It isn't too often that I see a business venture make it as a travel story, but sometimes the adventure in getting to one seems like a travel tale in itself. Even if there are no custom agents involved, no hijacking by guerillas, or any other calamity to report. After all, the mode of transportation is partially responsible for the tone for a trip.
I'm sure a lot of people have heard how someone's idyllic vacation was turned into a nightmare at the airport coming home or road rage on the highway. After dealing with that, one feels like a vacation: wait, wasn't I just coming home from one? So many times, how one gets there and comes home can make or break the success of a trip.
Every year, for the last couple of years, I have attended a writing conference in Saratoga Springs, New York. It is a week-long convention at Skidmore College, which is just outside the downtown district, hosted by the
International Women's Writing Guild. You have the option of attending for the entire week, for five days, or for the weekend, and room and board are provided by the college. You can room with someone, or for a nominal fee, you can room by yourself. There is the option of commuting, and you can pick any or all days to go to the conference.
The first time I went to Skidmore, I went completely by interstate. Saratoga Springs is located off of what is called the Northway, the portion of I-87 that is north of the NY Thruway. For those outside of New York State, the New York Thruway runs from New York City, north to Albany, then west to Buffalo. It is an intersection of Interstate 87 and Interstate 90; I-90 eventually takes you to Seattle if you take it all the way west. The Thruway is a toll road linking up New York State's most popular driving destinations. Interstate 87, the north-south portion of the Thruway, does not end when it gets to Albany. It is the most direct highway to link New York City and Albany with Montreal. The portion of I-87 that is north of Albany is called, appropriately, the Northway. I didn't find out this bit of trivia until I looked carefully at the directions to Skidmore and figured this out for myself. Now I constantly hear that portion of I-87 referred to as the Northway, and wonder where all these people were when I was trying to figure out how to get to Saratoga Springs.
There is nothing wrong with the interstate way. I hear a lot of people putting down interstates, saying that they are boring and you should always take an alternative route if at all possible. I guess if you are just taking your time and don't have any itinerary planned, that may be true. The one thing that you miss out on when you travel by interstate is the experience of driving through little towns, which probably give more of a local flavor than the generic chains along the interstate, though with tourism being a staple in a lot of these places, you may not be getting an authentic feel for what it is like to live there, just a show to keep you coming back. The interstate is definitely an expedient way to get there and back, and the first time that I went to Saratoga Springs it was also the best chance of getting me there without getting me lost. There is a service station that provided gas and McDonald's. That's always good for a quick stop.
But once I tried it, the next time that I went, I wanted to try something different. So I only took the interstate a section of the way. Saratoga Springs can be reached via NY 29 and NY 50. NY 29 is a east-west road that can be joined up by NY 30 and NY 30A, both roads that will take you further north to the Adirondacks. On the way there, I took NY 30 up, which took me smack into downtown Amsterdam. Amsterdam is a city that has a whole bunch of industry and a mall within its limits; as soon as you go outside its boundaries it seems to completely drop into rural farmland. I figured there had to be a way to get around this meteor of commerce. I took NY 30A back , and it seemed to go several miles east of Amsterdam, though it took me through a smaller city called Fonda. Seeing that I missed rush hour coming back, it seemed milder than going through Amsterdam.
This year I almost went to Saratoga Springs by bus, rather than spend any time behind the wheel. It would be more relaxing, I figured, spare my 1993 additional mileage, and better for the environment. Unfortunately, the schedule dissuaded me from making this the final decision. There was only one bus scheduled on the Sunday that I was supposed to come back, and it was in the late morning. The unfortunate part of the weekend conference rests on Sunday; you get your whole day of classes in on Saturday, but generally you get shafted somewhat on Sunday, trying to pack up your room, check out, and get home at a somewhat reasonable time that evening. If I took the bus, I would either have to forgo any classes at all on Sunday, or take my chances with the availability of hotel rooms in high season in Saratoga. Though it really seemed like fun, and seeing that I had never gone this way, would constitute somewhat of an adventure, in the end I decided against the bus. Besides being able to dictate my schedule more with my own vehicle, and additional bonus would be that I could pack more stuff.
So, I was finally ready to go. I packed my car up and mentally thought of the route I wanted to take to get there. This last particular foray into Saratoga, I was inspired by a travelogue to take as many state highways as possible, at least on the way up on Friday, when I was least pressed for time. There aren't any seminars or classes at the IWWG conference on Friday; it's just a day for settling in. Sunday, the third and last day for weekenders, tends to be the crazy day. Classes run from nine to five-thirty daily. So Sundays tend to be a mass rush of repacking, checking out, and partitioning commuting time all while trying to get as many classes in as possible to get the most for your money. Sunday is definitely a day where the interstate comes in very handy. If I were to be doing any scenic driving, it would be better to do it on the way up when it could be appreciated. But then again, if I got to Saratoga Springs more quickly, I could spend more time exploring the town. That would mean my taking the interstates the whole way. I wasn't exactly sure which way I wanted to go. I figured I'd wait until the day itself and figure it out then.
The final deciding factor in determining my route was the weather. The day I was to leave, the skies were not particularly in a good mood and seemed to be on the verge of lashing out with a major rain storm. Even though the interstates were more likely to be populated with state troopers ready to save the day, the state routes had the advantage of having more places to pull over if the rain got too heavy. I looked through my atlas and plotted a course that would zigzag me in a northeasterly fashion to get me to Saratoga Springs.
After a cup of coffee from my favorite gas station, I drove my vehicle away from the familiar and further towards my destination. It's always exciting to head off on a trip, especially on one's own. You don't know for sure what you will see or who you will meet along the way. Sometimes nothing out of the ordinary happens, but the state of anticipation still makes it feel like an odyssey of sorts.
The first place that I passed through was Cooperstown, the home of the Baseball Hall of Fame. Upstate New York has a lot of these Hall of Fames. Oneonta has the Soccer Hall of Fame, Cooperstown has the baseball one, and my destination proudly displayed the Horse Racing Hall of Fame. Even though I love baseball and live relatively close to Cooperstown, I have never been to the Hall of Fame and don't have a lot of interest to go there. Too much of a tourist trap as far as I am concerned. The fad for baseball has consumed much of the commerce in downtown Cooperstown. The downtown reminds me of this particular episode of "The Simpsons" when Homer was walking through the mall and every store had been converted to a Starbucks, and as he was walking the last non-Starbucks was being assimilated into a Starbucks. I get the same feeling in Cooperstown. Every non-baseball store is surrounded by baseball paraphernalia, and looks like it will be swallowed by baseball marlins and pirates sometime in the near future. Fortunately, this early, even on a Friday, the town was empty enough that I could drive right through without worrying about driving over dazed pedestrians that wandered into the street trying to tell the difference between the baseball bat company and the baseball bat limited.
The drive up NY 28 took me past Otsego Lake, a long narrow body of water that is dotted with summer homes and quaint hotels. I keep getting the name confused; Glimmerglass State Park is right alongside the lake, and I keep wanting to call the late Glimmerglass. Today, with the fog, I didn't see any glimmer shining from the water; it was blanketed like it was a scene in a British ghost story. I wanted to stop and take a picture, but it was hard to pull over. With NY 28 being a two-lane road with sharp curves and no shoulder, even without the fog and "no stopping anytime" signs it wouldn't have been a good idea, and every place that you could pull over was private property. Finally, I saw a small pullover that didn't have "Private Property" or " No Trespassing" signs, and was able to get a picture capturing the fog. I just hoped that nobody would run out and claim that I was on their property. Taking photographs of anything nowadays seems to be somewhat of a challenge.
I continued north until I reached U.S. 20, the only road I would take that was technically an interstate because it ran from Massachusetts to Oregon. The fog was just as thick there, and I stopped along the way at a parking area to take another photo. So far, there was very little traffic. The only other vehicle that stopped at the parking area was an eighteen-wheeler, and there weren't many vehicles that passed us. It seemed strange that I came from home only a couple of hours earlier; in the silence of this unfamiliar setting it seemed like I had journeyed for miles to some foreign country. The busy city scene of Saratoga Springs and the writing conference seemed equally remote to what I was experiencing now.
After heading about thirty miles due east on U.S. 20, I reached the junction with NY 30A, which is in a small town called Sloansville. From my tourist standpoint, it seemed like most of the town's commerce was concentrated at this intersection. There was a gas station with a convenience store there, so I decided to refuel myself with some caffeine. A male customer was talking to the female clerk behind the register; they seemed like they knew each other and that neither one of them were planning on stopping the conversation anytime soon. It wasn't anything personal or sexual; it seemed more like it was part of his morning routine to stop at the station and spend some time in conversation with the morning girl at the register. It was the kind of stereotypical setting that Hollywood might script for a small town. They were friendly enough as I got my coffee, but both seemed more interested in passing time by talking about life in general with each other.
After this, I headed north on 30A, my next destination being NY 29. I'd be staying on 30A for about twelve miles through mostly rural areas. The only major exception would be Fonda before I reached Johnstown, where 29 would intersect with 30A. Some of the area was farm, but mainly the road was residential. The houses were modern; none of them seemed to have been constructed before the seventies, with the exception of the rare spaces of agricultural land that were decorated with farmhouses and barns. It wasn't the typical suburban zoning structure, however. Most of the houses were on large plots of land, at least ten acres or so. It was a way of living in the country without living in the country, as anonymous traffic zoomed past the houses to destinations unknown.
Fonda was a strange place to me. It looked like the type of place that Bruce Springsteen would write a ballad about. Fonda was a small city that appeared seemingly out of nowhere; mostly it connected you with everywhere else at various intersections. There was a bridge that went over the Erie Canal. I didn't see any real activity when I was there; I didn't see any locks on the canal. It mostly resembled an industrial city that once was thriving but its former residents considered it passé and moved on. Maybe it was just the time of day I was driving there. The only people I saw were very young white males and very old white males decorating the sidewalks. The young white males looked bored and unemployed, and the older males just looked bored. But first driving impressions aren't always accurate. I would have to come back another day or walk through the place to really get a feel of the place. It just felt like the kind of place that if someone lived there and was reelecting Bush, it wasn't for the president's work on the economy.
Johnstown, not to be confused with Jonestown, was almost the opposite kind of destination. It was more like Amsterdam, with its sprawl of strip malls and stores, and people coming from all directions who had in common the yen to use credit cards. You wouldn't have to ever drive fifteen miles to get a quart of milk if you lived anywhere near Johnstown. I drove through the maze of stores and cars until I reached NY 29, and headed east. The next destination was Saratoga Springs; it was the last time I had to change course on a state route.
The stretch between Johnstown and Saratoga Springs on route 29 was about thirty miles. In between the two cities were a couple of hamlets and nothing else. This area, which is at the southern edge of Adirondack Park, had endless trees straddling both sides of the road. An occasional novelty shop and home were nestled along the way, but civilization was comatose here, waiting for the edge of Saratoga Springs to arrive. In a hamlet called Broadalbin, about halfway between the two cities, I stopped at a gas station that had rest room in its repair shop. A bunch of guys were chatting idly together; business seemed slow, but they didn't seem to care. They barely noticed me. Their world didn't seem to register strangers, and didn't seem to need to. I headed back on the wooded road until the onslaught of Saratoga Springs attacked me.
Just before you get to Saratoga Springs, there is some warning of the approaching urban zoo: rows of trees become rows of stores, gas stains become more prolific, and drivers begin to cut you off and pull out of parking lots without noticing that you'll run them over. But downtown itself is something else. Once I got to the city proper, I was nearly run over 6 times by other cars, and had to brake for about a dozen pedestrians who stepped into the road while I had a green light. There were cars and people everywhere. I missed my turn and had to go through the whole thing all over again. I still wasn't sure where the college was. How many years had I been doing this?
I finally got to the college, three and a half hours after I started out. When I parked my car and headed to the check-in counter, I saw a squirrel hiding under a car. He didn't move as I approached him, nor did he panic as I got out my camera and took a picture of him. He had lost all fear of people in this urban world. That was when I knew I had arrived in the land of civilization.
The drive was over. It had been quiet enough that I remembered a lot of it, and had gotten a chance to observe my surroundings; an auspicious beginning to this particular trip. Hopefully, I would experience the same luck in returning home.
