After many, many years of posting in my year-end roundup that I had not left the country yet again, I will finally have a different answer at the end of 2020. I went to Mexico for the first time last month, and it was delightful.
Rockford and I have gone to the Shaky Knees music festival in Atlanta for the last four years or so for our anniversary. It’s a very well-run festival, there are food trucks everywhere, the lineup has been terrific every year, and it’s a pretty easy drive from our house to Atlanta. I’ve loved all of our trips there, but I’ve never come home feeling like I’d spent the weekend relaxing.
And so, as we drove home after last year’s adventure, I told Rockford I’d like to change things up and maybe go somewhere and sit on the beach and do nothing for a few days. He was willing to entertain the idea, but I knew he was disappointed because he loved being immersed in live music for days on end. And then a few days after we got home, Wilco — one of our favorite bands — announced that they were planning their own festival at a resort in Mexico. I forwarded the announcement to Rockford, who said “Well, you manifested this so we have to go.” And so we did.
I felt odd about it, so I didn’t talk about it much ahead of time. It was far more money than we’ve ever spend on a just-the-two-of-us vacation, and getting a passport just to go see one’s favorite musicians seems like crossing a fandom Rubicon. But I’m so glad we went. It was a lovely couple of days in a beautiful environment, and we actually came back feeling like we’d been on vacation.
Was it weird being on vacation with Wilco, Sharon Van Etten, Yo La Tengo, Calexico (and more!) and a bunch of music fans? Yes, a little. Would I do it again? Yes, in a heartbeat.
Yesterday I drove 350 miles and ended up right back where I started. It was supposed to be two days of driving — to fetch Pete at one aunt-and-uncle’s house and deposit him at another — but after a toddler vomited on the floor Pete and I decided to hit the road early.[1]Carsickness from 12 hours in the car, as it turns out.
we did not dance this much or at all, because Pete was busy watching YouTubers YouTube
Pete was with me for all of 100 minutes, and we enjoyed a lovely dinner together at a Taco Bell where I was served what was perhaps the freshest Taco Bell taco I have ever experienced. It was at this Taco Bell that I asked Pete, “Hey Pete, what’s that on your shirt?” and he said “Oh, I think that’s chili from the hot dog I had with Papa and Lola,” at which point I realized that my son had been wearing the same shirt for some three days. The rules are different for 11-year-old boys at their grandpa’s for the weekend.
ain’t no dog like a coney dog dog cause a coney dog dog gets all over your three-day old wardrobe
It was dusk when we reached my sister-in-law’s house, and after I met my nephew’s very sweet dog and hugged my sister-in-law and another nephew and bid Pete farewell: It was dark. I don’t like to drive after dark because the oncoming headlights hurt my delicate eyeballs, but the Road So Far had been pretty empty so I onward I forged.
The Road continued to be empty as I made my way through the South Carolina countryside, back to the interstate. My eyeballs were unscathed, but my soul was unsettled by the creeping fog and the long stretches of empty highway. It felt like I was the only person left on the planet for 15 minutes at a time. A quarter of an hour is a very long time to feel like you’ve been abandoned by the rest of humanity, even if sometimes when you read the news you think maybe Thanos was on to something. And then that short-long lonely feeling would be interrupted by headlights swiftly growing larger and brighter in my rearview mirror, and for 45 seconds I would become convinced I was about to be run off the road and murdered.
I shouldn’t, maybe, be left alone with my thoughts.
Years later I reached the interstate and was immediately swept away in a river of speeding 18-wheelers, and soon The Machine told me I should get off the interstate because trouble was a-brewin’ ahead. But I am no Michael Scott. I would not drive into a lake for The Machine. And so in my hubris, I took neither the first nor the second nor even the third exit that The Machine recommended. And then the 18-wheelers all came to an abrupt stop and a Jeep Cherokee from the 1980s nearly careened into the back of one and I realized that The Machine had, in fact, known. I took the next exit The Machine recommended.
Again, I drove through empty highway, creepy creeping fog. Again, my dumb brain skipped through a field of the macabre as I drove through small, vacated downtowns and passed by Revolutionary War battlefields and one Shriners’ Club featuring, this weekend only, Mike Bulburn and His All-Star Band.
I listened to a lot of Vampire Weekend and Paul Simon and James Taylor, and then a 6-month-old episode of “This American Life” helped keep my eyes open for the last 30 minutes of my drive. I finally rolled back into the garage nearly 8 hours after I left, and I did not experience a quintessential NPR driveway moment because I was too, too tired for more listening.
I didn’t learn anything new about myself on my epic two-state odyssey, but I did average 34.8 miles per gallon. And that ain’t nothing.
Hey everybody, welcome back to Butterscotch Sundae Dot Com.
Here’s a TLDR of my Summer Vacation: It started with a theft and ended with a shooting.
I used Priceline for the very first time to book a room. I’d never stayed at a La Quinta before, and for some reason my impression of it was that their properties were a bit run-down and sketchy. But the Priceline thing was nonrefundable, so we were going to stay there. They put us in a smoking room first and then moved us to a room with a moldy tub, and then we got to the car the next morning and discovered that someone had stolen my laptop, Rockford’s headphones, Poppy’s headphones and all of our road snacks. We were not blameless in this situation. We shouldn’t have left anything in the car in the first place, and the lack of damage to the car would indicate that someone forgot to lock the car. But it wasn’t a great way to kick off our vacation, and it solidified my belief that La Quintas are a bit run-down and sketchy.
The rest of the week was a maelstrom of swimming and movies, baseball games and family time, and septic failures and driveway replacements. My in-laws had to break the lock on our storm door to get into our house while we were gone, my dad wrapped up the week with a kidney stone, and Rockford heard a shooting near our house about 20 minutes after we got home.
It was a weird vacation.
Monday: Crunchwraps
Rockford loves them, and we haven’t made them in quite a while. I’m hoping they’re just as good without cheese.
Tuesday: Orange chicken meatballs
This Just A Taste recipe is sufficiently tasty, and it’s a hit with most kids.
Wednesday: Shake ‘n’ Bake chicken
I’m endeavoring to teach Poppy how to make a few meals on her own, so she’ll be making dinner on Wednesday.
Thursday: Undecided
Poppy has a dentist appointment, so she’ll be on Soft Foods for the evening. She’ll probably have mac ‘n’ cheese.
Friday: Pizza
We haven’t been doing family pizza night very often since I quit eating dairy. I bought a soy cheese pizza from the Amy’s collection this week, though. Hopefully it’s decent.
Hungry for more? Check out the Menu Plan Monday linkup at OrgJunkie.
