When you live in New York, it sometimes seems impossible to escape the boundaries of the five boroughs. It may even appear that every building, train, avenue and pedestrian is conspiring to prevent your departure. Sitting in a cab on Sixth Avenue in bumper-to-bumper traffic with only fifteen minutes till our bus left, it became clear to me and Margeaux that the city was going to wield every one of her powers in order to insure that we did not have the chance to leave.
“Maybe you should take eighth Avenue,” I told the cab driver wile nervously tapping my foot. It was too seldom that I had the opportunity to visit my mother in the country and I was not going to pass this one up without a fight. Not only was it a necessary break from the melancholy cityscapes of autumn, but also it was to be the culinary kick-off the holiday season. It was the final weekend of apple picking and we planned on making my mother’s melt in your mouth apple pie, there was soups to be made, meats to be braised, and apple butter to be slaved over; we were NOT going to miss that bus!
The travel gods clearly heard my demand because, twenty minutes later, having emerged from the jaws of the city, Margo was settling into her seat, and I was telling my mom what bus be would be arriving on.
“Are you girls hungry?” she asked. My stomach was growling so loudly that I was getting glares from other bus riders who were trying to sleep.
“Mom, when am I not hungry?” I replied with a smile.
“ I’ll have a little something waiting for you when you arrive”
And that was how the weekend’s journey began.