It's My Party; Get Lost if you Want to.

Directions to the Weekend Retreat

Take Route 116 North to the East Exodus Exit.  NOTE: The exit sign will be almost totally obscured by big plastic sheets (really, garbage bags, but we’re trying to be nice) hung by the Department of Public Works in contemplation of road repairs that were supposed to have commenced years ago, but which were never undertaken due to budget cuts imposed by a self-absorbed legislature more intent on lining its own pockets than attending to the needs of the little people.

 We like to think that the DPW left the plastic sheeting hanging there as a kind of political pawn to embarrass the legislature aforesaid, but more likely, the highway dept. probably just forgot about the whole thing when the weather scared up a whole bunch of misery in this neck of the woods, and there was more money to be made fowling entire lanes of traffic with orange plastic cones for no discernible reason.

 In any event, even though you won’t be able to see the exit sign, with the blessings of Providence and decent visibility, you will have an inkling that you are close, because it is a little over 3/8 of a mile past the “Adopt-A-Road-Space” marker sponsored by the Signage Council.  (If you happen to be driving in the daylight and in the absence of sleet, be sure to take a gander at the topiary in the shape of a highway exit sign as you pass by. This display reminds some people of the Soviet/Nazi non-aggression pact, and others of the gulag archipelago, but we really think the latter is a stretch).

Follow the exit ramp to the SECOND left (there are no rights).  It is important to take the second left and not the first or third lefts, because these are half-finished ramps (think of them as “false starts,” or, more fittingly, monuments to gross mismanagement of the public purse) that the highway department abandoned probably for the same reason that it left giant garbage bags hanging uselessly over a major expressway route marker for as long as anyone around here can remember.

 If you take the first left, you will end up in a ditch.  If you take the third left, you will, likewise, end up in a ditch,  one slightly more picturesque than the one you will end up in if you take the first left, to be sure. Still, it is a ditch. By the by, and as a kind of homage to uselessness, these exits to nowhere are well-marked.  The first one is called “F.” and the third one is called “Fitzgerald.”

Assuming you have taken the second left (unmarked according to custom), follow this road for 27.3 miles as it wends its way through picturesque villages with impossibly quaint-sounding names (like “Ram-in-the Thicket,” “South-Ram-in-the Thicket,” and Ram-in-the- Thacket”).

 Charming though the scenery will appear at times, do not allow yourself to wax nostalgic for a by-gone era that, even if it ever existed outside of the imagination of Thornton* Wilder, had pretty much packed up its things and split before you were even born (unless, of course, you happen to 112 years old, in which case, never mind), for this region is also notorious for its many over-zealous traffic cops hiding behind rustic barns in pimped-out cruisers brimming with radar so precise it can detect a worm choking on a hairball 500 yards away.

 To refer to the provincial law enforcement as “fascist” is, perhaps, disrespecting of actual fascists who have earned their stripes making non aggression pacts with their fellow totalitarians and crushing peaceful rebellions as a means of checking the overweening influence of the tourist industry. “Brown Shirts” may be more apropos.

 The crime rate around here is statistically zero, so these officers live for one thing and one thing only – to snare as many vehicles sporting out-of-state license plates as they can, and, with a sneer, to hand their drivers citations on various trumped-up charges. We can’t advise you in writing to use a “borrowed” car and a fake license while journeying through this section, but also, we don’t discourage it. In the face of fascism, the better part of valor sometimes dictates neutrality (as Ireland will tell you).   

When you reach the pictogram of a hunter being intimidated by a deer, pull off the highway to a little opening in the forest wherein you will find a chain suspended between two trees blocking the entrance to an old logging road. On one of the chained trees, you will spot an old, rotted piece of plywood tacked to its trunk bearing the legend: “KEEP OUT!  NO TRESPASSING!  POLICE TAKE NOTICE.” (This is something of a joke among the locals, for the police, as you will recall, have their sights set mostly on handing out speeding tickets to city slickers from afar, and are spread a little too thin to be chasing down smart-alecky trespassers, even when they arrive in stolen cars with concealed fake I.D.s on their person.

 Moreover, though it is said that the land owners around here are known to be armed and persnickety, it is also said that they are lousy shots and generally miss their targets. Just to be sure, before exiting the vehicle, look all around to be certain no one is watching. Then, when the coast is clear, remove the chain and proceed down the road. 

  “Road” is an overly-ambitious designation for this 7-mile serpentine jumble of overgrown bumps and ravines stitched together with ribbons of something that may have approximated asphalt in its youth. After a good soaking rain, the jagged pieces are a little easier on the tires, but on the other hand, sometimes the whole area turns into flash flood zone.

Stay on the path and ignore the many forks (especially those that look deceptively like nothing more than a continuation of the route) until you reach a pair of trees about 10 furlongs apart. One will look a little like King George III having the eureka moment when he decided to impose the Stamp Act on the recalcitrant New England colonies, and the other will look a bit like Aristotle contemplating the bust of Homer (the Rembrandt original, not the Man Ray parody, although – and here’s the one confusing part of these directions – there is another tree earlier on that does look like the Man Ray version, albeit one wherein Aristotle looks like Man Ray, and not Aristotle, which is, after all, what the Man Ray version looks like).

 Take the left fork at the tree that looks like King George (some people think it looks more like Guy de Maupassant, but they are decidedly in the minority and many of them mispronounce “Guy”). 

Continue in this direction until the monotony is enough to make you want to invent some new cuss words. Right about now, you should see a large rock that appears from a certain angle to be the shadowy figure of Guy de Maupassant holding a jar of ghee while contemplating the bust of Siddhartha which is, itself, contemplating its own navel (remarkable, considering it is just a bust), all the while predicting the birth of Herman Hesse.

 It need not be gainsaid that the correct path to your destination is just on the other side of this rock and not on the path that runs astride the bush somewhat evocative of Kurt Vonnegut Jr. struggling to remember Maimonides’ nickname as a means of pushing thoughts of Hesse out of his mind.

If you are the first to arrive, the door will be locked, and you will need to retrieve the key from underneath the stone in the backyard (the one in the shape of Siddhartha correcting Herman Hesse’s spelling of his name, and not the one that has the distinct feel of Charles Lindbergh [some people think it’s the Grand Mufti] cheerleading for the Third Reich).

We certainly look forward to seeing you, and hope that you don’t get lost.  But even if you do, we’re not worried, because there will be plenty of people who will be able to find their way, and we expect to have a rollicking good time with them.

*What kind of a crazy name is “Thornton,” anyway?