On the Road

We travel through tunnels of green dotted with drought burned trees and edged with Texas-like dried grasses. Apparently the Hill Country is not the only place that begs for autumn rains to appear.

The hours melt into each other. They are all the same. It is a world of semi trucks going east and west. They dwarf our small car. The boredom of sameness is broken by the occasional rest stop, brief drives through fast food lanes for quick lunches, and finding the hotel where we will lay our head each night.  We have gone from the acceptable to the terrible in accommodations, and now, compared to last night, we are in a palace. A suite in Lewisburg, Pennsylvania, at a bargain price because they need to fill rooms.

Dinner in Lewisburg

We have a choice of restaurants for our dinner, but this is a college town, and those that attract me — taverns in ancient wooden houses — are close to the college and I worry the younger crowd might be attracted too. I am sure that they are already there filling the rooms with laughter and loud voices as they sit at old scarred tables quaffing beer and eating the cheapest thing on the menu. So, I choose an Italian restaurant on a road heading west that looks like it is beyond the fray.

Even though we use a GPS to get us there, because the restaurant is situated so far back from the edge of the road and there is no neon sign to alert us of its presence, we pass our destination in the blink of an eye. We continue to drive down the highway — a teeny tiny narrow country highway — and it takes us forever to find a spot to turn around. I focus on the forward pointing blue arrow that is on the Google map app on my phone. This time I intend to alert Michael to slow down much sooner than the guiding voice of our GPS. He doesn’t need my help, he slows and turns without me opening my mouth.

La Primavera Italian Ristorante

The air is cool, the day gone and the evening is misty with the promise of rain as we step out of the car and walk toward the low slung building. The door is graced by two brightly lit full-size Roman sculptures guarding the entry to this Italian restaurant. Pretentious? Out of place? This is a tiny town in the middle of bucolic Pennsylvania. Perhaps the owner finally took advantage of a reason for indulging his love affair with Roman mythology. I like Greek and Roman mythology too.

The interior is brightly lit. The hostess, smiling. Discovering our origin, the friendly guest that is leaving says he knows Texas well. He has traveled the length, width, and breadth of the state. “It took forever,” he says.

That is almost an understatement, I think.

Dinner

The restaurant glows with light from crystal chandeliers. The tables are draped in pristine white cloths. We order wine — the first glass of wine we indulge in since starting this trip three days ago. The server is prompt, also delivering two complimentary hors d’oeuvres of bruschetta to our table. The portion is so generous I think I’ll only take a bite of two. This proves impossible.

The bruschetta is amazingly delicious. Crispy crusted, toasted, rustic bread loaded with a mound of perfectly ripe, peeled, chopped tomato, enhanced with exactly the right amount of garlic and drizzled with olive oil. The seasoning is faultless. I really don’t even need to order and entrée, but I do.

Exhaustion slowly overtakes both of us, so the wine mellows and relaxes us more than a few sips usually would. Our entrees arrive and the pasta-rich food, inches high, blankets our plates.

I was expecting two delicate slices of veal dotted with a few asparagus spears, scattered with peas and garnished with a bit of tomato. However, they must have a huge amount of vegetables in the kitchen they need to use up soon, or else they always serve overly generous portions. Staring at the plate before me I can tell that dessert is already out of the question.

Overwhelmed, there is no way I can eat the entire meal. I barely know where to begin. Working my way through two tender slices of veal, I leave more than half of it on my plate. I down as many green vegetables as possible and consume three twirled forkfuls of pasta. This takes a long time. Finally, I raise my hands in surrender.

Destination Plymouth

We leave Pennsylvania in the cold with our windshield wipers whisking away droplets of rain at full speed. Michael noses our car down the highway both of us knowing that today — after more than fifty years — is the day we will return to Massachusetts. My head is full of memories. I open my mouth and they begin to spill forth, filling the car, and Michael’s ears. Our conversation travels backward in time.

The car continues its forward motion, taking us into the future.