The Silken Tent (This is "JournalCon -- Getting There," Part 2 of my JournalCon saga. If for some reason this is the first page of The Silken Tent you've ever seen, you might want to check JournalCon -- Anticipation.)
My Letter to the World
October 2000
October 7, 2000
Saturday
By the time I was ready to leave yesterday, I was several hours behind the schedule I had set for myself. This was due in part to my anxiety about the trip and in part to the way I normally operate, which involves anxiety about following through with just about anything. So it was going on 12:30 when I pulled in to the Front Street Uni-Mart for cash and gas.
Pittsburgh is almost due west of Harrisburg, 200 miles across the southern portion of the state by way of the well maintained Pennsylvania Turnpike, a limited access toll road. The road is so well maintained, in fact, that as soon as I got my ticket and chose the "Pittsburgh and West" ramp at Gate 16, I was informed by flashing temporary signs to expect "1 hour+ delays" between Gates 15 and 12 (more than half the trip).
Hmm. I knew about the construction -- the portion that I travel every Monday in the other direction also has a section that has been in various stages of repair for two years. But I'd never experienced a delay, just a stretch where the posted speed limit goes from 65 to 55 (which means most people drive 65 instead of 75). Under perfect conditions, I'd be entering Pittsburgh at 4:30. A delay meant I might miss the Gala Dinner. Once again, I cursed my inability to adhere to my own schedule.
I stopped at the service plaza just before Gate 15. I hadn't eaten anything all day, and I thought I could grab a quick snack to tide me over until the Gala Dinner. The place had just that moment been taken over by a busload of senior citizens -- dozens and dozens of them filing in to stand in line at the TCBY and McDonald's counters. I got a package of cheese crackers from a vending machine and studied the map of alternative routes around the construction. This appeared to involve an extra fifty miles on a road that I figured was a two-lane winding blacktop interrupted periodically by tiny towns with badly regulated stoplights. Better to take my chances on the turnpike.
Not far beyond the service plaza, traffic did indeed slow, and then stop. I was behind two big tank trucks, one in either lane, and couldn't see beyond. Some drivers were strolling about. One was leaning on the median enjoying a smoke. They looked like they were there to stay.
One of them told me that up ahead was the section where the road was only one lane each way. The traffic heading east was moving well. Westbound travelers were waiting for the removal of a car that had run out of gas about six miles ahead. They'd been stopped for twenty minutes. I could still see the exit ramp of the service plaza I'd just left, and the sign that warned "Next Service Plaza 39 miles." What is wrong with people?
Traffic began moving again about twenty minutes later. It had taken me two hours to go fifty miles.
The rest of the trip was uneventful -- just a straight line through territory that gradually changes from flat farmland to slightly more rolling country to, finally, the mountains. Reaching Pittsburgh involves passing through five tunnels cut through the rock. The last leg of the trip goes past forests that displayed some of the brightest autumn colors I'd seen in a long time. But I barely looked at them, intent as I was to get to Pittsburgh, check in, and get settled in time for the Gala Dinner.
The Westin William Penn is an old hotel in downtown Pittsburgh. Designed by Henry Clay Frick, it's all vaulted ceilings and ornate mirrors, big squashy chairs and bell men who bring your drink or your messages on a silver tray offered with a gloved hand, just like in a 1940s movie. They wear uniforms that look a little like West Point's. The doorman, however, has to wear a ridiculous costume of ruffled shirt, tri-corner hat, and knee breeches. I unloaded my bags into his care and parked my car myself in an underground garage directly across the street (cost: $3 a day vs. $23 a day for the hotel staff to take it over there -- you do the math).
It was going on six when I checked in. "You have a message," the clerk said, and handed me a printout.
The friend I had planned to see Sunday night and Monday would not be in town until Tuesday.
Things had not started well.
(Previous -- Next)
Letters 2000
Archive of 1999 Letters
Back to the Index PageThis journal updates irregularly.
To learn when new pieces are added, join the Notify List.
The contents of this page are © 2000 by
Margaret DeAngelis.Love it? Hate it? Just want to say hi? Click on my name above.