Why is it that you run into chatty people when you least feel like it? Even nice chatty people can get on your last nerve when you've only got a last nerve left. On our way back from NYC to Toronto to begin our vacation we ran into every conceiveable problem. Somewhere just before entering into Pennsylvania the traffic slowed to a crawl. We were muttering and cursing the lost time.
We kept watching our 'ETA' change on as Ted, our GPS updated the new arrival time every frigging minute. I'm convinced that guy can be such a jerk. Then we rounded a corner and there were flashing lights of every design. A huge accident, one that obviously caused serious harm, had happened. We both felt guilty, both for muttering and cursing when someone so obviously had a much worse day than we had, and for being annoyed that the accident was costing so much of our time. I'm convinced that when you plop your ass down on a car seat you lose a sense of humanity.
Then later we were tied up in construction. Why is it that whenever we drive by construction the construction workers seem to be doing nothing more than standing, smoking, scratching their collective asses and watching traffic slowly pass by. It wouldn't annoy me so much except I think that at least a million dollars in tax money is paid out every year for 'relief of buttockial itching' and that along with the billions paid for horking lugies on the side of the road could fund some actual construction work.
By now we'd lost nearly two hours of time. We got to the border and Joe went into to empty his bladder and pick some beer up so he could fill it again upon return home. Then we crossed the border. The border guard, four days older than sperm, asked where we were, what we were doing, and attempted to look interested in the exploits of men 14 times his age. We answered his questions honestly. No, we didn't buy cigarettes. No, we don't have any guns or ammo on board. No, we aren't smuggling plant clippings into the province. Plant clippings? Who knew? Osama Bin Climatis is the real threat.
Then, right after talking to the border guard we pulled up to pay a toll. It has never been clear what the toll is for. There is no bridge there. It's like you have to pay $3.50 to enter Canada. A cheaper ticket can't be found anywhere. I think we should trumpet the fact that all the guns, ammo and plant clippings were left at the border and we can enter not fearing for our lives or the lives of our tomatoes.
Now, as you have all be patiently waiting, except for the one or two of you - off meds - who are screaming at the computer, get to the chatty person part that you started of with. To you I say, literally, take a pill.
As I was saying, we now go to pay the toll and there is this young guy working there who sees the wheelchair in the back seat of the car and he's off. Apparently he was in a car accident in the states where he was run over, twice. Twice, yep. The guy who hit him backed up over him again. I'm figurring he was just trying to shut him up. Anyways he ended up being in a coma from Thanksgiving to Christmas. He didn't tell us if it was American Thanksgiving or Canadian Thanksgiving so it's hard to tell if it was a prodigious coma or just a really deep sleep.
Anyways, he was in a wheelchair for almost a year, and he met all these people with disabilities and they were all like, and I'm quoting here either, 'real people' or 'real good people'. The other guys in the wheelchairs with him there in the hospital they were 'like amazing'. Then he, I'm not kidding, raised his fist in a salute of brotherhood and wished us well.
About five K's into the country we started to laugh. Outright laugh. I openned my window and gave a fist salute to the night. And in a teeny tiny way. I meant it.