Finally, after a minor delay by Old Man Winter, I’m back on the Cape! I got up early this morning and headed out onto the easiest, most Megan-proof route towards home (even I can’t screw up following Route 95 to New England).
I’m happily sitting in my living room, Bruins hockey in action and watching my father point the remote control at me and wonder aloud why the mute button isn’t working.
So out of laziness and a compulsion to utilize (or justify) the fruits of my hazardous efforts on the road today, the following is a pictorial essay of my drive home.
NOTE: Call me biased, but there really is nothing noteworthy to photograph until you get into New England- that’s why we’ll just skip over the unremarkable (but toll-laden) Maryland/Delaware/New Jersey Turnpike portion of my journey.
After getting excited at seeing the first signs pointing to the George Washington Bridge, it was almost another hour before I go to this point. It took about six hours to get across, so I pulled out my camera and tried to entertain myself. Okay, so it wasn’t really six hours, but no one should be snapping pictures from the driver’s seat of a car, thus I blame New York for enabling my snap-happy bad habit during the trip’s remainder.
Although a small state, Connecticut is an absolute slog to drive through. I sped the whole way and was stuck behind a bus headed to Foxwoods that refused to relinquish control of the passing lane. I’d say the only highlight of the journey down the Connecticut coast is seeing the “Do Not Stop- Correctional Facility” sign as you approach the Rhode Island border.
I LOVE Rhode Island for several reasons (it’s not New Jersey, not Connecticut….), but this shot shows the primary one. The second reason is T.F. Green Airport, followed closely by the picture below:
I also love the New England Pest Control bug, and I was even more excited that I could successfully manage a photo of him today. If you look closely, he is wearing a Rudolph costume, which I guess means that the bug people simply wedge a red balloon in between its antennae for about a month. I almost merged into a car as I took this priceless photo, simultaneously trying to get onto the Route 195 ramp and ensure that I actually didn’t take 95 all the way up to Maine. Stop shaking your head! At lease I’m impressed with myself!
This one is self-explanatory. I was happy.
I hate this sign. Do you see water? Have you gone over a bridge? Well then guess what, you’re not on Cape Cod yet!
BRIDGE! We have a little game in my house, which is a very attention-intensive, fast-paced and intellectually challenging activity that consists of trying to be the first person to punch the ceiling of the car and shout “Bridge!” when the Bourne or Sagamore Bridge starts to come into sight. In this case, I called it first, even though my brother tried to call me exactly as it was coming into view and as I was already texting him. So it’s my blog, and he can’t prove otherwise, so I win!
Can’t see the bridge? Well then guess what? You just lost the game….
I’m going over the Bourne Bridge. Yes, I know that the photo is terrible, but really- I was completely stupid to be taking my eyes off the road and attempting such a shot in the first place. Good thing the roads were devoid of all “summer people” or else my long journey would have surely met an unfortunate end. Yes….I just placed potential blame on other people for my poor driving choices.
I wanted to show you the Cape Cod “shrub art” (my own expression, I borrowed it from the equally inappropriate yet ubiquitous “nail art” term) that you see at the bottom of the Bourne Bridge.
This is my exit. I’m only posting it here in case you ever want to come and visit me.
If your name is John, then you are obligated to honk the car horn as you travel underneath this underpass and make your way up Thomas B.
We live very, very close to the Falmouth dump. In fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that our house is actually on dump property. Stop by my house unannounced while I’m not staying there, and you’ll think the same thing.
Less than a mile from my house. I look down as I’m snapping pictures and wonder, “How long has that been on?”
That’s correct, this is my road…
…..and it hasn’t really been plowed.
Home is the best place to be. My dad lives in the barn behind the truck.
Here he is looking outside at me, wondering if I’m gonna actually come inside. My brother did a great job decorating the place for Christmas. Mother Nature pitched in too with a nice background to compliment the greenery acquired from the Christmas Tree Shop.
Brothers are also great for helping crazy sisters mover their junk indoors without being asked. He probably deserves a good tip for his troubles, but don’t tell him I said that.
Gratuitous photos of the house just after sunset. Dead silence and you can almost hear the snow settling.
Donning my dad’s leather jacket to go to the mailbox and see if my Winter Classic tickets had been delivered! As you can see from my smile, I had not yet looked through the mail, because they weren’t there. Maybe tomorrow!
And now you’re brought up to speed (I know what you’re thinking: “Thank God!”). Four of us watching the game. No score as of yet in the second period, but it doesn’t look like the B’s are shaping up to win this one. That’s okay, I’ll be sitting in the chair for the next couple of weeks and they are bound to win something.