Tales of Brave Ulysses
My expectations for small town sports bars in strip malls on Sunday nights were tempered from too many conventions and business trips over the decades. There would be beer, of course, bottles and cans and maybe a draft Lite or two—domestic. Wine selections might come from a box or six-packs, or, maybe in a rare establishment, bottles from local wineries.
There would be tables of young-ish professionals where the entrees were three or four kinds of “Wingz” and the drink selection was: a pitcher. Too loud laughter as the evening wore on…four to eight oversized flat-screens on the walls with varying games: football, hockey, basketball.
A non-descript fake wood bar with backless stools filled with patrons watching every play on the screens; the sound muted, the close-captioning on. The food selection was likely to have little to offer a fish-atarian like me. And I had consumed enough run-of the mill drafts to be willing to accept whatever was on what passed for a bar menu.
I was used to all that. A sneering look from the hostess when I asked for a booth for one. Said hostess studying the maps of tables as if overbooked with reservations–although the place was nowhere near crowded to capacity. Finally being seated off to the side, inconspicuously, as if I should be ashamed to be uncoupled on a weekend evening.
But the Stone Grill and Taphouse, York, PA, emerged as a welcome surprise. My waitress turned out to be friendly, engaging and eager to make me feel at home. Then, a glance at the menu showed me my appetite was in good hands, after all. I ordered seared ahi tuna steak—rare—a side of asparagus and a salad with mesclun and other savory greens and a from-scratch mustard vinaigrette. The wine list featured several international selections, among them one of my favorites, a Malbec from Argentina.
Clearly, I had underestimated the York culinary scene.
When I eat out on a road trip, I frame each meal in my thoughts as an opportunity for a willing servant to take loving care of me and my immediate needs. I inhale the ambience of the place and feel like a weary traveler being slowly revived back to life by the experience.
The Stone Grill and Taphouse did not disappoint.
That night and the next morning I hurried to finish Monday’s work, made the most of the ending minutes of the hotel’s breakfast buffet and Ubered back to the Monroe where Ray told me he was still waiting for the part for my car.
I slumped down into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs and avoided looking at the clock. By mid-afternoon I was $230 poorer and sitting in construction traffic again on I-83. But finally on the road. I kept to just over the speed limit but drove anxiously, playing “beat the clock” with the enveloping darkness and managed to arrive back home about 45 minutes past sunset.
Relief and fatigue crept through me and I was starting to relax when I opened the mail sitting in my box and saw an urgent notice from the DMV to turn in my plates because my auto insurance had lapsed six weeks prior.
What?!
I had just driven 440 miles to and from without car insurance? I could have had an accident!
A frantic call to my insurance company got me a live person on the line who said my policy had been cancelled for non-payment. I couldn’t understand how that could be since I was on auto-pay, but my bank had recently issued me a new debit card and I hadn’t remembered to update the expiration date.
“But don’t you alert people if that happens?” I very nearly yelled into the phone.
“Of course. You should have gotten the notice…”
“But I didn’t…” After another eternity on hold, a supervisor apologized profusely for the oversight and was ready to reinstate my policy and notify the DMV immediately. For the modest sum of three months payment: $210 dollars. They graciously waived the late fee.
Not only was disaster still clinging to me post-road-trip, but each hour of this ongoing bad luck was becoming an additional drag on my budget.
Finally, it all got resolved, I was road-legal again, with brakes that actually stopped the car when I needed them to and an envelope full of notes and resources I was excited to share with the rest of the club—punctuated by a few humorous asides–when we met for lunch tomorrow.
*****
Travelers back from an epic journey know that the full experience of the trip is not complete until they have shared the wisdom of their wanderings with others, and I was ready to enlighten and enrich my audience. I had a tale to tell.
We met for lunch in the usual event room and I was ready to report to my enthusiastic audience. As they served lunch, I laughed about a few of my little disasters with my colleagues and gazed around the room. I looked to the front and saw that the servers had forgotten to put up the club banner we were so proud of, which struck me as odd. They always put it up right next to the American flag we pledged allegiance to.
I was soon caught up in my story, Ulysses, full of fascinating details of fabulous wanderings, which amounted to a full report on the convention and future implications for our club followed by some lively questions and answers. As usual, the other members were friendly and encouraging and their response made the luncheon one I could chalk up as a great success.
As I got ready to leave, Chip, who had been sitting next to me, said “Do you need some help bringing in the banner? Is it in your car?”
The banner.
I had a vision of myself putting it into the trunk. We walked out to the parking lot and the day had turned November-windy and cold, with a few icy raindrops. I hit the key fob and the trunk opened.
One look inside showed me the only things within were a blanket, jumper cables, a plastic bottle of windshield washer fluid and my ice scraper. Had I left the banner at home?
“I guess it’s still with my luggage,” I told Chip. “I’ll bring it next week,”
As I headed back to my apartment, I shook my head. Wow. Had the trip exhausted me that much?
Back at my place, I searched through the closet where I kept my luggage, looked in a few other unlikely places and the banner was nowhere in sight. A sinking feeling in my gut.
I sat down, closed my eyes and retraced the sequence of events from the entire weekend: the golf resort’s ridiculous rambling layout, the conviviality of the club’s regional officers, the attempts to get my brakes repaired.
All the banners had been hung in the main room of the conference. The room where we were supposed to have coffee after the banquet dinner. The room where I wandered in and saw little groups of people talking and didn’t recognize a single familiar face. Where people were beginning to head out—to head home. Where I had begun to feel out of place and a little foolish and, weary from my afternoon of seeking car repairs, had decided to head up to bed instead of lingering.
The room where I had forgotten to retrieve my club’s banner. The banner with the badges, awards, and other memories that had been meticulously, lovingly, sewn on by diligent members over the decades.
The one-of-a-kind, irreplaceable banner I had left in a conference room in a golf resort in York, PA.
Oh brave, forgetful Ulysses.