and I had to leave the area lest I become terminally depressed and cast myself into the pool’s turbid depths.
The kids would have been happy to splash around in the murky pool all night, although Tori expressed a fear that there may be a crocodile hiding in the deep end.
“It’s 4 feet deep and I can’t see the bottom,” she whispered to me.
Whispering was unnecessary. For some odd reason, we were the only people at the pool.

I’ll be sure to check the lobby color of the next place we stay in.

Virginia Vacation Journal: Day 1

Day 1 - April 24, 2011

We made it all the way to the southern part of Connecticut before the brake light came on. The sphincter-puckering terror caused by that merry, twinkling, little light was actually helpful, as my bladder had been dangerously full for some time.
We managed to get to a rest area without incident (automotive or scatological) and I hopped out to inspect the car. There was a wet, arcing spray of brake fluid splashed in a delightful rainbow across the wheel well.

Anticipating that our vacation to Virginia would entail butt-numbing amounts of driving, I had the brilliant foresight to do a bit of necessary work on the car last week. I had changed the oil and replaced a sticky front brake caliper. Evidently, I had failed to properly retighten the brake line.

The jack was conveniently buried under everything we had packed. The delight of unpacking everything was enhanced by the steady stream of slack-jawed gawkers who stopped to watch the spectacle of me unpacking everything we owned and jacking up the front wheel of the car to remove the tire.

Several passers-by offered helpful, inspirational comments like, “Oh, my. What a shame.” and “Whoa. Dude. That totally sucks.”

While I appreciated their kind words, they did little to actually elevate my mood and bring me good cheer.

To humanity’s credit, two people did, in fact offer to help. Evidently their winningness to be of assistance did not extend to trading vehicles with us or even chauffeuring us around the eastern seaboard for the next eight days, so I was forced to continue working on the car.

I was eventually able, through the combined disciplines of Patience and Profanity, to staunch the flow of fluid using the rusty pair of slip-joint pliers that I had seen fit to outfit the car with in case of emergency.

We piled our belongings back into the car and, with the show over, the crowd parted and allowed us to begin a frantic search for someplace where we would be able to buy brake fluid on Easter Sunday.

Although the highway had seemed crowded with gas stations up until this point, we spent a slightly tense 30 minutes searching the rural back roads of Connecticut before finding an open gas station. I bought a quart of brake fluid and the clerk asked if I wanted a bag.

“No,” I answered.
“Oh. Dumping it in here?” she asked, “That sucks. Happy Easter!”

A mere six hours later, we pulled into the hotel parking lot–sore, hungry, and tired. We were immediately faced with yet another Easter-based problem.

Food.

I would rather eat a bowl of toenail clippings than eat at a fast-food chain, so our choices were somewhat limited. I did manage to locate a Chinese restaurant that was open and I ordered a lavish, opulent feast. The food was delicious and we enjoyed the meal despite the fact that I neglected to get plates, forks, or napkins, so we were forced to grab food from the containers and shovel it directly into our mouths with our hands.

After dinner, we slipped down to the pool to wash up before bed.

I spent the night tossing and turning, trying to decide what would be the easiest way to perform a brake job in the hotel parking lot in the morning.

Home and Gone Again

In case any of you have been losing sleep over the fact that I appear to be perpetually still in New Jersey; fear not. I returned home safely last week.

Sadly, that fate was not shared by my pillow and some of my clothes.
While I was in New Jersey, I got an email from my lovely wife explaining that my lovely son had been taken to the lovely hospital for lung x-rays. He had a lovely case of pneumonia.

This, I freely admit, upset me a bit.

I woke up very early the next day (like 3:30 early) and decided to just hit the road and get home. It seemed a wiser option than sitting in my hotel room, staring at the ceiling and listening to the roar of the traffic racing by.

I staggered blearily around my hotel room, showered, packed up my stuff and ran a large armload of my belongings out to my car. While there, I saw something shiny and got distracted.
"Ooooh coffee!"

I wandered over to the Dunkin Donuts, conveniently located in the scenic parking lot of my hotel, and entered its sacred coffee-infused walls. The clerk behind the counter was Indian and didn't seem to have a firm grasp on conversational English yet.

"Do you have vanilla coffee made?" I asked, seeking a whimsical, flavor-filled change in my coffee drinking experiences.

The clerk looked at me, obviously not understanding the question.

"Baniya?" he asked.

"Vanilla," I nodded, "Yes, do you have any vanilla coffee?"

He stared for a moment longer and then his face broke out into a radiant smile.

"Ahhh!" he said, "Medium french baniya, cream sugar!"

"That's it!" I cried, marveling at his psychic ability to penetrate my unkempt exterior and discern my innermost desires.

He handed me my coffee and I made my way back toward my car, marveling at the fact that he had learned English based entirely on the Dunkin Donuts menu items and how the majority of customers preferred them.

I was impressed. Thrust into the streets of Calcutta or Agra or Bombay, I doubted that I would have fared as well as he had.

I hopped into my car and sped off into the night, completely forgetting about the second load of belongings that sat in my hotel room, gathering up toxic levels of hotel carpet stink that I'm certain will render my pillow unusable for several washings.

I arrived home to find Alex doing better. My joy at that news was tempered slightly by the fact that I only then realized that I had forgotten all my stuff in New Jersey.

A quick call to the hotel confirmed that they would be delighted to do absolutely nothing to help me get my stuff back.

"Uhhh, I'd have to talk to the manager about sending it back to you, but I don't really think that's gonna happen."

Thanks Motel 6!

I sent a rather panicky and completely humiliating email to Cindy, the lady who had arranged my visit to New Jersey, asking her if she could possibly go to the hotel and grab my pillow–the one with the dirty socks and undies stuffed in the pillow case–and mail it up to me.

She agreed to undertake this odious task and I will forever be in her debt.

For the past week, I have been visiting schools from Massachusetts to the White Mountains. It's been fun, but exhausting. Every school is different and I never know what to expect when I arrive. This keeps me on my toes and in a perpetual state of near paranoid alertness.

At Fuller Meadow School, I was treated to delicious lunches (Candi, the coordinator, had read my blog entry asking that I not be served Sloppy Joes and Tater Tots) and, as if that weren't enough, she sent me home with two half gallons of delicious ice cream from the ice cream stand across the street.

My trip to Campton Elementary, way up north in New Hampshire began with a presentation to the 7th and 8th graders who, I was warned, might try to kill me and eat me.

Adults, as a rule, are terrified of 7th and 8th graders. Mostly with good reason, I imagine. But my visit with them was delightful. They were fun and enthusiastic and did not throw rocks at me or try to eat me. What's funny is that I gave almost exactly the same presentation that I normally do for 4th graders. It went very well, as did the rest of the day.

The only slight glitch in the day was the last presentation I gave to the Kindergarten, first, and second grades. It appeared that some poor child was suffering from some sort of gastro-intestinal distress and kept farting throughout my presentation. The child had the uncanny ability to time his farts to whenever I paused for dramatic effect.

"And then..." I paused, savoring the magical moment of silence. And when I opened my mouth to continue...

"FFAAAAAAARRRRRRRT!"

It was very amusing for everyone.

Tomorrow I head off to Portland, Maine for three days of school visits. I'm looking forward to this trip a lot because my good friend Amy lives up there and she claims to possess knowledge of the whereabouts of an excellent Thai restaurant.

And I know that, as I have yet to get my pillow back from New Jersey, there is no way I can leave it at the hotel this time.

The March Book Tour

Woo Hoo!
March madness has begun in earnest in the high stakes world of picture books.
March is busy for me.
Very busy.
School across the nation celebrate Read Across America by bringing authors to their schools and feeding them Sloppy Joes and Tater Tots.*

* If I come to your school; don't even think about it. Save them for the next author, please.

This March involves a lot more traveling than I usually do. Traveling, as you are no doubt aware, is one of the greatest ways to leave home and sleep in strange beds surrounded by unusual sounds, unfamiliar sights, and occasional unpleasant odors.

As I write this, I am in a hotel room in New Jersey pondering deeply why the non-smoking room I got should contain an upside down ashtray with a "No Smoking" sticker stuck to the bottom of it. It sort of tells you "No Smoking (but if you do, here's a convenient ash tray)".

When I asked the helpful fellow at the front desk about this odd choice of furnishings, he shrugged his shoulders and grunted a slightly feral "unh-nuh". I got the same response when I asked about the distance to the next town over.

It seemed wisest to cut my losses, and besides, not knowing about the ashtray will give me something to think about while I am staring at the ceiling tonight listening to the roar of traffic howling past the hotel.

My real, actual home is on a very quiet, some might say bucolic, back road in the outskirts of New Hampshire. Two cars passing our house in 10 minutes is a major traffic event. So I find myself unable to properly adjust to situations like my dinner tonight. I am planning on going out to a fabulous, nationally known establishment that serves the latest in cutting edge pizza cuisine.

In fact, I can see the restaurant from my hotel room. If it weren't for all the exhaust fumes, I could probably smell the pizza. The problem is, I don't know how I'm going to get there.
There is certainly no safe way to cross the six lanes of furious traffic that is whizzing by. And even if I managed such a daring feat, I'd most certainly spill my drink on the way back to the hotel.

So I have to drive there.
500 yards away.

To make my dinner plans more interesting, there are no turns allowed from the roaring highway of doom I am on, so I may well have to drive for several miles to simply get my pizza.

I need to be safe about this, because I am scheduled to visit a school tomorrow morning and I'd hate to get lost on my way across the street and spend the next several days wandering aimlessly up and down the highways of New Jersey, looking for my pizza.

If you do see a hungry looking guy with out of state plates, toss a piece of pizza my way, okay?