Monday, July 21, 2014

Road Trips Home [DRAFT]

My favorite part of breakfast was the make-your-own waffle station.

The coffee was weak. The hard-boiled eggs, in a clear plastic bin, were rubbery.

The dispensers of Apple Jacks, Cheerios, and Fruit Loops didn't quite capture the imagination in the way deserving of The Most Important Meal of the Day.  Nor did the pre-cooked circles of eggs, which could be matched with similarly sized circles of sausage and placed between a toasted English Muffin. Too circular. Too prefab.

The juice dispenser was a nice touch.  There was a dazzling array of juice concoctions to be made by mixing different amounts of the apple juice, orange juice, pineapple juice and cranberry juice. I did like that.

But it was all about the waffles.  The batter slid perfectly from the inside of the circle outward, as the top of the waffle press smushed down.  If you flipped at the sound of the first beep, waited, and then popped it out at the sound of the triple-beep, you got a large brown Belgian Waffle every time.  Consistent.  Fluffy.  In the windowless room of moulded plastic chairs, with SportsCenter highlights running and re-running on the two 22 inch televisions, those waffles felt decadent. I ate them everyday for breakfast.


I had started off on my way home, but now I wasn't.  I'd been living alone at the Holiday Inn Express off of Exit 127 on the NY Thruway for a full week now.

This was six days longer than I'd planned.

That's not true. The truth was, I hadn't really planned anything.  One week ago, after the last of my finals, I got in my car and drove.

I wasn't alone. Not really.  He was with me.  Whispering in my ear from the back seat.  He told me not to go home.


After a week at the hotel, the days begin to bleed together.  I fall into a routine.


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