Getting There is Half the Battle

Classes have ended, reading days have begun, G-d is in His (Her? Its?) heaven, and I am at home.

After many stressful weeks studying and fulfilling duties at school, I can finally relax in my own room-- my own bed!-- for a few days. I've already begun the process of reverting to my more base nature-- stealing forbidden internet service from my brother's computer, scrabbling around in the pantry for chips, and wearing neon green fisherman's pants with an apple red shirt. My mother, I assure you, has never been more proud.

Though I love being at home where I can guilt people into pampering me, getting here is a bit of a hassle. First, I must find some generous (and gullible) soul to drive me to the train station. This step is the hardest. It's normally very difficult to rouse a prone college student into action (see Newton's first law), but convincing a student to drive anywhere when gas costs half of his yearly tuition is a near impossibility. Such a conundrum begs for more creativity.

We have all seen the movies where a beautiful young woman, in an effort to hitchhike, hikes up her skirt slightly, displaying one shapely leg to passersby. Invariably, she gets a ride. I am not nearly good looking enough to try such a stunt, nor would a driver be likely to stop these days unless said woman was Angelina Jolie (sans Brad Pitt). So I use my other feminine wiles to score transportation.

The scene goes a little like this: I saunter into a well-endowed (with a car, you sick-minded freaks) friend's room and place my hand on his shoulder. With a "come-hither" look in my eyes, I lick my lips in a sultry manner. Finally, in a low, breathy voice, I whisper into his ear: "I'll pay for gas..."

Transportation: check.

So now that I've shelled out the car's weight in gold, my generous friend drives me to the train station at Exton. To call this place a "station" may be a little too complimentary. Rather, it is a cement platform that Amtrak and SEPTA just happen to stop at. I wait... and wait... and wait... Sweat making my palms slick and unpleasant. Have I missed my train no I couldn't have missed my train its late its late keep thinking its late stop thinking that you will have to spend the rest of this night sleeping on freezing cement if the train doesn't come Lord knows my friends won't pick me up without another cash infusion dear G-D don't let me have missed this train!!!

Oh, the train in just late. Haaaaa...

I shove my way on to my Amtrak chariot, unceremoniously dropping my four bags on to an open seat, then flop down next to a window. While waiting for the conductor take another hearty helping of money from my dead-fish hands, I watch the farm country of Lancaster County zoom by. Spring has brought the Amish out of hibernation, which explains the swarm of black buggies that roll down the road next to the tracks. The idyllic green fields and rolling hills lulls me into a stupor that can only be broken by the panic that comes with being told that we have arrived in Lancaster-- yes, NOW!-- and I must grab my approximately fifty pounds of luggage and scramble out of the train before I am whisked away to some cesspit (actually, Harrisburg) where I will never be heard from again.

Screw resting up for finals; I need another few days to recover from the trip home!

K.