The Scenic Route

We went to lunch at a restaurant we really like in Columbus.

Remember Columbus. This will be important later.

When we left the restaurant, traffic heading toward the freeway, which was naturally the direction we needed to go, was backed up for about a quarter of a mile. We could sit there and wait, or we could turn the other way and take the scenic route home.

We chose the scenic route.

This seemed like an excellent idea. We’d just had lunch, we were in no particular hurry, and the longer drive would give our meals time to settle before we got home and ate birthday cake.

There was a plan. It was a good plan.

History is littered with good plans.

The scenic route turned out to be considerably more scenic than anticipated.

First, we passed what appeared to be the beginnings of an enormous solar farm. At least, that’s what we decided it was. There was a foundation of some sort stretching for what looked like a mile, and it was several football fields wide. Whatever they were building, they clearly weren’t thinking small.

We drove on, pleased with our discovery and with ourselves for having avoided the traffic. Look at us. Intrepid explorers of rural Texas. Who needs the freeway?

Apparently, we did.

Eventually we encountered road construction, complete with a lead vehicle.

I use the term lead vehicle loosely.

The purpose of a lead vehicle, as I understand it, is to lead. This particular driver apparently regarded that as more of a broad philosophical concept. The cars immediately behind it weren’t entirely committed to the concept of following, either.

So there we were, participating in some sort of loosely organized automotive field trip in which no one seemed completely certain who was in charge, where we were going, or whether staying behind the vehicle specifically assigned to show us the way might be useful.

Which, in retrospect, should have been a warning.

Eventually we escaped the construction and continued on our scenic way.

Much later, we passed a gas station on the other side of the road.

It was on fire.

Not something smells a little hot on fire. Actual fire. Flames. Fire trucks were already there, and EMS was coming from the opposite direction with sirens blaring.

At this point, our pleasant little scenic drive had provided renewable energy, road construction, traffic confusion, emergency vehicles, and an active fire.

All we needed was an escaped cow being pursued by a man on a tractor and we could have sold tickets.

Still, we drove on.

And on.

And on.

We were well past the point where I had any idea where we were, but this is rural Texas. Roads wander around. Towns are scattered about. Eventually you hit something you recognize.

And, about an hour and a half after leaving the restaurant, we did.

Columbus.

Yes.

Columbus.

The place where we had eaten lunch.

Apparently, instead of taking the scenic route home, we had taken the scenic route to Columbus.

From Columbus.

We had made an enormous circle. Or oval. Possibly a rhombus. Some shape, anyway, that allowed two reasonably competent adults to spend ninety minutes driving through the Texas countryside only to arrive back where they had started.

Fortunately, we reached Columbus at a different intersection, thereby avoiding both the restaurant and the original traffic jam. This was fortunate because, by then, we had had quite enough of scenery. Scenery is wonderful. It’s what makes a Norman Rockwell painting so appealing. But there are limits to how much of it one wants to drive through in a single afternoon, and the prospect of accidentally completing another trapezoid before reaching home held very little appeal.

We got on the freeway.

We went home.

And I will say this for our scenic route: it accomplished its original purpose beautifully.

Our lunch had definitely settled before we ate the birthday cake.