I’ll keep going straight, we’ll plunge into the ocean, and I’ll keep on driving in stoic resignation along the seafloor and eventually emerge upon the rolling hills of Ireland, which are supposed to be nice this time of year. We’d hit Chatham for sure, as long as I made a righthand turn at some point before we hit the Atlantic.Īnd hell, I thought, turning the wheel might be too much effort. There’s really just two directions one can drive on Cape Cod, and we were still going in the right direction.
Wasn’t it?” She reiterated the question.Īnd so it was indeed the exit. I was about to mention the uncommon looking trees to my wife when she broke in on my admittedly useless meditation, “Was that the exit?” she asked, sleepily. No doubt some synthetic memory compiled from a lifetime of movies, museums, and elementary school books. They looked downright prehistoric, though I’d no idea why the aesthetics of a tree would put me in mind of prehistory. As we careened down the highway that was at one point made of four lanes, then two, and now one, I vacantly ruminated about the uniqueness of the scraggly conifers that dominated this odd, sandy landmass that so grotesquely jutted from the mainland. In fact, I was exhausted (a state for which the responsibility rested with the mentioned one-year-old now occupying her carseat in cherubic slumber). But I was neither bright-eyed nor bushy-tailed. It was too-early morning, prime time for being bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, as the old men say. Those things are nice, and picturesque, but what I hoped to see most was coffee. We were going to Chatham, a coastal town protruding like a ganglion cyst from the elbow of Cape Cod, to see eroding beaches and million-dollar homes, lighthouses and seals. It also found me stuffed into a small, German sedan with my wife, our one-year-old daughter, and enough bags, totes, and rucksacks to brave it for three weeks in Patagonia. The end of a tiresome week found me weary, disheartened, and worn out.
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