Perhaps I am naive. Perhaps I have seen National Lampoons vacation one too many times and I, like Clark Griswold live in my own fantasy world of midnight swims with Christie Brinkley as opposed to the very real world of road trips and all that can go awry in a 36 hour period of time.
I set out later than expected but with high hopes of a beautiful weekend in Washington DC this past Saturday. I packed some healthy snacks and grabbed my life's collection of CDs ready to embark on a brief voyage to our Nation's capitol with a good friend. The sky was clear the car drove smoothly and things were good. I had decided to make the trip 4 hours South when I was invited to a dear friend's baby shower. After finding a onesie emblazoned with Tupac's likeness I realized that I must make this voyage. Now, its true that I have been sick. For about a month now and just the night prior to the trip I had been in so much physical pain with an earache that I was brought to tears. Once my toddler like traits subsided I sucked it up and set forth.
The trip took slightly longer than expected, but it always does and once we traversed the less than affluent section of DC that I always beg my sister to show me but a part of town I suspect she could not locate if needed, we arrived at the hotel I chose to book through a third party website. Warning here: do not, if at all possible, book through a third party website. Ever! The hotel had an entire floor out due to renovations, but the courtesy of giving us a ring seemed to have escaped them so we packed back into the car and drove to another hotel. This hotel only had one room left and, although it was much smaller than the room I had already paid for, the front desk attendant who had most certainly ridden the short bus to work assured me this was our only option. After many hours of driving, nothing is better than opening the door to a room that makes the average New York City studio look palatial.
After a short breather and an attempted phone call to my West Coast bestie (who did not pick up!) we headed out to see what we could eat and drink. I had always had such a good time at the waterfront in Georgetown with my sister I thought it was a great spot to sit and partake in some serious libating. Although the riverside bar had recently been flooded they were open for business and despite the fact that they possessed neither Patron or Corona exceptions were made and the drinking began. Let me remind you here, that I had been experimenting with my never ending illness and had started to take antihistamines to see if I had in face acquired allergies over the past year. A shot of tequila and Tecate mixed with some Benadryl does, for at least a while, put you in a perfectly pleasant mood.
In the search of food we stopped at a local tobacco shop and although a fellow patron made note that it smelled like "old man," I chose instead to soak up the scent of my grandfather's den and ponder the purchase of a pimp cane. A Dominican cigar later and we were out to sample some local cuisine, opting instead for a chain that had carbohydrates-a-plenty and the game on. What can I say, I am easy to please. Another drink or two deep and I needed a recharge. Lucky for us a local cab driver picked us up in no time, taking the time to talk sports, the origin of his convoluted accent and a brief tour of local Latin-inspired night life. I was all set to paint the town red in a dress I had brought along for such an occasion, but the cocktail of chemicals was hitting me hard and I instead chose to pass out before 11pm. A quick run to the local Mcy D's for a box of apple juice and a check in on the car and it was off to bed for a restless night of earaches and infomercials.
It was a beautiful Sunday morning and I was looking forward to seeing the mommy-to-be at the baby shower so I got everything together and went to pack up the car before my travel-mate arose. It was then that I noticed that my teal zip car parked right across from the Jewish Community Center had had the back window smashed out and the bulk of my music collection (collected largely after the last time this happened in Oakland in 2004) was gone with the wind. And not at all in a Rhett and Scatlett romantic manner. I called Zip Car, who told me to call the police and Officer T-Pain arrived shortly thereafter. I filed a report with enough time to get lost a handful of times and arrive at the baby shower nearly 2 hours late.
After some estrogen filled fun, I was also the first to leave as I had a long drive ahead of me and a finite amount of patience left in both me and my travel mate. After the death of an iphone, an ipod and an MIA cd collection, the hours grow longer when stuck in bumper to bumper traffic. And when approaching the GW bridge, nearly 6 hours after our departure I thought the end was near. I was wrong. There was evidently some back up at the bridge, so I instead took the Holland Tunnel, landing me on the island of Manhattan just 250 short blocks away from home.
Exhausted, broke and weary I arrived home with a broken window, an exorbitant hotel bill, and the loss of my entire Ameoba collection, left to wonder. Road trips are supposed to be fun, right?
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