“Turn right, then turn right,” and “Oh dear, turn around when possible.” gets OLD. On the way, we found ourselves on I 90, just around New York City. That’s when the trouble began. In order to travel over the George Washington Bridge, only a three mile stretch, we sat in the car during horrible, rush hour traffic. It took us about an hour and forty-five minutes to get from the beginning of the three miles to the end. Of course, we had been waiting all day to reach a certain gas station in New Jersey which sold FlexFuel, which our car would take. When we had three miles to go, this would have been no problem- an hour and forty five minutes later, however, we were running on fumes. This meant that we had to get off somewhere once past the three mile hell streak, and that place was New York, and we had to get there FAST. We reached the toll at the beginning of the bridge, and asked the attendant where the best place to get gas would be. Her answer?
“Best place was before the bridge.”
Helpful, right? The best gas station was behind us. Onward we drove, narrowly missing the crazy drivers of both New Jersey and New York. They are completely fearless, zipping in and around anyone going too slow, creating their own lanes, pulling out in front of a car if they want to or need to, no ten-second blinker time, no, ‘Will you let me in?’ they go. We drove over the bridge, this time going much faster but even more dependent on fumes, and suddenly found ourselves in a jungle like no other. New York. Suffice it to say, that driving in and around and over and under and stopping and starting and LOTS of car horns were a part of our lives for the next twenty minutes. We were on the phone with family members who were sitting safe at their computers looking for the nearest gas station for us, freaking out over the six cars who almost hit us, and worrying about the fact that our stopping and starting could soon become a permanent fixture, running out of gas in the middle of the Bronx, what we later discovered to be Harlem... How’s THAT for daunting? Thankfully, after much honking, trial and error, along with directions from several people who didn’t speak English, we made it to a BP, our last choice in refueling, but filled up all the same.
Then, we reassessed. Five, polite non-New Yorkers driving through Harlem in a rental car. We drove and stopped, and almost got “t-boned” whatever the heck that is. Finally, once moderately safe, we pulled over and laughed for about twenty minutes, part stress, part, “Oh my gosh, we just about died” and a heavy dose of exhaustion.
Eventually, we got to our hotel- sorry- motel, lovingly renamed “Little India.” The place smelled like curry, and not in a good way. It was nine pm when everything was moved into our room, and we were all starving. Back to the car we went, stopping at a restaurant that had Chicken in its name. We stopped in, sat down, and twenty minutes later after the waitress finally came over, were told that there was absolutely no chicken in the restaurant, meaning that they had hot dogs and rice. Obviously, we had to leave. Found another place, whose entrees ranged $15-20. Great for roadtrippers 3,000 miles away from home.
|Isn't it cute?|