The scene: Late at night, somewhere in western New York state. We're midway through our return home from a quick trip to New York City where we and my mom attended my cousin's wedding. Everyone but the driver - that would be me - dozes while the GPS softly lights the dash and points us toward home.
As we approach a seemingly dark exit, I furrow my brow when our navigator, who we've nicknamed Lucille, or Lucy, tells me to get off the highway. The device is set to default to the fastest possible route, so I'm surprised that she's pointing me toward, well, oblivion. But I've never driven here before, and I know better than to quibble with the Soulless Code of Garmin. So I hit the turn signal and take the exit.
We end up on a two-lane highway -
US Route 20A - that snakes us through canopies of trees and up and down through more small towns and past more farms and farmhouses than I can count. This isn't a short detour: By my admittedly lame estimate, Lucy has decided to yank us off the Interstate for the last 90 minutes before we hit the border. The kids, sensing that the car is no longer cruising on the straight and level, wake up and start asking questions. Are we there yet? (No.) Are we off the highway? (Yes.) Why? (Because Daddy's lost and we've entrusted ourselves to a squawking box no bigger than your Nintendo DSi.)
So you can imagine that I'm a little more stressed than usual, and at first I find it difficult to avoid showing it. But I smile as I answer their questions because that's just what dads do - if mine was ever nervous during a long trip, he never let on. We always felt safe, and that's exactly what I want for them, too.
After a few minutes, though, my headlights swing past a deer standing quietly on the side of the road. No one's playing Nintendo now, and everyone's suddenly keenly aware of the things going on outside our car that we'd never have seen on the boring old Interstate. I start to relax and enjoy the unplanned experience.
We pick our way down a steep set of switchbacks before coasting into a brilliantly lit, one-intersection town. A lone pedestrian - a long-haired teenaged boy whose black t-shirt doesn't look warm enough for the chilly night - walks across the deserted street, swapping one whitewashed facade of dusty windows and shadowed entranceways for another.
As we climb out of the town and back into the pitch black night, Debbie calls out that she sees a windmill. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch it: a giant shadow of modern eco-friendliness that dominates the quaint farmhouses that line the side of the road. I have no idea how I'm able to make it out on the darkened land - and no time, either, as the road beckons my eyes back. Suddenly my wife sees another one, and another, until the entire field is filled with them. They're turning slowly in the black night, sending energy to a place that's got to be lighter than this. My kids remain glued to the window, amazed.
Eventually, we see a familiar glow in the distance as Lucy points us back toward civilization. We get on the highway and drive through the middle of Buffalo. The rest of the way home, I toss over in my mind what possessed our GPS to take us on such a ride. And I smile at the thought as I consider what we would have missed had the trip gone completely according to plan. Sometimes, the road less traveled is the one we simply need to take.
I'll leave the why of it all for another time.
Your turn: When a journey takes you somewhere unexpected. Please discuss.
