I don't see an easy way to describe frost.bob ii in any kind of detail. It ruled, but not in a narrative way.
So I'm skipping over it for now and am opting to instead talk about the drive home, which didn't rule by any measure but is easier to write about. (Maybe I have an affinity for writing about unpleasant things.)
I managed to make it through the weekend without acquiring anything tangible that I was going to take back to me, so I expected my trip through US customs to be quick and easy. In hindsight I should have prepared more.
The customs guy asked me what I had gone to Canada for. I think the correct answer was 'tourism'. Instead, I said 'I went to visit some people.' This was clearly not the correct answer, as every question he asked after that had invisible quotation marks in them.
'Oh? Who were these "people"?' 'Oh, just some friends.' 'And what might the names of these "friends" be?'
This was a poser. In the heat of the moment I found it difficult to remember anyone's full names. (I assumed that just saying 'Kludge' or 'Waider' or even "d. Page" would not be acceptable.) I recovered quickly, though, and in short order came up with a couple of names. Then he asked where they lived, and then why I was going to Canada to meet people who lived in California. Finally he asked me to fill out a form and park my car in one of the Customs garages for inspection.
A different guy searched my car. He complimented me on my choice of guitar and generally tried to be friendly, but I have an unreasoning prejudice against federal agents who happen to be searching my car so I was merely polite back. On learning that I worked for an Internet-related software company he complained to me about spam. Finally he was done searching my car and I left.
An intelligent person planning an eight-hour trip by car during February would take every opportunity to find out what weather was expected on the planned route. Less intelligent people would assume that everything was going to turn out OK and would persist in that belief until the truth was forced on them. It was this latter type of thinking that resulted in my driving blithely into the reasonably large blizzard that was enveloping pretty much all of New England at the time.
Eventually it became clear that I wasn't going to make it to Rhode Island that day, so I pulled off Route 93 and started looking for a hotel. I stopped at a gas station and asked if they knew of any nearby and was given directions to the Robert Frost Motor Inn in Derry, New Hampshire.
At the Robert Frost Motor Inn I asked if there were any rooms available for one person. 'I have a room with a double bed, no telephone, no cable--there's a TV but no cable.' Sounded good to me. An additional feature that he didn't mention was an extremely strong smell of cigarettes; also, the TV was on its own stand and did not have a remote. I settled down to an evening of reading, playing guitar, calling people on my cellphone, eating the cookies I had with me (there not being a kitchen at the Robert Frost Motor Inn), and watching sitcoms. Eventually this palled and I went to sleep.
In the morning I stepped out of my room and sunk thigh-deep into a snowbank. This validated my decision to stop for the night and was very welcome. After spending a couple of hours digging out my car I was on my way again.
This segment of my journey caused me to reevaluate my estimation of Quebec as being 'snowy'.
I was driving merrily down Route 3, listening to Mae West singing "When A Man Loves A Woman", when suddenly the battery light on my car's dashboard lit up. Shortly thereafter my tape player turned off of its own volition with a decisive 'click'. Tempting though it was to interpret this as a commentary on Ms. West's singing I decided to get off the highway, noticing as I did so that my turn signal was not functioning. By the time I reached the end of the off-ramp my car had lost power altogether. Fortunately there was a policeman nearby and in fairly short order I was towed to Duff's Garage in Tyngsboro, Massachusetts.
The mechanic quickly diagnosed the problem as being caused by a dead alternator. Fortunately they had one that would work in my car on hand and less than an hour later the repair was complete.
I asked him why the alternator had died. He replied: 'There are a lot of brushes and gears and things in there. It wasn't anything you did; it was just that its time had come.'
'You mean it wore out?' I asked, realizing too late that I was breaking the mood. He admitted that it might be put that way, and I paid and drove off. This time I made it home without further event.
-jwgh
-- "Some people whom you can't really picture online turn out to be fascinating people in person. Some of them bounce on a trampoline in a miniskirt and thong. Others turn out to be Carasso." - Scott Dorsey <kludge at panix.com> on talk.bizarre 6 Dec 2000