Wednesday, March 21, 2007

You Can't Get There From Here, Honeymoon Part I

Our honeymoon begins!

As we drive away from my parents' house in Virginia, empty tallboys bumping along behind us, the DNB presents me with a binder of Vermont tourism information. In it are colorful brochures showcasing resort ski slopes, dog sledding excursions, and night snow mobiling; a list of spa services; maps to our destination and the surrounding areas; and location information for nearby bars, Blockbusters, and boutiques. This bodes very well, I think. My new husband has planned ahead! And printed! And collated!

We leave in the early afternoon, inspired by our caffeine addictions to drive through the wee hours to reach Hubbardton, Vermont as soon as possible. We have generously been offered a family member's vacation home for the duration - secluded and free, the perfect student honeymoon combination. We reach Hubbardton at about 2:00am and finally turn onto the long country road where we are staying. The fog is dreadful - so thick in patches that we can barely see the road ahead of us, much less the houses along it. But the DNB's trusty binder contains all the driving directions we need: we look for #4868.

On our first pass down the road, we miss the house. No matter, it is difficult to see with all the pesky fog. We turn around miles past it and drive slowly back. I am vastly knowledgeable about scientific matters, so I know that fog is formed when the relative humidity reaches 100% at ground level. Frizzing hair be damned, I resolve, and stick my head out the window, hoping to see the numbered mailboxes better. We miss it a second time. Our fourth pass and an hour later, I am beginning to lose faith in the trusty binder and am feeling a tad bit cranky.

"Husband dearest?" I ask too sweetly. "Are you absolutely sure that 4868 is the right address?"

He is certain it is, but, mind altered by all of the Newly Wedded Bliss, is willing to double-check. He boots up his computer to search for the address in his email. Our bad luck continues! Low on battery, the computer turns on for just long enough to give us hope before dying in a blaze of warning messages.

We turn around again, and head back towards town. Not known for its thriving nightlife, Hubbardton is devoid of available electrical outlets at 3am. Realizing that rousing random residences might be frowned upon in this part of the country, we pull over to the side of an intersection to strategize.

A red truck appears! "You folks lost?" the driver asks, teeth gaping and hair greasy and disheveled. If this were a movie, we'd soon be chopped into little bits by a wild-eyed loner wielding a chainsaw. But as fate would have it, this is only a disastrous honeymoon, so with directions from the helpful local, we find ourselves at the area's only 24-hour gas station.

"We do have an outlet," the gas station clerk offers. "But it's in the bathroom." Obviously.

So the DNB trudges into the bathroom to charge his computer and, perhaps, to complete a transaction or two. It is several minutes before he returns.

"4969. . . . " he says woefully, trailing off. We had driven past it a dozen times.

It is close to 3:30am before we reach the right house and drive up the long driveway. A security light flashes on, illuminating the small house eerily in the fog. A security camera, either fake or unused, is mounted to the garage, and the alarm system flashes small orange lights. I peer into the darkness behind us, looking for red trucks.

We go inside. There are flies everywhere! Mostly dead, some alive. On the arm of the sofa, on the edge of the bathroom sink, on the mantle, on the stove. This does not make me more cheery.

As the DNB commandeered the gas station bathroom, I find myself in need of one (a regular house bathroom, not a gas station one). Disaster strikes again! In a horrible twist of miscommunication and misunderstanding, the Man Who Opens The House did not, in fact, Open The House! This means that there is no running water and no heat. This does not make me more cheery either, but I valiantly press on, legs tightly crossed.

The bedrooms are well-appointed for a family vacation - in fact, the whole house is - full of futons and twin beds. However, most honeymoons involve a variety of two-person activities, some of which may be made more enjoyable with a two-person sized bed. Sleeping, for instance. I finally find the only suitable one, a small lumpy double with an aging throw, and sink down on it.

I can't help it. I begin to cry. Not lovely movie tears, but sniffling, slobbering, puffy eyes and running nose tears. This is where the DNB finds me a few minutes later.

As a Typical Male, he sits helplessly for the duration. And in fifteen minutes it is over. While he unloads the car, I spring into action, turning the living room into a suite at least fit for a mid-grade hotel.

The sun is rising on a spring-like day as we finally go to bed.

1 comment:

julie said...

Oh I am so glad you have started a blog...it is going to be so much fun keeping up with you guys.