The morning of June 11th was one all-too-typical of Cleveland in summer: cloudy, a bit muggy, soggy. Dagobah. I oblige nature to help the grass along. I like a rainy day. But travel isn't travel when it's not under a blue canopy. The low pressure front was an east-to-west affair, fortunately, and weather radar showed it breaking off abruptly over Erie, Pennsylvania. That meant Paul and I would cross into sunny skies during the first third of our trip. Taking a picture of the Albany Excursion Vehicle — my darling PT Cruiser with aftermarket, mullioned wood grain, affectionately known as Dolly — I noted that beauty made some use of the wetness before I wished it to go the hell away, pronto.
A few minutes later I arrived at Chez Paul. And parked in the street.
The PT Cruiser can be forgiven for its Dodge Neon guts because its interior is as respectively convenient, modular and downright roomy as the Dodge Minivan and Chrysler Town & Country. I've only used most of the extended rear space once, and even then I had cubic feet to spare. Paul was packing some heavy camera equipment and even then we didn't make a dent.
Jaws set, a silent mockery of the devil, pain and death before the great odyssey begins. We look awfully tough in this picture...
...because this is how the one before it turned out.
Life imitates art. The ATM, spiriting away the stolen plans, brought them to a promising young accountant who would successfully restructure the galaxy's balance sheet.
We merged with Interstate 90 East and pushed out through Cleveland, driving through buckets of Northeast Ohio's finest.
Half an hour later, beyond Greater Cleveland, Paul and I stopped at Mentor, a favorite pit stop from my tradition of trips to Syracuse with my father and sister. We topped off the tank and rolled across the street to pick up a coffee, orange juice and a couple of hash brown sticks at McDonald's; then returned to I-90, not to stop again until Angola, New York.
The rain came down progressively lighter as the ceiling began to rise, the clouds beginning to show folds and creases. A painting on the back of that RV in the bottom picture was hilarious and I asked Paul to take a snapshot for memories. Thanks to my windshield wiper, we'll never remember what it was.
Into Pennsylvania we crossed...
And then the Empire State.
On cue, the clouds began to tear and recede. Paul offered to take a shot of the striation...
...And now I find myself with a timely business opportunity. Copies of this printed out at eight by ten inches on attractive fiber paper with yellow turned up: who says it ain't Saturn? You? Okay — what's your cut? And keep your mouth shut.
And there, large as life: the New York Thruway.
Angola. They did — very much so, as soon as the transaction had been authorized.
As if it were choreographed, sunshine painted the landscape, the air warmed up to the high sixties and the car's windows went down — seventy-five miles per hour or no. From here until Albany, Paul and I enjoyed perfect driving weather.
We stopped for lunch at a rest stop right outside of Syracuse. The big-rigs looked sharp lined up so after Paul and I had finished and took a moment out for a peach and an apple back in the car, I took a picture. Paul followed suit, his photograph on the bottom.
Minutes later I noticed some excellent taste in personal transportation parking beside us. As before, I tried a shot (at top) and then Paul (at bottom).
The day played nice and stayed beautiful.
Bound for Albany. I believe Depeche Mode's Construction Time Again was playing. My choice, of course.
If at first you don't succeed, trinitrotoluene.
Around Utica, a growl and flash of black brought a biker gang at Dolly's seven, flanking us on the left slowly and methodically. The point man, Santa Claus as a black leather-clad Hell's Angel, rode alone and some fifteen feet ahead of the pack; behind him, the brothers came in echelon, one pair after another. Every one of the riders looked tougher than anything; the leader could probably peel paint by so much as clearing his throat.
How tough is tough? Ask this fellow and his friends. They wrote the book.
And away they went.
Eight hours after we'd started, we pulled up to Ed's house. Paul made a phone call home. I got out to stretch, enjoy the view and rap on Ed's front door.
The hatchback was open for us to unload but we chatted instead.
Paul and Ed. Funnily enough, Paul's birthday is the same as mine, Ed's ten days earlier in the month. The three of us went inside and caught up a little more before heading out to the local Mangia for dinner, helping ourselves to all manner of exotic oven-fired pizzas.
After dinner we dawdled a bit in Western Avenue's Stuyvesant Plaza. Walking along, Ed stopped us dead in our tracks, turning to face a toy shop's storefront window. A stuffed Aardvark had caught Ed's attention and he, a collector of such things, took the three of us inside. Of course, we didn't need much coaxing. Paul and I immediately descended on some plastic viking gear. He snatched up the helmet and I, upon being told by a couple of thoroughly jaded teenage clerks that they were fresh out of the caps, grabbed the helmet's accompanying plastic sword. We gave the place a quick tour, played around with some outstanding, expensive Folkmanis puppets and left. Paul quickly put on his helmet. I tore my sword from its package, discovered belt slits through the scabbard and fit the thing to my waist. Ed pretended he didn't know us. We came home, Ed and Paul hit the beer, I the root beer, and we shot the breeze.
Everybody got a turn with the cap. Ed's housemate wandered in and out for a few laughs. Things became a little sillier.
We stumbled across some truths. Democrats, for instance, need stuffed animals.
Independents prefer Transformers.
Republicans wait until nobody's looking, then jump right out of character. Storm Shadow.
At eleven or so, Ed brought out his unopened copy of Bill Murray's Lost in Translation and the three of us helped ourselves to an inaugural viewing. Ed had mentioned the movie in a phone conversation some weeks before; I was expecting something much darker than the smart, poignant but mostly harmless film that Lost was. Enjoyable. Scarlett Johansson was delightful to watch, if a little rustic. Murray's deadpan was priceless, and half the fun was figuring out which lines were scripted and which were straight off the top of his head.
After the movie we played a little bit of favored timewaster Timesplitters 2, then called it a night. We had a busy day ahead.
