Brunswick

Back in January, Elle and I visited a quaint little hell-on-Earth called Woodbine (and you can read all about that creepy little adventure here). Woodbine is ass-backwards redneckery filled with Ebenezer Church-stalkin' cops and is also not too far from Brunswick, my newest town that I love to hate. I have driven thousands of miles between Jacksonville, Florida and Emporia, Virginia, over the last 8 years or so only to find myself trapped in a sea of orange cones and construction zone signs beginning south of Brunswick, Georgia, and finally ending somewhere near...oh, the South Carolina state line.



God, does Brunswick really have to exist? I mean, can't you just blow up the paper mill that smells up the joint and the surrounding 30-mile area and be done with it? Then there will be no need for those orange cones that have been plowed over by speeding drivers, lane shifts that freak out the vacationers driving on I-95 South for the first time ever, or squeezing three lanes into one. Because even though the guy directing traffic is probably laughing his ass off at all the road ragers who are screaming obscenities at him when they finally pass, it's not really a grand idea on a holiday weekend to add another hour to one's commute. I think the Brunswickians put him up to it. And they probably pay him generously. It's their way of subjecting the rest of the road-trippin' country to that stench they call oxygen.

I had no way around Brunswick last week when I decided to meet up with some South Carolina-based friends of mine in Savannah, Georgia (one of my favorite cities ever, by the way!). What should have been a 90-minute trip was delayed by a massive interstate project in...you guessed it, Brunswick. In the middle of navigating this highway overhaul, the storm of the century was unleashed upon all the unsuspecting travelers in my cluster of vehicles. This 15-minute lightning/thunder/DEATH-IS-NEAR storm stole from us our ability to see, to hear, and to hold one's bladder due to being overcome with fear and concern for nearly hitting all those dumbasses who like to drive with their flashers on. And because I was on vacation (albeit only 1 hour into my vacation), I had brought a change of pants but never had to use it. Phew!

This all happened before I even reached mile marker 49. I had sixty miles to go to get to my friends and my hotel and my hot tub. Sixty miles of uneventful highway travel. Until I headed home...ugh.

This Wednesday I will be heading back up I-95 North on my way to Ridgeland, South Carolina to stop overnight, only to wake up and drive some more until I reach Asheville. If Atlanta wasn't rumored to be an even bigger nightmare than Brunswick, I'd actually consider the two hours that would be added to my drive. Yes, I hate Brunswick that much but not enough to fight with Atlanta.