Ten things I know…

In which our heroes finally find their way out of Thomasville, GA,
travel to Tallahassee, FL via backroads, locate 10 West, and resume their journey
to New Orleans, LA, while fighting the overwhelming fatigue brought on by
their ill-advised detour through southern Georgia.

Having passed through the eight stages of Detour Denial (amusement, annoyance, anger, more anger, disgust, seething anger, depression, blinding rage), our hearts even heavier than our eyelids, on our three-hundredth trip down a street marked “84,” we finally spotted a tiny sign that said “Tallahassee” with an arrow pointing down what looked like a residential side street. Fearing that the sign might be a mirage brought on by a combination of dehydration and pathetic desperation, we made a quick circle to read it, again. Upon a second reading, the sign still said Tallahassee, but the street it pointed to looked iffy, to say the least. We decided that anything was better than another minute in Thomasville, GA, and so struck out down the Tallahassee path.

Here is our initial screwup:

A little over fifty miles and forty-five minutes. Had we turned around and gone back exactly the way we came, the total delay would have been about one hour and thirty minutes. Not great, but survivable.

The clerk at the gas station said to take the 14 back to 10 West, but the 14 was barely a paved road as far as we could tell, and MapQuest seemed to have a better route, so we went west a piece:

Another forty miles and about fifty minutes. This is getting ugly, but we’re still OK, still OK. Oh, wait, this is Thomasville, GA, nothing here is OK.

Finally, we followed a path of “approximately thataway” and found our way to the Tallahassee area and 10 West.

Initial mistake: missed an exit that was only six miles away.
Compounding factor: Failed to notice we had entered an entirely wrong state.
Compounding factor: Decided to try and find a more efficient route back to the proper highway.
Compounding factor: The streets in and around Thomasville, GA, were designed by meth-addicted chimpanzees wielding random number generators.
Minimum time we could have lost due to the initial error: One or two minutes turning around for the proper exit.
Actual time lost to this detour: Somewhere north of four hours.

Finally, though, here we are, on a sparsely populated back road heading toward Tallahasse, FL, and 10 West. Thar she blows, the freeway of our dreams! Now we’re on our way! Party ahoy! New Orleans around the bend! Are you excited? I’m exc… exc… *YAWN*. I’m a little sleepy, actually. That was quite a detour. Hey, what the hell is this? My friend is asleep and now I’m driving all alone. Highway hypnosis is working its magic, but I must… get… to… New Orleans. We need to arrive in time to check into our hotel and to arrange the “BIG SURPRISE.”

I soldier on, singing softly to myself and trying not to be lulled to sleep by the white lines flashing by on the pavement. The occasional snatch of conversation as my friend drifts in and out of sleep helps, but soon I am forced to pull off at a rest stop. This pisses me off royally. I am, as I may have mentioned, a man, and I am one of those men who likes to cover ground quickly when I’m traveling. I am furious at having to take a break, but our little side trip to hell/Thomasville has really sapped my energy.

We sleep fitfully for a bit, then we are on our way, once more. The rest of the trip passes fairly uneventfully, and we check into our hotel in the early afternoon. We’re both dead tired, but I have to prepare for the “BIG SURPRISE.”

Next: The “BIG SURPRISE,” and way, way, way, way too much alcohol in way, way, way, way too short a period of time.

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