Dana and I loaded our rented Chrysler Town & Country with the milk-crates of books and miscellaneous supplies that have been in storage in my parents’ house for years and drove off for New York City. It was overcast during the 7.5-hour drive with only spots of drizzle.
Midway through Pennsylvania, we encountered a drunk, stoned or distracted driver in a tan safari-like vehicle that frequently crept over the white lines. He’d also do confusing things like leave his left-hand blinker as he drove in the passing lane. We gave him a wide berth and then lost him when we stopped for lunch. Hours later, as we approached the George Washington Bridge just outside New York City, a massive backup of cars clogged the upper-deck tollbooths. Because it was around 5 p.m., we chalked it up to rush hour. But as the line of traffic moved a few hundred feet onto the bridge, we spotted the wayward driver in the tan safari-car who had gotten into an (apparently minor) accident and was blocking the left two of the four lanes at a rakish angle. Sweet, sweet just desserts.
Reaching my apartment building at last, we learned the elevator that had been out of commission for the two weeks before Christmas was still inoperable. We had to make about 10 trips up and down four flights of stairs with all my stuff. When it was over, we were out of breath and ached like old people, and still had a stressful drive ahead of us to return the car to LaGuardia before it turned back into a pumpkin.