After the trip

I do look forward to another trip. I don't know when. We want to go west, but are not sure we have time for it this summer. Bernie estimates we would need three months for that, but I think six weeks would do. It would be fun.

The traffic, although bad in several areas, is completely indescribable in Washington, on the Beltway. I have driven it many, many times and each time I am so extremely disappointed by the lack of driving manners. The sense of entitlement is even apparent in the driving habits of so many. So I just plopped the truck and Circus Wagon in the center of it all. They made room for me. Also, I did find several drivers who were extremely courteous and who blocked out some of the reckless pigs to let me change lanes. I made sure I thanked them with a vigorous wave.

I don't know why driving in the rain was so tiring. I am guessing the stress of moving fast with a lot of weight and facing the prospect of a sudden stop caused, again, by other's bad driving practices. I slowed way down, 45 in hard rain. I turned on flashers and was going to slow even further as visibility got very bad, but at just that moment the rain eased and I could see.

I always drive slowly in a rain storm, trailer or not, yet an array of stupid people were passing me at 65 or more in the blind. That made me slow down because I was certain I was going to drive into a chain reaction accident.

On those heavy rain days I made sure to stop at a rest stop or truck stop and relax in the trailer, crawl up onto the bed for an hour nap after lunch. It was great. And the rain would stop.

Our last day from D.C. to home was one long drive. I have no idea why I didn't stop for the fun of it. We had lunch at the Pilot truck stop in Breezewood, PA, and moved on. The Pilot was not that good. Next time we will return to our favorite truck stop there, the Gateway restaurant.

Maybe it was because that was my first long over-the-road trip with an RV, but I watched everything. I normally drive quite defensively, but more so this trip. I generally don't relax completely while driving, and on this trip I think I was even more alert because of pulling several thousand pounds of trailer behind me.

That doesn't mean that I was in a death grip on the steering wheel. I had plenty of opportunities to watch the passing countryside.

What did cross my mind, though, is the question of how tractor-trailer drivers do this day after day. With all the amateurs on the road, I don't know how truckers don't end up crazy.

It was a good trip, and stopping at campgrounds was nice. I discovered I like to stay put for a few days rather than drive day in and day out. We did a mix of that. I look forward to finding a nice state park and staying for three days or so before moving on, even if we do absolutely nothing except read for those three days. I think that is the fun of having an RV.

The trip home

Our route home yesterday took us across the Pennsylvania Turnpike. I had never minded traveling the turnpike, and I know I was in the minority.

The turnpike commission cured me during yesterday's trip. The highway is an embarrassment. The surface in many, many areas is unbearable to drive. I admit a bias here because the unevenness of the road causes an unpleasant harmonic effect between the trailer and the truck. I recall, though, when I drove this road without the trailer other sections caused harmonic bouncing in our Jeep SUV. (By the way, to experience an even worse highway, try I-86 in Western New York. It is truly dangerous because of the poor pavement. It's nice to know there is someplace worse.)

The Pennsylvania Turnpike has areas that seem to be meant to pull over for a short period, like during heavy rain and reduced visibility. You cannot use it because there are no signs that indicate a wide spot is approaching, and by the time you see the parking area, you've passed it.

That thought, of course, leads to another about driving safety. There are no rest stops on the turnpike. The only spots are the gasoline stops, which, of course, are spaced too far apart if all you want is a spot to rest your eyes a few minutes.

When we passed the gasoline stops, though, I noticed that the prices were not exorbitant as you find on so many limited access highways and turnpikes. I suspect the turnpike commission has something to do with that, and that is good.

The bottom line, though, is that it appears the Pennsylvania Turnpike Commission has not invested a cent in the highway in decades. There has been a lot of work on the road, I know, but the western portion, at least, is a terrible experience. This is disappointing.

As a young boy, maybe I was five years old, I remember my father taking me to watch the turnpike being built near Koppel, PA. I have always been proud of it, with that fond boyhood memory of my vibrant dad holding me up to watch the big dump trucks and scrapers.

After all these years, the turnpike commission has disappointed me.

It's time

I am ready for home. I am enjoying this being on the road, but it's time to move on. 

We had planned to go home by Tuesday, and that makes it time. 

You know when something is in your head, it's time.

The emperor was naked

We just got back after a long, overcast day downtown D.C. We went to an art exhibit at the American Indian Museum. I like the museum, but the exhibit showed me that the emperor was naked. Even though, Bernie and I enjoyed ourselves.

It's nice to come back to the RV. It's like coming home every night. We camped in Lake Fairfax campground. It is a Fairfax County, VA, campground, and we recommend it highly. It is remote and yet it's in the middle of a megalopolis. The only camping connection is electric, so you have to use your on-board tanks. Quiet, green and so relaxing.

We've had a wonderful stay with Bernie's sister in Reston and her Washington brother, but we will be packing up soon and heading into Pennsylvania. I don't know whether we'll make it all the way home, or be slowed by storms and have to stay out another night.

Our nation's capital

Our stay in Fayetteville, NC, did not prepare us for our nation's capital.

The Fayetteville KOA campground (I refuse to spell it kampground with a k like they do because they are ruining English for our kids) was an excellent choice by the navigator and logistician.

Each morning, once underway, Bernie makes the choice of our destination campground for that night.

Clean and well-kept do not adequately describe the place.

We stayed there only a few hours, so we didn't even unhitch from the truck and set up. We dallied too long in the morning, and got on the road about noon. Somewhere along the way I heard a deep thump. I could see nowhere in sight to pull over so I used the berm of I-95. After a quick check, and finding nothing untoward, no blowouts, I got back in the truck. Total time outside: maybe 20 seconds, 30 at the most. That's far too long to be parked alongside the interstate and out of the truck. Two tractor-trailers abreast, roaring by at what seems like 150 miles an hour convinced me to get back in the truck and move on. Quickly. At least out among them I felt less vulnerable.

Safety demanded that I slow for the rain, hard rain.

A couple stops along the way, and a 45 minute nap (ain't RVs wonderful?) and we were among them at three miles an hour. Three, count 'em, three.

That was near our nation's capital. Good ole Washington, DC. I had forgotten about the traffic here. Year's back we were leaving after a visit here, and I told Bernie I was going to dust off the resume once I got home. This place was wonderful, and with all its free things to do it was a place I must live. As we headed north on the interstate, commuters were going into the city and almost bumper to bumper for 60 miles. I decided that I would stay put.

We saw a five-mile long traffic block on the other side of the highway. Our side going into the area was pretty open . . . Until we merged onto the Beltway. The despised Beltway. Six and seven lanes of traffic going mostly the same direction is bewildering, but it has normally at least been moving when I have been on it.

This day, however, some knucklehead thought it would be good to start a chain reaction accident during rush hour or should it be hours. It wasn't very spectacular from what Bernie saw of it. (She did comment sadly on the demise of the BMW sports car.) The traffic jam it caused was quite spectacular, though. It took us a half hour. Not bad by big-city standards; very bad by the standards where I live out in the hinterlands.

I have read someplace that there is no such thing as an accident. These collisions are caused by knuckleheads not paying attention or doing something reckless. Notice I did not say aggressive, and notice I did not say male. I have seen a few reckless female drivers on this trip. There is no such thing as aggressive driving. It is simply reckless. there are not enough police to stop it, and even when some of the police we have noticed see it, they still don't enforce it. They must get much mor strict strict with this belligerent recklessness. We know they won't, though. They will have intermittent “crack downs,” then brush aside the enforcement unti the next “crack down.” Sad.

So who knows what this particular knucklehead on the Beltway was doing this day. We were stuck, and Bernie's sister Marie and my favorite brother-in-law were awaiting our arrival. (Well . . . Ronnie is my favorite brother-in-law in the Washington area. Wait, make that Reston. Another of her brothers lives in Washington proper.)

We resigned from the rush, and got into the heavy traffic of two-lane roads near Reston. We found out way to Reston's Lake Fairfax Park. It is a local park and it is splendid. We have only electrical connection. No fulltime water or sewer. Even though we always watch water usage closely, we will watch much more closely this week in the semi-wild . . . near Washington, DC.

Bernie was out behind the trailer, guiding me into the camp spot with voice instructions on her ham radio. After three or four attempts, a nice man, Glen Holbrook from Kansas, help guide me. He has been camping a hundred years. It was very nice of him. He took pity, I think, when I was on my third try. I really was close to making it in, but since he was so calming. I appreciated his directions.

I explained to Glen that I was new to this. He said he knew.

So we will settle here for five days, more or less, and it will be nice to be in one spot for a few days. Not driving. I want to camp, not spend full time driving, but it goes with the territory. I can't complain, though, because the driving has not been that awful overall.

We finally got to Bernie's sisters's place, sat a while, me with a Manhattan then the four of us went for a late diner at the Silver Diner, a great 50's style diner with chrome, aluminum and juke boxes. And Brian was our server. He did his job well, and I asked him about the art on his neck. He pulled his collar down lower and showed me an intricate tatoo with “Dad” featured in the center. It was a memorial to his dad who had died quickly of cancer. Brian told us the story, how he heard of the death from a relative. It was a touching story. Brian was a good server. I like to talk to servers.

We got back to camp late, through intermittent light and thick fog. The crispness of the night made it necessary for me to stay outside for a few minutes. The stars were soft glows through the fog.

After the long day, I went inside, crawled under the warm comforter and slept soundly.

The Camp Hound, The Savannah City Market

If you're walking in the dead of night in this camp in the idyllic forest in Richmond Hill, GA, there is a lesson to remember. Make some noise, carry a flashlight, and be hopeful the neighbors dog is friendly, no matter how big the bark.

During tonight's walk in the forest blackness on the lanes along the campsites, I surmised the neighboring campers are the Baskervilles. I know not where they live, but maybe, just maybe, they're related to the Baskervilles from Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes tale “The Hound of the Baskervilles.” I wasn't making a sound on the narrow paved lane. At least not a sound a person could hear. The Baskervilles hound, though, announced himself with a deep roaring bark.

I shouted a quick “Howdy.” The Hound was tugging at the leash, but he quieted with a mfff under his breath. The owner appeared and I shouted another “Howdy” and lighted the flashlight I was carrying. I returned to my own campsite and sat at the picnic table. I would like to have introduced myself, but I wasn't sure Hound would tolerate that. It's best to meet fellow campers first in daylight.

You've no doubt heard stories about not being able to “see your hand in front of your face.” That probably originated here in Fort McAllister Historic State Park. I tried it. I couldn't see my hand even though my dead-of-night walk took place about 8:30. The thick vegetation hid what was left of the clouded sky. I won't repeat a walk at midnight. It tends to alarm people, including the walker.

Our walking earlier today, in full sun, was around City Market in Savannah.

There we met noted composer Johnny Mercer, or at least we met Johnny's memorial statue. Johnny's statue welcomed us to Ellis Park. He was short and brown. And he had a space between his front teeth. Johnny was born in Savannah in 1909 and died in Los Angeles in 1976. Doesn't it seem that all these people die in Los Angeles? For safety I'm staying out of L.A.

Johnny wrote “Moon River,” “Days of Wine and Roses,” “Something's Gotta Give” and an armload of others. I couldn't remember all the songs he had written and looked him up

We left Johnny with me humming “Moon River” in my head. That will take days to get out of head. Bernie and I danced to that as kids. Memories flooded back as I hummed. I thought we should dance again, but I didn't ask.

Savannah's 21 squares are welcoming. Kids play in an unusual fountain where jets of water squirt maybe 20 feet into the air. Young mother's try to gather up the kids, but to no avail. They want to run in the geysers that burst from concrete. They try to keep from getting wet, but not very hard. They laugh and giggle. It's a symphony of kids' music. You have to laugh out loud at them.

The 20-something guys impress their girlfriends, running though those jets and not getting wet. Ultimately they don't succeed. Their faces are animated. Broad smiles, laughing eyes. The girlfriends laugh and cheer in the background. The music of youthful love. If Johnny could see this, he could write beautify music to it. Is this a Savannah mating ritual?

Horses are here. Big, powerful horses pulling wagon-loads of tourists. The young handler shakes a whip at them, making no noise, hitting no horse. The team responds to gentle orders. “Move on.” These huge animals are responding to the young women guide.

In the open-air restaurant where we ate, “Tapas,” you knew when the horses were passing, even without seeing them. The gentle orders of the young woman, the momentary, wafting odor of horse.

Just down the street was the Mecca of southern cooking. Paula Deen's restaurant and store. We didn't think of it, but we should have eaten there. I could use a little of her wholesome, Southern down-home concoctions.

I looked in vain for Paula herself. She was not to be found. I would love to have been in a picture with her to send to a friend. He is a big fan, and I would want him to eat his heart out. Maybe a postcard will do.

Bernie was attracted to another of the multitude of boutiques and galleries, a cooking utensil store. She never misses one. She has to touch every tool, sniff or otherwise check every spice, herb and condiment. I encourage this because her visits result in good  eating.

I don't know the stage of the Savannah “season” at this time of year, but the City Market area showed a little of the big city grime. Not enough to keep us away, but just enough that you occasionally notice it.

Workers bustled. Shining, painting, restoring building facades. Every one of them greeted us. “Hello.” “How you doing?” “Hey.” The acknowledgements welcomed all tourists. Joe Cook looked up with a smile, interrupting his painting of a wagon wheel. You don't feel like a tourist. It's like we all live here. There really is Southern hospitality here.

We did run across an odd phenomenon, though. The restaurant rest rooms. In a building next door. Down a hallway. Up a flight of stairs. Down another hallway. In a dark recess. Tiny and a touch grimy.
I don't want to sound too harsh, though. Savannah's City Market is a joy.

Parking here was a pleasant surprise. A buck an hour at a metered spot. I marked that spot in the GPS to find our way back after our walking tour. I'm no dummy. After hours of wandering, I was going to impress Bernie. I had no idea where we were. Technology to the rescue. The GPS would take us back. I pulled it from my pocket ready to impress. The battery was dead. Bernie shook her head in dismay.

Bernie enjoyed yet another fountain. She has a thing for them. I coaxed her from the coolness of the water and into heading back to the truck. I'm convinced she has a piece of soft iron in her nose. She pointed me one way, then another, and another, and there was the truck. The useless silicon in my pocket. She didn't need no stinking GPS.
Humiliating.

The GPS shined, however, after I plugged it into the truck. Take us back to camp, I ordered. Twenty minutes later or so we were pulling into the camp, through yet another cloud of flies. In time for another of her great dinners. I'm thinking she has somebody sneak in to cook while we're gone because a meal appears minutes after we unlock the door.

After being sated and treated to a glass of wine, it was time for my walk in the blackness. And my meeting with the Hound.

Richmond Hill, GA

The forest that is Fort McAllister Historic State Park awakens as a primeval dawn. Slanting light filters through boughs thick with their Georgia spring growth. Mist reveals the shafts of light. Diamonds of light poke through drapes of Spanish Moss.

The night before was just as glorious. Except for our arrival, this park provided wonderful peace. The exception? The big brown flies. Swarms of big brown flies. The second I opened the truck door at the campsite I was was engulfed in a small cloud. You have to understand one thing. Insects seek me. Even when other people are not bothered, I am chased, bitten and stung. I inhale these things.

I immediately announced to Bernie that I could not stay here. We had to press on, even though I was tired. She asked where we would go. Good question. I had no idea. This is the south and this is spring. What would I expect anywhere else?

The trailer needed to be unhitched, and I started my strict procedure, but I couldn't think. I was baffled and again implored her to leave. She had that tired look on her face. I stood back for a second thought.

Repellent! Get me repellent, woman!

That simple solution had eluded me. The bugs left as quickly as they came. Unhitched, I headed into the camper, only to notice a goldish diamond patch on the screen door. I had no idea. Bernie smiled and explained they were citronella patches, stuck too the screen, and she had one stuck on her chest, like a badge. I felt left out. Where was my badge? Never mind that she had just hosed me down with repellent.

The drive yesterday from The Villages was probably the most unpleasant trip I have taken, but we made it, tired, hungry, cranky and I was deeply irritated by the some of the insane girations the Garmin GPS put us through. I would submit that its software was written by some Garmin officer's ninth-grade son.

What else caused a certain level of stress were the lack of rest stops along I-95 north of Jacksonville on th way to Savannah. Or maybe I missed them. I had third-party information in the GPS that was supposed to show us rest stops. It was complete unacceptable. Garmin's own information found one a few miles ahead at one point. Even though the point was shown on the northbound side and labeled that way, it was on the southbound side.

We asked the GPS for a truck stop. That was shown three miles off the interstate and off we went, grumbling why it would be so far off the road. It wasn't there. Just as we were getting back onto the interstate, there is was, on the other side, with no signs, I might ad.

The truck stop we finally found was a laugh. Getting fueled there would have been a trick. I watched the other campers try to squeeze out between the pumps and the front of the store. For trucks with campers, it was an almost impossible squeeze. Wouldn't you think a Flying J truck stop would have a careful designer? They clearly saved a lot of money with a less intelligent one. Luckily I had enough fuel to move on, after parking in another impossible-to-navigate area, where I slept for a half hour. I didn't feel compelled to actually buy anything there. Flying J did not deserve to be rewarded for its idiocy.

Of course the road was packed with with vehicles. Ninety-nine percent were doing it right. The other one percent deserved to be jailed for attempted murder. Thanks to the alert drivers a dozen accidents were averted.

I complain too much, but all this contributed to the tired, cranky guy waving and hopping amid the bugs.

Ahh, but the rest of the night was glorious. Fresh, clean air. Cool. Silence. Deep, sound sleep in this primeval forest.