Beaten by Woodstock
Peace, love, and goddamnits
Maybe I let myself get a bit out of practice, since I haven’t flown anywhere since November’s trip to Monterey County. A lot’s changed since then, including airline rules and my anxiety medication. Not a great combo.
And this is why, when I got out of bed at 3 a.m. to catch my flight to Hartford last week, I had a complete meltdown freakout.
Some of it was from taking 1/4 less Klonopin than my body’s used to, a situation not improved by my new soon-to-be-former shrink screwing up my prescription, leaving me with about half my regular dose while out of town.
Some of it was from not having any real idea what to expect now that Southwest has drastically changed its customer of size policy. I’ve lost weight since I last flew so it might not be an issue. Or it might be an issue demanding I throw $500+ at it at the airport. Who knows? And who wants to roll the dice before dawn to find out?
Okay, some deep breathing to clear my head, and I decided to take a later flight to give me time to work through my big feelings (and my big ass—measuring was involved and the width of my ass is the exact same as a SW standard seat). I called Southwest and let a very nice customer service agent talk me down. (I’ll write a separate post about the Southwest stuff later this week.)
For now, suffice it to say that I pulled my shit together and made it to Hartford, Connecticut a few hours later than planned. Other than getting hit with a migraine wave of nausea and throwing up in the Thrifty Car Rental garage, I was good to go.
I zipped through Connecticut and Massachusetts, arriving in Woodstock just after dark and in time for dinner. That’s when I remembered that Woodstock is a tiny town with almost no parking and a lot of people. Dealing with that was too much for me, and it looked like it might rain, so I checked into my digs—a rustic wood-beamed studio in an old barn with the greatest toilet seat cover ever—and called it a night in hopes of rallying on Saturday.
Did I mention it felt like it might rain? Holy cows, did it rain on Saturday! Not that this slowed people from spending the day in Woodstock. I did a loop through town, saw how crammed and busy everything was, and decided maybe a quick jaunt to Saugerties for groceries and trespassing was in order.
To find Big Pink, I turned off the paved state highway onto a muddy road draped with bare tree limbs. Plenty of signs reminded me that I was on a private road and shouldn’t be. The other side of those signs was made for you and me, so I kept going.
While it’s deep in a valley with a fog-covered mountain looming over it, Big Pink isn’t desolate. It’s just country, with houses and farms nearby. I didn’t stay long, since those private road signs might have had accompanying shotguns. Just long enough to take a photo, stare at the foundation while contemplating what happened on the other side of the cinderblocks, then light out while singing along to “This Wheel’s on Fire” and “Odds and Ends.” I’m sure, had I been a little braver, or if the road had been less private, I would have sat in the driveway, listening to the same songs that were recorded just beyond the blocks, thinking about how small the world can be and how we walk on the same dirt.
I returned to my place with intentions of taking a nap before opening night of the Afghan Whigs tour. On my way into the studio, I bent down to adjust my grocery bags. When I stood up, I slammed the top of my head into a porch roof support beam. A week later, it still hurts to touch that part of my head.
Did I go to urgent care? No. I’ve been to urgent care with a mild concussion in the past. As has CJ. The routine is “Well, you probably have a mild concussion. Keep an eye on it and come back if it gets worse. That’ll be $75.” I wasn’t in the mood. Besides, mild concussion symptoms—headache, dizziness, nausea—are pretty much ever-present in me these days, since they’re also the symptoms of vestibular migraines. I made sure my eyes were pointing in the same direction and rested under a painting of Dolly until showtime.
I left plenty early for the show because I knew I’d need to work out the ADA seating situation. Thanks again to migraine disease, standing at general admission shows is on the ever-growing list of things I can’t do.
I also couldn’t deal with the parking lot, which was already mostly-full when I arrived. I had multiple near-misses with other drivers, since no attendants were directing traffic that was going in several directions. And I would have been parking a long walk in the mud and rain to the theater if I did manage to find a space. It took so little exertion to make me throw up the day before that I knew I’d do it again if I tried to take things on foot.
Honestly? I felt like shit, so I went back to my studio. Susan, my host, was standing on her porch when I came back. She was so sweet, offering to drop me off at the show and pick me up after. I really didn’t want to drag her out for a rain-soaked adventure on a sub-freezing night, and like I said, I felt like shit, so I thanked her and went to bed early to read some gay Canadian hockey smut.
The next morning I awoke to bright sunshine and warm temperatures, just in time to drive to Boston. Except while getting dressed, the unthinkable happened.
My favorite bra broke while I was adjusting it. Then the backup I packed promptly popped a wire, which gouged into my armpit, upper arm, and boob for the rest of the trip.
There are not enough profanities for this situation. Anyone bigger than a C cup knows what I’m bitching about.
But as I was leaving, Susan came out to say goodbye. We visited for an hour or so. She’s a retired massage therapist and gave me some advice for helping the migraines, and we compared travels. I needed the reminder that the best part of travel happens when interesting and kind new people enter my life. That conversation made up for a lot of Woodstock angst.
So did the neighbor’s honor system egg stand.
Next stop: Boston.