Unexpected Trip Delays

Unexpected Trip Delays

By

Sylvia Melvin

The rising sun on Friday, July 21, 2023, illuminated a blue sky with a few puffy summer clouds and a temperature climbing into the low eighties—a perfect day to start the fifteen-hundred-mile trek from Maine back to our home in Florida.

Our destination for the first leg of the trip was Harrisburg, Pennsylvania, an eight-hour drive in ideal conditions. But we didn't make it that far. Now, my husband hates to drive in Connecticut since he’s convinced the term kamikaze originated with that state's drivers, and the Japanese pilots simply stole it. However, he put aside his negativity and trusted the GPS to guide us through a shorter route. Big mistake! I'm convinced there's a little demonic character in that electronic device that enjoys thwarting the best-laid plans of man. Is this a foreshadowing of AI?

Before we knew it, I-95 led us right into the bowels of the Bronx in New York City. Like fire ants milling around a mother lode of picnic crumbs, multiple individuals of varying ages, shapes, and hairstyles occupied every inch of the sidewalks, spilling over into traffic lanes. 

Apparently, in this section of New York, the rules of the road do not apply. Vehicles zig-zagged from one lane to another, cutting in front with no warning. Jay-walking is of no consequence. Folks darted in all directions. Blaring, so-called rap music drowned out any instructions from the GPS. Immediately, the power of prayer became my mantra.

After crossing the George Washington Bridge into calmer

territory, I stopped holding my breath and loosened my hold on the sides of the passenger seat. The padding bounced back into shape, oblivious to the dangers we skirted.

To get back on track to Pennsylvania, we had to drive across New Jersey, another trial of patience and self-control. A half-hour later, we noticed traffic slowing down to a crawl. Was there an accident up ahead? A flashing sign soon indicated that three travel lanes were reduced to one due to emergency road repairs, and we should be prepared to stop. For nearly two hours, we inched bumper-to-bumper, sandwiched between colossal transport trucks. Of course, those with no patience always decide to pass on the right shoulder and then expect to squeeze into the tightest opening. No wonder road rage is at an all-time high.

And hey! How about those EVs stranded on the side of the road waiting for someone to come along with a mobile charging station? We figured this traffic jam would be long gone by the time they’d be on the road again. 

After what seemed an eternity, we crossed the Pennsylvania state line. It was eight p.m., and the first hotel we called informed us that no rooms were available since this was the Poconos Nascar Race weekend. By now, tired and hungry, we were desperate to find one. 

Miraculously, a Hampton Inn loomed into sight and became our refuge. What could possibly go wrong now? However, when we opened the door, the bed covers were rumpled, and it looked 

like a body cocooned in the bedding. A quick trip back to the front desk netted us another room, followed up with an explanation and an apology that the room had missed being cleaned, and to everyone's relief, no body discovered.

I must admit the view of the Pocono Mountains and the valley below was magnificent. I wanted to capture the scene on my cell's camera the following morning. I went out to our truck to get it, and to my surprise, it was nowhere to be found. My husband searched among our luggage and shopping bags while dialing my number. No response. I dashed to the desk to inquire if somebody turned in a phone. No luck. A search in the parking lot came up negative. By now, panic turned my stomach into a roller coaster until another attempt to dial my number produced a ring loud and clear. The phone had slipped off the console into a narrow space on the driver's side, to our relief. That AI demon must have struck again. Why did we only hear a ring on the last call?

By now, we had lost an hour traveling to our next destination, but our troubles were not over yet. A third annoyance revealed itself when we stopped for gas in Virginia. Suddenly, a warning message indicated that the front right headlight was out. Having had to replace another one in the past, my husband knew he had to remove the grill, the radiator cover, and the headlight to 

replace a new one. For another hour, the customers that came and went into the Advance Auto store gave us curious looks as the 

front end of our Ram lay on the concrete sidewalk. Much to the credit of the salesman, he offered to help, but the pseudo-

genius engineering made it impossible for more than one pair of hands to fit into the confined space to do the work.

And then there was Interstate 81. Half of America's semi-tractor trailers seemed to be traveling in our direction. No sooner would we pass one when another came roaring up behind, seemingly vying for the prize awarded to the driver who could pass the competition. This cat–and–mouse game appeared to me to be dangerous. I'm seriously contemplating contacting the Department of Transportation and suggesting they post signs warning drivers that Interstate 81 is not the Indie 500. We picked out several vehicles that quickly qualified.

We spent the last night of our journey in Bristol, Tennessee, and set out early the following day for Florida. The driving was intense as the traffic coming and going never let up. A five-car accident between Birmingham and Montgomery sent a sobering reminder that traveling on interstate highways these days is not a task for the faint of heart.

The Florida welcoming sign, "Florida, The Sunshine State," was the best part of our return trip. Maybe next time we'll take the train.