I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been anywhere in the last few weeks. On the contrary, I made two back to back trips to New Hampshire. But it wasn’t “travel.” It was “business” and as much as I tried to infuse some magic into the mundane, the Maine Turnpike resisted. It was 100 uneventful miles one way and 100 uneventful miles the other way. Sleep, a day of rest, and then do it all over again.
No magic, no sparkle. Nothing.
Highways and interstates weren’t built for magic and relaxation; they were built for rapid transit.
Lady Alone Traveler, in her heart of travel hearts, is always looking for a “Holiday Inn” kind of experience. Not a stay at an international hotel chain, but something more akin to the 1942 holiday-themed movie starring Bing Crosby and Fred Astaire. It’s about a Connecticut inn that’s only open on holidays; Der Bingle croons to New York’s urbanites “if the traffic noise affects you like a squeaky violin, kick your cares down the stairs and come to Holiday Inn.”
And they do! They arrive in great numbers, in chauffeured limousines, somber sedans, and roadsters.
Now we’re talking!
After my exhausting and uneventful business travel, I had a little meltdown. I barely had the energy to haul myself out of the boudoir and put on a happy face. Only enough gas in the tank to muster a text to my man Handy, asking him to chauffeur me over the river and through the woods to Lucy & Edna’s in Pownal. I wrote an EATS article about the restaurant last year and something in me wanted one of their delicious breakfast sandwiches. That would revive me, surely.
I wrapped myself up in an old sweater and off we went down Route 9 in Durham to Pownal. As we approached the familiar intersection, something seen through the windshield looked different. What were all those old cars parked around the bright red restaurant that sits just a bit off the beaten path? It was a “meet-up” of vintage auto owners! I was so excited by the sight of it all, I had a homemade donut AND a breakfast sandwich. (Yum, by the way.)
Handy and I sat at the counter by the window, happily viewing this vision almost from another time.
With no “reporter’s notebook” in my pocketbook and slightly dazed by the beauty of the old iron horses, I did a poor job of getting the story. But for just a minute, I was transported to another time and that’s the kind of magic that makes the mundane march through life worth the trip.