This was a well-known hard rock song from the 70’s that had
us kids (usually guys) head banging well into the 80’s and beyond. Even if you didn’t
like the song, you knew about it and kept your opinions to yourself so as not
to be outed for listening to things considered too soft (wave, folk, and everything else). More than
anything, I still like the title. This was something mystical, like the
Stairway to Heaven or Sweet Home Alabama. These things were not to be taken
literally, they were not real. This was what I thought until I lived in DC.
That starts innocuously enough. Take the hotel shuttle to Ronald Reagan, which takes two, three minutes tops. The driver is from Ghana, and we speak French with each other. He drops me off at the rental car place, even stops at the curb where there isn’t a public stop (knowing foreign languages in this town can pay enormous dividends; I learned that years ago), and is off gathering new guests at the airport while I make my way to Enterprise Rental.
The highway: pick any. The 66. The 395. The 1. The 50. The
495. It doesn’t have to be a highway or interstate, for that matter, as commuters using
Massachusetts or Connecticut Avenue can confirm. The hell itself: any
destination in DC, or one that will make you navigate through DC to get there
(if you’re heading for the north pole, I suggest avoiding DC). Too bad that you
have to reduce Kennedy Center, Rock Creek Park, or Nationals Park to bottomless
black holes, but spending too much time in a car will have that effect on
people, I guess. Then the belt in the Beltway becomes a noose ready to cut off
your oxygen supply.
The problem is, you don’t necessarily have to be driving to be on the highway to hell, although for the most part you would be (very slowly, that is). Your car could be standing still. It could be cooling its engine. You could be admiring your out of state license plate. Until you find that ticket clamped below the windshield wiper. Parking was such a joke in DC that I actually decided I would remove myself from the park-on-this-side, park-on-that-side herd by renting a private parking space. Yep, at 230 bucks a month, I was the proud owner of an alleyway parking lot, all ten square meters of it.
The next time around in DC, I see the same old cabs with the
same drivers in them with the same exotic names driving into the same familiar bottlenecks.
For the first three days, this is not an issue. That is, of course, until I
decide to rent a car for my trip to North Carolina.The problem is, you don’t necessarily have to be driving to be on the highway to hell, although for the most part you would be (very slowly, that is). Your car could be standing still. It could be cooling its engine. You could be admiring your out of state license plate. Until you find that ticket clamped below the windshield wiper. Parking was such a joke in DC that I actually decided I would remove myself from the park-on-this-side, park-on-that-side herd by renting a private parking space. Yep, at 230 bucks a month, I was the proud owner of an alleyway parking lot, all ten square meters of it.
That starts innocuously enough. Take the hotel shuttle to Ronald Reagan, which takes two, three minutes tops. The driver is from Ghana, and we speak French with each other. He drops me off at the rental car place, even stops at the curb where there isn’t a public stop (knowing foreign languages in this town can pay enormous dividends; I learned that years ago), and is off gathering new guests at the airport while I make my way to Enterprise Rental.
Long story short: I present my reservation, license and
debit card. Nope. Declined. Has to be a credit card. Grrr. A very unforgiving
policy, but not very surprising. So here I go back to the hotel, get my credit card
and am back at Ronald Reagan. Things check out, they like the credit card, and
I am shown to the Chrysler that I will be driving. The push button starter is
nothing new, but the gear shift is now a knob that you can turn with the ease
of a radio dial. It’s the year 2015. And in the year 2015, you have to finish
all of your plane trip or get docked (as in the return flight being canceled),
as Liebi learns. She will not be driving to Carolina with me but flying to
Charlotte—via Atlanta, no less.
Next question: can you mess up the short trip from Ronald Reagan to the nearby Hilton? You bet. I didn’t, but I only credit this to the fact that I had already driven the road with the shuttle once after forgetting my credit card. Without that first trip, I would have lost myself and ended up somewhere in Rhode Island.
So far, so good. Around midnight, I would make my getaway to North Carolina, when traffic around the Beltway would be the least demanding.
As a person who considers himself well versed in risk assessment, I had Liebi print out the directions on Mapquest, so I would have a certified hard copy of how to get out of hell. Seeking further alternatives, I end up asking the hotel manager how to get to the 66. I know, I know. Alternatives, right? At midnight. That’s no longer risk assessment, that is called flat out paranoia, coupled with a healthy dose of Turret’s.
So, the hotel manager explains the route. It’s a left on 28th in Crystal City, hop on the I-395, positively do not take the road into DC, and bingo, you’re on the yellow brick road and well on your way to the wizard while high stepping it with the scarecrow and the tin man. And trust me on the directions, the guy says, because I take that road every day.
Needless to say, I do everything right, drive below the speed limit, flip on the turn signals well in advance...all the way until Nationals Park. Now I’m not a guy who minds a good baseball game, or even Nationals Park. Except when it’s one o’clock in the morning and I really shouldn’t be there. Eventually I make it out, find the 66 and am off. I arrive in NC at around eight thirty. I still maintain I could have made it in seven or seven and a half without the Beltway.
But that’s okay. That’s all DC will get from me for a while. I’ll be flying out of Atlanta, so no need to go back.
Next question: can you mess up the short trip from Ronald Reagan to the nearby Hilton? You bet. I didn’t, but I only credit this to the fact that I had already driven the road with the shuttle once after forgetting my credit card. Without that first trip, I would have lost myself and ended up somewhere in Rhode Island.
So far, so good. Around midnight, I would make my getaway to North Carolina, when traffic around the Beltway would be the least demanding.
As a person who considers himself well versed in risk assessment, I had Liebi print out the directions on Mapquest, so I would have a certified hard copy of how to get out of hell. Seeking further alternatives, I end up asking the hotel manager how to get to the 66. I know, I know. Alternatives, right? At midnight. That’s no longer risk assessment, that is called flat out paranoia, coupled with a healthy dose of Turret’s.
So, the hotel manager explains the route. It’s a left on 28th in Crystal City, hop on the I-395, positively do not take the road into DC, and bingo, you’re on the yellow brick road and well on your way to the wizard while high stepping it with the scarecrow and the tin man. And trust me on the directions, the guy says, because I take that road every day.
Needless to say, I do everything right, drive below the speed limit, flip on the turn signals well in advance...all the way until Nationals Park. Now I’m not a guy who minds a good baseball game, or even Nationals Park. Except when it’s one o’clock in the morning and I really shouldn’t be there. Eventually I make it out, find the 66 and am off. I arrive in NC at around eight thirty. I still maintain I could have made it in seven or seven and a half without the Beltway.
But that’s okay. That’s all DC will get from me for a while. I’ll be flying out of Atlanta, so no need to go back.
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