Connecticut Captivity: Day One

Connecticut captivity: Day One

"You cannot count Saturday as Day One," Savannah informed me with disgust, "you had planned on being here anyway."

We had learned on Friday that Joan and Sydney, otherwise known as My Way Home, had taken an alternative route alongside the shoulder of Route 90 East to enjoy some Disalvo's pizza and test out New York State's mandatory towing system. More on that later although the movie trailer does include such scintillating phone dialog as:

Briskly official New York State towing personnel: Where are the keys to the car?

Me:  In the ignition.

Stay tuned.

So here I was, trapped in a state smaller than my tri-county region whose flag bears allegiance to what appears to be invisible arbors (When's the last time you enjoyed Connecticut wine?) with the ironic motto  Qui Transtulit Sustinet: S/he who transplanted still sustains. Well...I have NOT been transplanted! I cannot thrive in a state where no one uses their turn signal.

To distract me, Savannah took me to Groton's annual fireworks show. "I wasn't distracting you," Savannah interrupted, "That was the whole reason you came out to visit me in the first place." So 2,500 people and I sat on a hillside slant for two hours, our legs braced against its gravitational pull, awaiting the wave of darkness as it rolled over the water.

Courageously, Savannah embarked on an Lewis and Clark-esque mission to find the origins of the river of delicious-smelling food that flowed past us as people floundered up and down our mini-mountain. She returned, victorious and led me to a small city of food trucks. "What does that star on the menu represent," I asked the young man in the cupcake truck as he leaned next to his Tips for Tattoos jar. "It's gluten-free," he answered. I staggered back in the face of such blasphemy. If I'd wanted to eat healthy, I'd have ordered a carrot. He quickly reassured me that my chocolate-raspberry cupcake, despite being gluten-free, was still laden with thigh-killing calories and cholesterol. I stuffed a dollar in the tip jar, suggesting he get the Connecticut state motto emblazoned on his arm.

Savannah and I carefully returned to our 45 degree-angled chairs with spanakopita, pierogies, and dessert as the band was finishing up. The stage lights standing sentinel on both sides of the platform suddenly blazed to life, blinding the crowd blanketing the hill. A lone voice, speaking for all, echoed across the expanse. "Turn off the eff-ing lights!" (As this is a family-friendly blog, I'll let you interpret that message in the manner you feel most comfortable. It really packs a punch in its original form though.). When this more-than reasonable demand wasn't met to the satisfaction of its citizens, a rebellion grew. Voices joined together, a chant of discontent: "Turn off the eff-ing lights!" I was simultaneously mortified and impressed. The lights went out. The crowd cheered. The fireworks started. Power to the people! Maybe I've been too quick to judge the population of Connecticut. Maybe a turn signal isn't always necessary when the entire population has decided to turn together. However, I would suggest the use of hazards when pulled over on the 90, eating pizza.