by luddite lady on 18 May 2009 15:30
Here's one more installment. I am trying really hard to get this done before the one year anniversary. Thanks so much for indulging me like this.
Part 34
I returned to the hotel room and surveyed the scene for a moment as my children slept. The place was a disaster, but I was feeling rather triumphant. As manager of this bizarre little tour, I think I had done a pretty good job. I had kept my band fairly content, we weren’t late for any of our scheduled gigs, and I was running slightly under budget. Best of all, nobody had cracked anybody’s ribs yet. But the day was young. My biggest challenges as tour manager lay before me still. Using a combination of my Kim Turner imitation and seductive promises of a visit to a mega-mall situated on our way to Manhattan, I succeeded in getting us all up, fed, showered, packed and checked out.
Dancerina and Sporterella enjoyed their long awaited shopping trip. The Boy had a smashing time too, thanks to the mall’s numerous video game shops. After lunch in the food court we resumed our trip. Our tour now was running substantially over budget.
I had carefully mapped out our trip from the Long Island hotel to the one we had booked in Mid-town New York. I had even been sure to include the side trip to the shopping mall and walking directions for the one block jaunt from the hotel’s parking to the hotel itself. Unfathomably, in my excited and detailed planning, I had completely forgotten my debilitating fear of tunnels. I’m fine with subway tunnels, but I get shivers just thinking about the type of tunnel that motorists use to go under the waterways around New York. I was abruptly reminded of my fear as we approached the Queens-Midtown Tunnel.
“Oh my god! We’re going into a tunnel! We’re about to enter a tunnel!” I exclaimed through clenched teeth.
“Yeah,” said a confused Dancerina, “This would be the tunnel we’ve been helping you follow the signs to for the last ten minutes.”
“But, it’s a TUNNEL!” I wailed as we were swallowed by the well-lit, tiled abyss. “Why didn’t you tell me it was a tunnel?!”
Sporterella had picked up on what was sparking my irrationality and understood the dangers posed by having a madwoman behind the wheel of a fast moving vehicle.
She tried to calm me, “Oh, your tunnel thing. I thought about that, but I figured you had gotten over it when you mapped a route that included one. I was proud of you. You can do this.”
“It’s not like a have a choice!”
I once managed the Lincoln tunnel rather well, but it was at the height of rush hour and I was able to focus on the bumper in front of me as we crawled along. This time, traffic was going at the limit. In fact, there were no vehicles in front of or behind me to help me gauge my speed. This terrified me further. I felt like I was going at rocket speed and yet the tunnel seemed endless.
“What’s the speed limit? Tell me the speed limit!”
“How should we know?” retorted Dancerina. She gets irritated when somebody other than herself is being irrational. “It’s in stupid miles per hour anyway.”
We use kilometres per hour in Canada. However, I’m accustomed to miles per hour due to all the driving I’ve done in the States. I had survived with mph just fine all week. Plus, the rental car I was using showed both units of measure on its speedometer. But now, in my panic, the speedometer seemed to be written in hieroglyphics. Just as I was thinking (or perhaps actually saying), “What the fuck is a mile per hour?”, I saw blessed light in front of me, marking the end of this trip through my own personal Hades. By comparison, driving the streets of Mid-town Manhattan was an experience of blissful tranquility and security. Yup, I’m nuts. I drove straight ahead allowing my heart rate to go down and my knuckles to return to pink as I loosened my vice-like grip on the steering wheel. My children wisely remained silent.
When my breathing had returned to normal, Sporterella gently asked if we ought not try to find our way to the hotel. By now we had almost crossed town and were heading for the Lincoln Tunnel. Smart girl!
It took over a half hour to navigate the one-way streets back to our Eastside hotel since my carefully crafted Google maps were now useless. We checked in, clearing the last hurdle before our long trip’s grand finish line, Fat Annie’s and MSG. Would I do it all again to reach this beautiful moment? Of course, but next time I’d take the bridge.
In Dallas, the only game that really mattered was in the word gamelan.
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