In which our heroine’s plans get a bit pretzeled.
New York City was the one place on my Long Trip where I’d felt the need to make reservations. Mostly because for some strange reason NYC intimidated me. Problem was, 11 years ago today I was one day’s drive out from NYC, but I’d overestimated the time it was going to take to get me there, and so my hostel reservations didn’t begin for five more days. I tried to rearrange them, but there weren’t any openings, so I rearranged my schedule instead — I’d do Philadelphia, then NYC, then head over to Gettysburg and get back on track. Which, in the event, wasn’t exactly what happened, but that’s a story for another day.
In the meantime, I woke up to better weather, and continued my drive down Route 100 to Massachusetts. My next stop was Amherst, home of Emily Dickinson, who is one of my literary heroes:
Unfortunately, the museum now in her house is not open on Tuesdays, or wasn’t at the time, so I didn’t get to go inside. But it was neat to see it, anyway.
I learned when I went to fill up the gas tank after this that Massachusetts has something in common with Oregon — they won’t let you pump your own gasoline. I’ve never understood that logic, but I was more than willing to let someone else do it.
After that I headed down to Hartford, Connecticut, the home of another of my literary heroes, Mark Twain, but I spent what was left of the afternoon hunting down an AAA office and finding a hostel. But I had plans for Mark Twain the next morning…