Or maybe we’ve finally come to realize that the fifty mile radius around our home isn’t the only part of the universe with stores where you can buy whatever it is you forgot.
We’re preparing for the annual trek to Cape Cod, that pilgrimage of pasty-faced Massachusettsites toward the Bourne Bridge. Note I said toward the Bourne Bridge, because tradition demands that you sit in traffic for no less than 45 minutes waiting to get to the bridge. This is because most rentals on the Cape are from Saturday to Saturday so unless you plan to sleep on the beach Friday night, you leave on Saturday morning like the rest of the world and then cue up on route 25 and memorize the bumper in front of you.
This year, because of a social engagement at noon, we’ll be leaving mid-afternoon, so it’s yet to be determined if this later departure will be a brilliant stroke of timing or a greater disaster.
The magic will happen regardless, when we turn this