a document of days

After a nice hot meal and a long goodbye, I bid Ryan farewell and started my journey home. It was Thursday, December 20th and I was off to Connecticut to celebrate Christmas with my family. Though it was a bit too cold to roll down the windows and let the wind whip through my hair, I still anticipated the classic road trip scenario: just me, my dog, and the open road. With good weather and no traffic, the trek from DC to CT usually takes six hours.

As luck would have it, the highway was empty and the rain was still 12 hours behind me. Making good time, I could already see myself pulling into my parents' long, snowy driveway. But right around 10pm I started to hear a peculiar grinding sound. I snapped off the radio and leaned into the dash. The grinding persisted and with it the sweet aroma of burning rubber. I slapped on my hazards and yanked the wheel to the right. In an instant, my dreams of a warmly lit house changed to an image of just me, my dog, and a burning Volkswagen.

I slithered out of the passenger door to observe the wheel (my first guess at the location of the grinding). No smoke. No flames. And only a lingering scent of burnt rubber.

For those of you who have driven the New Jersey Turnpike you know that there are often stretches of 30 miles or more between exits. Further, when you do happen upon an exit, it is usually a rest stop consisting of a gas station and a McDonalds. Though I wasn't feeling it at the time, the fact that I was less than a mile away from a town loaded with hotels was quite lucky.

I puttered off the highway, already in alarm, failing to note my exit or location. I pulled into the first hotel, a Holiday Inn, and cut the engine. As I sat for a moment, weighing my options, I notice a blue mini-van and a white Ford Expedition parked behind me. The man to whom the Expedition belonged sidled up to the minivan. Thinking they, too, were travelers, I didn't give them a second thought.

I was quickly discouraged by the girl behind the desk. They did not allow dogs in the hotel.

Back at the car, I paced, talking to my parents and to Ryan about my mechanical maladies, my lack of lodging. Caught up in my own situation, I was taken aback when I noticed the man with the Ford rushing past me, repeating, 'I've got business to take care of' into his Bluetooth. My eyes followed as he approached a hotel room door straight ahead. As soon as he opened the door a seemingly endless stream of men came pouring out. They all looked similar to one another: puffer jackets, do-rags, jewelry, Timberlands. Pushing against the outbound stream, a small white man carrying a briefcase. He was the driver of the minivan.

At first no one took notice of me. The men piled into a few cars and idled in the lot. But then one man stopped at the car parked in front of mine, leaned in, lit a cigarette, and never took his eyes off me.

The whole scene was sketchy and I was terribly nervous. I didn't know what I was witnessing, nor did I care. I just knew I needed to leave. I started my engine. All heads turned; the clangor was remarkable! I zoomed out of the parking lot in a panic and was nearly sideswiped by another vehicle.

Safely parked in a neighboring hotel, I waited anxiously on the telephone as Ryan searched the internet for pet-friendly accommodations.

The story continues tomorrow...