When Scott and I decided to embark on a mini-adventure road trip to Niagara Falls and Toronto over Fourth of July weekend, we didn’t really consider what being in a car together for very long stretches of time actually means.
You know that portion of the the wedding vows (we went traditional with those) during which you commit to each other for better or worse? On a road trip, there are certainly betters and worses. Let me just say that nothing tests the stability of a brand-spanking new marriage like a three-day road trip. Not that the road trip was bad per se, it’s just that, erm, I’d never really USED a road atlas before, and somewhere around Scranton, PA (where Scott and I recited lyrics to "Lazy Scranton" ad nauseam) I learned that I was reading the map wrong.
Nothing irreversible, and we never REALLY got lost, but for a few tense minutes there may have been hint of testiness, a smidge of snapping, perhaps a teensey bit of pouting, and now I personally believe that this trip is concrete evidence that at least one of us needs some kind of smart phone, if only for access to Google Maps. At the end of it all, though, we got where we were going and came out of our trip with a once-in-a-lifetime experience (thanks, in large part, to the fact that Scott has the patience of Job). I think that if you can survive a road trip with your significant other with minimal bickering, then you are on the right path (pardon my pun) to a long and happy marriage. Go us!
And guess what, I can read a map correctly now!
******
Do you want to know what a road trip from Philadelphia to Niagara Falls looks like? Well, I’m sorry to tease you with the hope of photos, but we didn’t take any pictures of the journey itself. We took the long route to Buffalo, NY (via PA Route 6 across northern Pennsylvania) because it was supposed to be more scenic (which it was, but not as scenic as we had expected). We spent, oh, about five hours behind trucks, driving through small towns, some adorably quaint, some just…erm…rustic. We saw the Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania (we didn’t realize we passed through it until we saw signs indicating the Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania was now behind us. “Oh, so it’s really just a forest,” I observed). We meandered past lots of cows, meadows, fields, and through the passes of seemingly endless mountains (I guess that’s why they’re called the Endless Mountains. Insight!)
As we approached Buffalo in the early evening, Scott’s mother called with what I think was the Most Brilliant Idea of the Day. While you’re in Buffalo, she suggested, why don’t you eat at the restaurant where buffalo wings were invented.
Can you say OMG brilliant?
I ate my first buffalo wing ever (although in Buffalo, I think they just refer to them as chicken wings). And my second. There's something almost poetic about eating one's first buffalo wing at the bar in which they were invented, don't you think?
They.
Were.
Glorious.
Not too spicy, crispy and tender at the same time, tangy, and with a smidge of blue cheese dressing they were absolutely perfect. I probably would have eaten a third, but Scott was devouring the rest of the platter like he was about to be sent to the Gulag and would be forced to subsist on gruel for the rest of his life. I was afraid he’d bite me if my hand ventured too close to his food.
Because I love him, I will not post the terribly unflattering photo of him noshing on aforementioned buffalo wings. That one I will save for blackmail later on.
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