And then there was . . .

Georgia. We set off at ten on Sunday morning, hopes held trembling in our hands along with a double iced espresso, a large cup of coffee, and a vanilla double latte (Sean f-in loves that shit.) And headed out down the Mass Pike, soon to turn southwards, ever, ever southwards.

There were difficulties, yes, and the car shook if we went over eighty (the bike rack ruining our aerodynamics, our shimmies shook our confidences.) But we made it past new york two, up and over the tappen zee bridge and then into New Jersey. Fucking New Jersey, parking lot between NYC and Philly, the bane of any and every traveler. Once we hit the turnpike we were in this:

And that lasted for quite some time, I'm not sure, but at least eventually we made it out of the traffic and made our sweet way into the Richard Stockton Service area.

And oh what a rest it was. I got a call from 1369 telling me that I got the job, and then we continued to head south.

Now, in medias res, I'll explain a little about the adventure, and how it came to be. This is Sean:

Sean is one of my oldest and bestest friends. He is not Mao, nor is he any sort of famine-causing tyrant. He's something altogether worse. Hes a Grad student. In Classics. At UGA. As I learned that I had lost my job, Sean made a fortuitous query. He asked me to drive him to Georgia. And I agreed.

Getting back to our story, it wasn't long before we crossed the Delaware Bridge, put Baltimore and DC behind us, and made our torrid, pants-soaked way into the wilds of Virginia. It was about this time that Seans friend, er, Mary, called him, and asked him to make a slight detour. Where to? Saint-FUCKING-LOUIS. Anyway, we made it into North Carolina, but outside Charlotte,at 3:30 am we lost a tire. We called AAA, but we didn't know where the fuck we were, and when we gave them the street names of the intersection where we were layed up, they didn't know where the fuck we were either. I tried asking at a gas station, but for the life of me, couldn't understand what the fuck the girl behind the counter was saying. Anyway, we got out, got the car to a garage, and grabbed a room in a motel for the night, and proceeded to wonder why there weren't any hookers around. We'd have gone to the 24-hour strip joint down the road, but we didn't even realize it was there till the next morning.

Next morning we wake up, I grab a cup of coffee and go over to see how the car is doing. It's 9 oclock and the car won't be done till 11, so I head back to the motel, shower, grab some more coffee, make plans for breakfast and abandon them, and then the car is ready and we head off for Georgia. Time lost: 8 hours. Money lost: $170.

We make it through the rest of N. Carolina just fine, and then S. Carolina, which is the fireworks capital of the universe.
Literally every mile, on the mile, is an exit, a gas station, and a fireworks stand. Occasionally you'll be lucky enough to get a combination gas station, fireworks stand, porn store, topless bar, and pay showers, all in one, but for the most part, you get your gas and your fireworks, and maybe, if you're real lucky, you get a giant peach
Which is about the lamest fucking thing I can remember.

Anyway, we got to Georgia three and a half hours later, and took in what there was to take in, while setting up Sean in his new digs. We went to bars, played Ms. Pacman:

Got our fill of beer, and then malteds, passed out, woke up, got coffee, found alethea, went to a cool record store
And an even cooler semi-vegetarian restaurant
And then Alethea and I headed back. Along the way we met the fabled boyfriend of Mingen, and saw his apartment, and worried he might be a jackalope, those being common in such parts.

Before we knew it, we were back in MA, heading to the middle east, and having a rollicking good time.

Next episode: Watching Teanna Watch Jamie Watch Me