Brooklyn, NY—The best and most substantial part of today’s drive from Boston to New York City was through Connecticut on the Merritt Parkway. Enclosed by trees reaching over it and divided by a wide, grassy median, it is not only easy on the eyes but stimulating to the imagination: At any given time, you expect and almost hope Robin Hood and his band of merry men will pull up alongside you on horseback and cheerfully relieve you of your cargo.
It wouldn’t be easy for them to do so. For one thing, their horses would have to be on some pretty serious steroids. For another, entrance ramps pop up so frequently that the right lane is unofficially reserved exclusively for merging vehicles. People traveling the full length of the Parkway, as I did today, are crowded into the left lane, invariably led by someone moving more slowly than his followers would prefer. Attempts to get around the slowpokes and glimpse a stretch of open road are typically, shall we say, daring.
When I first embarked on this journey, a great many people wished me safe travels and encouraged me to drive safely. This is very funny to me now, because, while I didn’t realize it at the time, driving away from the northeast was actually the safest thing I could have done. For better or worse, I have returned to the Land of Asshole Drivers.
Brooklyn Lager’s Namesake
Like Chicago, I’ve spent enough time in New York that I didn’t feel the need to make any discoveries on this visit, and I chose instead to relax with some good friends in Brooklyn. After some Rock Band domination with Philadelphia’s own Mickie Cathers and my rock star host Stan (who you may know as Jason Santa Maria), we strolled out to Pacifico for the final Mexican feast of this trip. We were met by Mike Essl, Mia Eaton, and Chris Fahey, all of whom confessed that they only showed up to get a mention on this blog. We’ll just see about that.
We finished the night with some drinks at Robin des Bois with Liz Danzico and her friends visiting from Japan. They’re heading home tomorrow, too. Raising a glass to ending our respective travels and going our separate ways was fittingly bittersweet.