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Friday, 28 March 2008 11:59 pmLGA, 6:50pm.
I saw my first Strand bag, 5 minutes off the plane, and it felt like home.
Soon after, I had my rental car, a zippy red Chevey Cobalt. Setting off onto the big scary Long Island Expressway was oddly anticlimactic since I had Betty riding shotgun. ..Betty? Betty's![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
psychedelicbike's Garmin GPS, who might (or not) have another name but she sounds like the twin of sulle_stelle's GPS, so I'll just call her Betty too. (I like the interface more than sulle_stelle's. So easy to use. I set her to follow my uncle's preferred route, which is a few miles longer than the Shortest Route, but he asserts it's faster. If I'm staying in his house, I might as well humor him..)
Anyway. Being able to keep my eyes on traffic instead of a map *or* my uncle's written directions: Win.
Unexpected bonus: safely and quickly reading road-signs in the dark. Big win.
When I got off the Northern Island Expressway, it was 7:30 and I wanted something to eat. I pulled over and asked Betty for sandwich shops along my route. She said there was a Starbucks 2 miles North. Fair enough. I added it as a waypoint and off we went. I wound up at Walt Whitman Mall, which still amuses me. OK: trying to find a Starbucks buried in a mall wasn't a bright idea; and it turned out to not have sandwiches at all. But I came across a Sbarros, which worked out OK.
Onward to my uncles', and greetings and non-hugs because we're all sick. Grandma's doing well. She's gotten piles of flowers, including one beautiful arrangement sent by... her dentist.
I was asked if I'd eaten; I said I stopped for dinner at Walt Whitman Mall. "Oh, that," says my dad, "your great-uncle Dick was involved with its construction." I made a non-assertive noise. He continued, "general contractor, I think." "..." (thinking, I don't think I'll be able to google that. Hm. Well, I'll write that, and source it later.)
"In fact, for a while, your grandfather was its night-watchman. And a few times he took me on his rounds."
...Well then. Maybe we'll go for a tour. (those few who have met my father might guess that it's *not* likely. I think the last time he was in a mall was likely before the new millennium.)
Dad was all impressed that I was in Toronto three and a half hours earlier. I said welcome to the 20th century. Neither of my parents have flown since well before I was born. I can't imagine. The last time he flew, he was returning from his European vacation in a body cast, but that's all I'll tell of that shaggy dog story.
Tomorrow is going to be busy. My cousin is coming at some point to decorate, and the big party's starting mid-afternoon.
I'll try and post photos.
I saw my first Strand bag, 5 minutes off the plane, and it felt like home.
Soon after, I had my rental car, a zippy red Chevey Cobalt. Setting off onto the big scary Long Island Expressway was oddly anticlimactic since I had Betty riding shotgun. ..Betty? Betty's
psychedelicbike's Garmin GPS, who might (or not) have another name but she sounds like the twin of sulle_stelle's GPS, so I'll just call her Betty too. (I like the interface more than sulle_stelle's. So easy to use. I set her to follow my uncle's preferred route, which is a few miles longer than the Shortest Route, but he asserts it's faster. If I'm staying in his house, I might as well humor him..) Anyway. Being able to keep my eyes on traffic instead of a map *or* my uncle's written directions: Win.
Unexpected bonus: safely and quickly reading road-signs in the dark. Big win.
When I got off the Northern Island Expressway, it was 7:30 and I wanted something to eat. I pulled over and asked Betty for sandwich shops along my route. She said there was a Starbucks 2 miles North. Fair enough. I added it as a waypoint and off we went. I wound up at Walt Whitman Mall, which still amuses me. OK: trying to find a Starbucks buried in a mall wasn't a bright idea; and it turned out to not have sandwiches at all. But I came across a Sbarros, which worked out OK.
Onward to my uncles', and greetings and non-hugs because we're all sick. Grandma's doing well. She's gotten piles of flowers, including one beautiful arrangement sent by... her dentist.
I was asked if I'd eaten; I said I stopped for dinner at Walt Whitman Mall. "Oh, that," says my dad, "your great-uncle Dick was involved with its construction." I made a non-assertive noise. He continued, "general contractor, I think." "..." (thinking, I don't think I'll be able to google that. Hm. Well, I'll write that, and source it later.)
"In fact, for a while, your grandfather was its night-watchman. And a few times he took me on his rounds."
...Well then. Maybe we'll go for a tour. (those few who have met my father might guess that it's *not* likely. I think the last time he was in a mall was likely before the new millennium.)
Dad was all impressed that I was in Toronto three and a half hours earlier. I said welcome to the 20th century. Neither of my parents have flown since well before I was born. I can't imagine. The last time he flew, he was returning from his European vacation in a body cast, but that's all I'll tell of that shaggy dog story.
Tomorrow is going to be busy. My cousin is coming at some point to decorate, and the big party's starting mid-afternoon.
I'll try and post photos.
