You'd think I'd have learned after my pre-Portland Chinese buffet fiasco. But I worked in the yard all morning before my latest 178 mile excursion. It was late. I needed to get on the road. Expediency ruled. It was off to Burger King with a coupon for two Whopper Juniors.
I wolfed down one, then half of the other. And the war was on. It was like the Keebler Elves had decided to reenact the Battle of Five Armies inside my stomach.
Perhaps this next admission will call me into suspicion as un-American, but I eat hamburgers maybe twice a year. At home. My stomach reminded me of the aberration for three solid hours. About half way through this torture, I pulled over to a rest stop and reclined the seat all the way to "morgue" to lie flat and rub my tummy. It was useless, but I dozed off for about ten blissful, oblivious minutes. Then my friend, Susan, rudely awakened me with a call to see how my trip was going, only to call me "crazy" when I explained my situation.
The last moments of my trip were similar to the fate of a desert wanderer, except instead of scrabbling across the last few yards of sand for water, I crawled down thirty feet of resort hallway, knocked on the door to my friend's room, and collapsed on the floor rasping: "Tums! Tums!"
I had arrived in exotic, exciting...Massachusetts?
The Berkshires. I had no idea what to expect. Everyone knows that my usual jaunts are much more far-flung. Massachusetts? It's like, my backyard. But I am nothing if not open to the world and travel is travel. I knew I'd find something to love.
After the Tums kicked in.