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Wednesday, June 06, 2007 [continued from previous entry] After a while, it came to feel like sitting in coach on a transatlantic flight -- packed between other seated individuals, hours and hours passing, long periods of nothing really happening, punctuated by the arrival of food or drink. The differences: everyone nicely dressed, conversation getting progressively louder, no one falling asleep, every now and then someone got to their feet and proposed a sweet, rambling toast to the newlyweds. Who looked like they were having fun, something that made me smile every time I noticed it. Now and then I got up to stretch legs, disappear into the loo or exchange a few words with someone. Just before the evening ended, I found myself in another room with my brother and nephew. Chatting about nothing of great import. My nephew noticed something in the corner by the fireplace, picked it up -- a long, strangely tapered length of polished wood with two metal loops eight or so inches from one end, suggesting a hand guard. Like nothing else any of us had ever seen before. Brother and nephew examined it, debating whether it might be a practice broadsword. Nephew noticed that the hilt seemed to be springloaded, so intensely that it could barely be moved. A mystery. The group consensus: a shrugging of shoulders, returning the thing to its resting spot. The time: 10:30. Rain had begun falling outside, people began streaming through the room on the way out, saying good-bye. Nephew suddenly grabbed the wooden thing, checked it out more closely -- might be a prototype, he said, but not of a sword. Looked more like an old, old pogo stick. And damned if it didn't. An antique pogo stick. Said good-byes, hugged a few bodies, kissed a few cheeks. Headed downstairs, couldn't find a functioning door, had to beg a staff member to guide me to a real exit. He did, other staff folks watching with amusement, until I finally found myself out in the rain and cool night air, pointy boots taking me along a damp walkway and into the street, through shallow puddles of rainwater toward the car. Followed winding roads through intensifying rain, got onto the Thruway, began the trip north. There really is nothing like sharing a road with bigass semi's in a major rainstorm. Visibility was nearly nonexistent, dealing with tractor/trailer backwash was wearing me down. Two exits along, I bailed to look for a motel, get a few hours sleep. As I followed the exit ramp up a slope, a coyote appeared from the brush to one side, trotted across the ramp ahead of me (fur sodden with rain), disappeared into the greenery on the other side. I slowed and stopped at the toll booth, offered the ticket and a twenty to the woman there, a big, heavyset mama. She stared at the bill. "I don't have anything smaller," I apologized. The toll was not much, she would have had to come up with a wad of cash in exchange for the twenty. "Well," she said, waving me on, "just move along then and have a good night." "Huh?" said I, confused. "I just came on," she explained, "I can't change that bill." "Er," I er'ed, jamming a hand into a pants pocket in a search for nonexistent coins. "Don't you worry," she continued. "Have a good night. Merry Christmas, Happy New Year." I thanked her and pulled away, totally blinkered by the event. Found a motel nearby, a big, bland, characterless one belonging to a motel chain. Got a room -- a bizarrely huge room, so outsized that it looked nearly empty, despite containing all the furnishings a normal motel room would feature. Something about its subtle odors, the noise from the air system, the cheap rubbery foam blanket on the bed, provoked a faint feeling of nausea. Or maybe it was just the long day, with its hours of driving. Got under the covers, drifted off before I could kill the lights. [concluded in entry of June 9] España, te echo de menos. rws 6:07 PM [+]
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