Okay, so I don't actually have internet access on our upcoming trip, so I'm going to make an attempt to accurately recreate what our days will be like before they happen. If an imaginary conversation happens on this blog on Tuesday July, 6, you can bet your ass that I'll be having that exact same conversation on July 6 to keep up with the integrity of this blog. Question? Does this whole blog idea strain the space time continuum? Probably. This whole blog project is essentially time travel.

Anyhow, it's July 2nd, so we should probably hit the road.

I'm guessing we'll be listening to music like this:



And yes, by the time we're done they will name a city after us.

After a while we'll probably stop listening to the music and we'll talk about how nice it is to be out of the city. We'll say things like, "It's just nice to get away for a while." Then the other person will smile, and comment on the high quality of the local foliage.

After a while I'll probably complain about not living in CA. I'll say that something about the proximity of all that natural beauty speaks to my soul. I'll use the word soul without feeling strange because we'll be out in the country. S will listen to me for a while and then she'll say, "If you want to go there. Get a job. I'll go with you." We'll sit in silence for a while after this, and maybe I'll sing "It's contagious" because I've always hated applying for jobs and jobs have hated me.

In the early afternoon, when the sun is at its hottest S will fall asleep in the front seat, and I'll turn the music on even louder and sing poorly along with it. Later, when she wakes up, I'll turn on a podcast of a short story and sit in expectant silence, hoping that she'll enjoy it as much as I do. And if she doesn't, I'll try to argue with her for a little while, to convince her just how life-changing that moment should have been.

As we head further north I'll say that I wish we lived in NYC. "If I want to be a writer," I'll say, "I should be living in NYC." S will sit quiet for a while, and then tell me that she can't deal with all the hustle bustle. She probably won't say hustle bustle. We'll go silent again for a time, looking at the skyline of the city, and dream of other lives we could have lived.

In the evening we'll have a good conversation about the things we used to love. She'll say, "Remember that time when we" and I'll stop her mid-sentence to tell her that I do. And that we were happy. Or maybe I'll say something like, "Looking back, we were happy. Back then, I guess I just couldn't really see it. I'm not a glass if half-empty kind of person. I'm more a, the glass has somehow been shattered on the ground spilling water all over the wall and just who the hell is going to clean up this mess because it certainly won't be me kind of person."

Around nine we'll pull into the drive of some cheap hotel both regretting the money we didn't spend on something nicer. "So this is Lake George," I'll say. "I pictured it being, you know, pretty."
"It's dark," she'll say. "How can you tell?"

"I've just got a feeling about this place," I'll answer, "It's crappy."

Then we'll read books in a dusty motel room until she drifts off to sleep. Later, I'll want to wake her to tell her about the spot where Champlain first set foot in Montreal, and since she is asleep, I'll dog ear the page and wait for the morning.