Ya' Just Have to Treat Them Like Cows

Apparently, if you live or have ever lived in the country, you will understand this with no explanation. For those of you who have never lived in the country...

We were leaving New York City. Tim had gained a whole lot of confidence after walking around New York for a little over five days. I was waiting for him to lay on his horn and yell out the window, "Hey! Whatsa' madda' you?" when someone cut him off. Seriously, I was very impressed with his assertive driving. I felt quite comfortable as he darted in and out of traffic, stayed cool when someone did cut him off, and accelerated to get through a yellow light. Crosswalks were especially crazy. People step out into the crosswalk even when they shouldn't. Sometime they do have a walk sign, but it is also legal for us to make a right turn--making it a game of bluffing. I couldn't contain myself any longer. As Tim manuevered through a crosswalk, I had to compliment him.



"I gotta' say, I'm really impressed with your driving--you've kept your cool. I think you're even beginning to enjoy it a little."

"It's not bad. You just have to treat 'em like cows."

Silence.

"Uhh...how so?"

"Well, when cows get in front of you [when you're in a car and they've gotten loose on the road or when you're in a field on a tractor] you have to get real close to them or even nudge 'em a little to make them move. That's what it's like when people are in the crosswalk."

Only a country boy thinks like that...

We had to slow down a little after five-and-a-half frenetic days in New York. Traffic was heavy as we made our way up I-95 out of New York and into Connecticut. Even with heavy traffic it was amazing how quickly we got to New Haven. While it is tiny compared to the Hill in St. Louis, New Haven has a Little Italy. There are several Italian restaurants that serve a mean pie, mostly famously, Frank Pepe's. We got to New Haven around 3:00--perfect for a short line--yes, a line at 3:00 for pizza. We got a taste of the locals as a guy we'll call Dave, (Tim thought he looked like a Dave, and neither of us wanted to ask because we were afraid we would encourage him.) strolled up behind us in line. We started having a conversation with the two couples ahead of us, but Dave demanded attention.

"You guys been here long?" The smell of alcohol was strong. His face was weathered, his eyes squinty, his teeth crooked and nicotine stained, and his hair unnaturally black except at the temples. His blinks were long and tight.

"No, just a few minutes."

"Man, I've seen people standing here in line, 30 deep, in the rain. So are you eating here or taking out? I went to Sally's down the street but it was locked. I tried the door but it was locked. Man, can you believe that? You guys been here long?"

This conversation, the same conversation, looped several times. He somehow detected, maybe from our accents, that we weren't from around there.

"So, where are you guys from?"

"Missouri."

"Missoura? I hitch-hiked from South Dakota to South Carolina. I went through Missoura. You from Columbia? Ya' know the University of Missoura is in Columbia."

"Yeah, it is. No, we're not from Columbia." Neither of us wanted to let this guy know where we lived, so we gave him nothing.

"I went through Missoura, oh, St. Louie, I went through St. Louie; it's a ghetto. (pregnant pause) "Are you from St. Louie?"

"Yes, yes we are."

"Oh *%#&. I have a lot of respect for you guys." His eyes twitched as he blinked and considered the idea. "Son of a...oh, sorry..." He stood silent, twitching for short moment then couldn't contain himself, "Son of a $*@#*, St. Louie." He crossed himself in the name of who knows what and said, "God bless you...St. Louie. That's a long way from here, what the &*%$ are you doing here?"

"Wait a minute, you hitch-hiked from South Dakota to South Carolina and you think we're crazy?" He laughed and got the point. We told him we were here to eat pizza. He then proceeded to tell us about going to school in South Dakota and hitch-hiking to South Carolina for some bluegrass festival that turned out to be worthless. About that time, we were finally seated. I hope Dave made it home okay. I hope Dave remembers where he lives.

We ordered a half white clam, half summer (fresh tomatoes, mozzarella, and basil) pie. When I asked Tim which he liked better he said, "I can't really say. It's like comparing Imo's sausage and pepperoni to a Domino's Philly cheesesteak pizza--they're different pizzas." I would say the white clam was different--very good, but different. I liked the summer pie better. I would agree, hard to compare to a New York style pizza, but I'm going New York if I have to choose.

We pulled into the Holiday Inn Express in Hartford and have done a couple of loads of laundry in the guest laundry room right down the hall. We've rested our feet. I've played on the computer, and Tim's preparing the agenda for tomorrow, when we will head to Boston.