By blind emmet
See how they run….
It is an annual event, like the Grunion run. The Three Blind Mice make an annual trip to East Aurora, New York to see a Buffalo Bills game, celebrate Timmy Galucki’s hockey career and rediscover the glory of Beef on Weck. Sure it’s 600 miles, but we get to see the Patriots win (almost every year) and tailgate for three hours before the game even starts.
There are some people who require adult supervision each time they leave the house. We had none.
I need every gadget known to man to get me anywhere. I have a trusty GPS (donated by Florida Mark) and it remains faithful (unless you drive into Washington, D. C.) with only occasional nervous breakdowns. “Recalculating!” This year the trip included a trip to the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. I was willing to follow the English woman who lives inside my GPS to get me there, off the New York Thruway.
Jefferson Phil, who used to be Buffalo Phil, had a better idea. He knew a “shortcut” that would get us to the (already secured) motel long before the 4:15 ETA offered by the GPS. Since Waldo Walt is easily the smartest of this trio and Jefferson Phil used to live there, I bowed to “superior” knowledge. The next thing I knew we were inching through downtown Albany with crack for sale on each corner. At least I thought so.
I kept my eye on the GPS and the ETA at the Cooperstown motel.
Whenever that English woman in the GPS told us to make a turn, Jefferson Phil (let’s call him JP) overrode the decision and went somewhere else. “I lived here,” he said again and again.
Desperate times call, of course, for desperate measures. Waldo Walt employed a map, for God sake. We sort of surrounded Cooperstown. We were lost with a map and GPS. The GPS ordered us to take a gravel road and we were so desperate that we actually took it
We thought the worst of it was over when we finally found Cooperstown, just where it was supposed to be. It is a charming town, replete with motels which offer beds and television for the approaching football game between Denver and Baltimore. I hate them both and prayed that both would somehow lose. You might think our troubles would be over. Waldo Walt (let’s call him WW) in an amazing show of planning had secured the motel before we left Maine. It was the “Red Roof Inn” he assured us in his lace-curtain, Northampton-imperious manner. I checked it out on my GPS and they said they had a “Red Carpet Inn” only a few miles away.
Nope. It was the “Red Roof Inn” and we set off looking for it….and looking for it. We passed, and rejected the Red Carpet Inn and just kept driving.
Finally when we were approaching the Montreal city limits (well, it seemed like it) we decided to turn around and check the Red Carpet Inn, now 10 miles behind us. Yes, WW had reservations and we all stumbled into the room, unloaded the very loaded car and looked for sustenance. I noticed the Pepper Mill Restaurant on our trips up and down Route 10. It was now approaching 8 p.m. and we were ready for meat and potatoes.
We didn’t even get to our Pepper Mill seats when someone yelled from the kitchen “We are out of food.” I have learned from decades of folly that you never leave a restaurant for any reason. Believe me; it only gets worse the more you drive. It seemed that the Black Crowes had performed nearby and their fans descended like locusts on the Pepper Mill and ate everything but the napkins.
Prime rib. Out. Turkey dinner. Out. Salad bar. Out. All marinara dishes. Out. Haddock dinner. Out. WW settled on the calamari. Out.
They offered the chicken parm dish, not with marinara (gone) but with some remaining al fredo sauce. Too weird. I ordered a cheeseburger, since they had a few left. At least we got to see the Red Sox pound the Yankees.
To add insult to hunger and injury, the manager walked into the bar and turned off the baseball game in favor of the Denver-Baltimore football game. He turned off the baseball game.
You never saw such a sight on your life…