I’m gearing up (pun intended) to get back on the road again. Ironically, even though I’m “on the road” all the time, I haven’t really been on a true road trip in ages.
When I was a student at the College of Charleston, I literally drove myself nuts by driving all the time. After a few bad incidents on airplanes I decided to start driving.
One particular bad flying incident was on a trip from LaGuardia to Charleston. When we got ready to make our final descent into Charleston International Airport, the Captain announced that both runways (yep, only 2) were closed: one due to flooding and one was under construction. So I’m thinking, “Great, how am I going to get home from Savannah/Columbia/Atlanta/Charlotte or wherever they decide to land us?”
Ppppffff. They brought us back to LaGuardia. Deplaned us. Replaned us. And back to Charleston when the flooded runway was drained.
The next time I flew, I departed from Myrtle Beach. Before the flight, they announced in the terminal that the lavatories were “inoperable.” Thinking, “Ok, whatever it’s a 1.5 hour flight,” I decide it’s no big deal, though I’m slightly disconcerted that something hauling me 30,000 feet in the air at 500 miles per hour would have anything “inoperable” on it. Especially considering that the technology on an airplane toilet is not exactly rocket science. (Ha ha ha, another good pun.)
Before getting on the plane there was a drunk man named Rusty, native of Myrtle Beach, SC, who was asked not to board the plane due to his excessive and apparent intoxification intoxication. So what do they do? They let him on the plane anyway. Because drunk people are persistent. And they make really rational arguments.
So what does a drunk guy want to do on an airplane, besides keep drinking?
He wants to pee. And ask to be reseated in the front row. Right next to me. To chew my ear off.
When I finally landed in New York, my mother and grandmother greeted me. I was in–how do I say this gently–a really, super, totally, horribly nasty mood. My grandmother thought that would be a good time to let me know she accidentally backed my BMW, may it rest in peace, into a shopping cart at the grocery store. The BMW that I hadn’t actually given anyone permission to drive in my absence.
After that, I was all about driving. Later when I had a dog as a travel companion, not only was flying a hassle, but it was out of the question. I would never consider putting Mason Dixon on an air plane.
This is MD:
Because of Rusty, my BMW driving grandmother, Charleston’s drainage problems and Mason Dixon, I decided flying was out of the question for me. So I started driving everywhere. After about a dozen trips from South Carolina all the way up to Vermont or all the way down to South Florida, I developed road-trip anxiety. I don’t like to admit this. But it’s true. I can’t stand driving 12 hours in a day by myself. Not even with MD, since he doesn’t share the driving. Something about not being able to reach the pedals.
Thor is my cousin, in case you weren’t aware. Thor is getting married this weekend to his beautiful fiancee Sarah in Kennebunk, Maine. I can’t wait to go. Even better, I have my dad, his wife and my granddad to accompany me. This is what I’ll be driving to accommodate everyone:
It’s called an Infiniti BehemothQX56 and comfortably seats 8. Perfect.
Next stop: home to Greenwich to pack. Tomorrow morning: Dartmouth, Mass to pick up my granddad. Tomorrow afternoon: Kennebunk, Maine to celebrate. I’ll let you know how it went.
In the meantime, happy flying.