Where can you go where you are forced to sit for four hours—forced to sit in a lazily reclined position, eyes closed, and relax to the sound of endless highway rushing past? The answer is a Greyhound bus. And as Molly pointed out, this scenario sounds restful only to parents of toddlers.
And sure; the bus is awful. While waiting at Port Authority, a woman approached the Greyhound person taking tickets at the gate next to mine. English was not coming readily to her. “My in the station! My in the station!” she said. The Greyhound person tried to quiet her. “Ma’am, what’s yours in the station?” he said. After several more exclamations, it became clear that she was announcing that there were mice in the station. “That’s the Port Authority’s problem, not mine,” said the Greyhound person. A man standing nearby said loudly, in a satisfied voice, “Welcome to New York.”
And the bus has that terrible bus-smell; and people talk on cell phones; and the woman in front of me reclined her seat so that I could not sit with my legs together. Fortunately, no one sat next to me, so I could lie with my back against the window. And my journey was a four-hour respite from feeding and diapering and singing and ministering. Bliss.
The purpose of my restful Greyhound journey was to see Molly’s piano/sax duo, Six Impossible Things, perform in the Intersections new-music festival in DC. It was wonderful all around—a nice dinner beforehand with Mom, Dad, and Ian; a spectacular performance; and nice hanging out at Molly’s condo after. The next morning, because we are the crafting sort, Molly, Mom, Dad, and I spent a few hours creating kimekomi. Then we had lunch at a Greek restaurant, and then I bussed it home.
This was the longest spell Andrew had ever spent alone with Lucia, and their time went swimmingly (at least, Andrew claims it did). He even took her out to lunch with some friends Saturday afternoon. She was not the calmest member of their party, but there were enough hands to manage her. (Apparently there were a few stairs in the restaurant—her current obsession.) I did get one phone call from Andrew Friday night, asking in alarm if he should actually make Lucia stop eating—she was devouring bowl after bowl of Fat Baby pasta, which I’d made before I left. She can’t get enough of it. She also had some at their lunch out, and a visiting Italian friend of Andrew’s said that recipe would probably be illegal in Italy. (Perhaps. But my baby has fat-ish thighs now, which is the point of the Fat Baby product line*.)
So my DC journey was a success all around.
*The Fat Baby product line consists of one product: pasta and veggies in a sauce made of cream cheese and half-and-half. Mmmm.