Shining on

I headed north on 24. I pulled off at the Murfreesboro exit--it turned out to be the exit before my destination of the Hampton Inn. I had seen a sign promising low rates and wifi at the Knights Inn, and I figured I'd check it out.

The very nice lady behind the counter said she had one room left, but it was smoking. I said I was OK with that, given that God knows what I'd been breathing around me the previous day. We got to talking about Bonnaroo. I guess she felt sorry for me, because she said, "I've got this other room that I was saving for this boy who came by earlier, but he hasn't come back, so you can have it. It's nonsmoking. But you'll have to go upstairs."

"Yesterday," I said, "I had to walk two city blocks to go to the bathroom. Stairs are fine."

I was paying about $20 less per night. I'm sure it wasn't as nice as the Hampton Inn, but it beat the hell out of Camp Bender. Once ensconced, I called the Hampton Inn and canceled. Then I tried the wifi--no luck. I called the spouse to kibitz about technical matters. He ran me through every diagnostic he could think of on the phone, but when my mailboxes suddenly disappeared, and then my Google homepage settings were gone, he suggested I turn off the Mac and put it away, because maybe my hard drive was fried.

I slept for most of the day. Eventually, I decided to go explore. I drove up the road to the Howard Johnson's where Chad and Jeremy were staying.

"Can I leave a message for some friends who are staying here?"

"Are they with Bonnaroo?"

"Uh, yes."

The fellow with the shoe-polish hair and the cross tattoo on his forearm drawled dryly: "Are these friends you just met? Maybe seen across a field, you know?"

"Er, uhh..."

"We probably don't have their names in the books, because the lady keeps track of all of that. But if you want to write them a note, I can see that she gets it."

I gather that "the lady" was a reference to the person managing the guys' VIP package. I began to write to Chad as the black-haired guy said, "Were you at Bonnaroo, too?"

"Yes."

"Ha! Toldja," he boasted to the frat/prep blond guy who sat at the other end of the counter, his feet up on his desk. "I can always tell.

"I was at Woodstock," he said. And, you know, he told me some Woodstock stories here, but I sorta tuned out. Later, I thought maybe I should be collecting people who went to Woodstock. You know--just snap their photos, take their names, whatever. I know a lot of people were there, but still.

The basic gist: He went to the first "new" Woodstock, but it wasn't the same. And that doesn't surprise me. Nothing's the same.

I don't remember what all he went on about: something about moonshine, something about kids breaking into a motel pool. I busted out what was already becoming a shtick: the heat, all that walking, just brutal, blah blah. (It's always later when I realize just how boring I can be.) The other guy attested to his love for Tool and complained about the hotel shuttle. I never did figure out whether he was an employee or another VIP guest.

I finally got away, drove around, had some Krystal burgers. Decided they were better than White Castle. Or maybe I'm mixing things up....I was so very, very tired.

I will go back tomorrow, I told myself. White Stripes.

But tomorrow came, and I didn't want to get out of that cozy bed. And when I sat up, I felt lightheaded.

My Bonnaroo was over. I decided what I wanted was to throw my dizzy, achy, whiny self onto the bosom of the matriarchy. I had planned to drive to Mom's on Monday, but I went on Sunday instead. Drove all day. Did a few more White Castle vs. Krystal taste tests.

I think it was on the drive to Mom's that I finally got a text message from Chad that they'd gotten their flight straightened out: "Save us a space at the Richard Thompson set!"

Bill Bryson wrote a book about walking the whole of the Appalachian Trail. Except--and I hope I'm not spoiling it for anyone, if anyone is reading this--he didn't finish walking the trail. He didn't even get very far. So the book became about something else. Or so I suppose it did, because I didn't finish reading the book. (Are you sensing a pattern here?)

I don't regret going. And I don't regret leaving when I did: It was a decision I made to preserve some semblance of health and well-being. (Would it have been wiser to stick it out and wait until they carried me out on a stretcher?) I don't know how I could have prepared better. I just didn't know how overwhelming it would be, how disconnected I would feel.

I guess I'll end this blog here, because I've got no more Bonnaroo to write about.






But that sounds really glum, doesn't it? Really, my whole thing in life is about the journey rather than the destination, traveling hopefully more than arriving, all that good stuff about which others have been far more eloquent than I am able or willing to be at 3:25 in the morning.

I'm going to go sleep in my own bed now. First time in a week. And in two nights, I'll be on my friend Dan's futon in New York. You see, there's this free Richard Thompson show in Brooklyn....