From New York to Richmond

LaGuardia, US Airways terminal, a storm moving in that will drop over two inches on the city, Manhattan through the gray in the distance across the runways and river, Bowie Heroes on the Bose. We were going to Richmond for Colin's birthday and Mother's Day. Flight got cancelled, terminal full of crabby people, crabby agents, all flailing and reduced before nature. We got out several hours later to Charlottesville, dumped the idea of USAir-paid cab ride, got a Ford Fusion for 30 bucks from Avis and headed 80 miles east on 64, giving a lift to another passenger. Many years since I'd been in Charlottesville. Today, at least, it managed the neat trick of being small and remote, yet filled with big box stores and slow-moving traffic. Sissy Spacek and Dave Matthews can have it. We dropped our fellow traveller at her mother's retirement community and, a mere six hours late, got close to the kids' place, stopping first at one of the BBQ joints we love. Sometimes all it takes to turn around a stupid day is a sandwich slathered in slaw and sauce, a cheap Budweiser, the unfamiliar language of NASCAR in the generational chatter, and -- best of all -- a Where's George bill handed back in change in a restaurant that doesn't take credit cards, but will accept an out of town check.