Sometimes I feel too programmed. Not that I lack autonomy. I don't. For Pesach I have considerable latitude of what I prepare for Seder. I also make binding commitments, like making those two Seders or showing up at synagogue for services. I enroll in the senior division of the state university each semester. That only entails four courses per semester, each 75 minutes long. It's only about half the time an undergraduate would spend. But I still have to show up, and if not an online course, I need to transport myself there and back. At least the undergrads can walk from their dorms to where they need to be.
Part of my success in retirement has been considerable voluntary scheduling. I arise at a set time, return to my bed at a set time, exercise and stretch on a schedule, have a reasonably fixed time for taking my medicines and for eating, though what I eat and wear each day I've chosen not to regiment.
An appointment-free Saturday came my way. Not exactly. I still needed a treadmill session at 7:50AM, which I did. Most Saturdays would find me in synagogue most of the morning, often with something to contribute. The congregational creators, from which I have been excluded, opted to have a Friday night dinner with service in celebration of Israel, that very productive land to which I have an attachment despite some recent, justifiable world criticism. I rarely attend these Shabbos dinners, finding a supper with just my wife and sometimes a guest or two more authentic. I prepare dinner, which adds to satisfaction. But this occasion seemed one to attend.
Between Pesach and shabbos assignments, I had gotten shul'd out. In response, I designated this Saturday a Day for Me.
Sometimes these periodic Saturdays still play out as Shabbos services, just at a place other than my own. A large modern Orthodox congregation in a city about an hour and a half distant had been a quarterly destination pre-pandemic. Mostly, I would make a day trip of the effort. Services until mid-day, then a city museum or other attraction before driving back home. I've not been there in some time. It became less worth the effort when their long-time Rabbi of national renown retired. Other times, I designated Saturday as a respite from shul, a needed break. Mostly a day trip would take its place. During my working years, taking a Saturday for myself had some therapeutic benefit, a personal reset not available to me on other days. In retirement, and with an unlimited SEPTA pass, I can designate most days of the week suitable for an escape. And I have. But shul'd out requires my change of pace occur in lieu of shul, as this one did.
My day of self began with a Saturday routine, making coffee, reviewing how I had done with the weekly plan I assembled the previous Sunday morning, then doing my obligatory time on the treadmill. All the while I considered where I might like to go, what I might like to do. At one time, my willingness to drive exceeds what it does now. Three hours each way creates an much bigger radius of where to go than my current hour and a half. I chose a place about fifty miles northwest of my home, a town, or really a vicinity, which I have visited a few times a year for these types of escapes over many decades. There are types of places a like to go. Farmers Markets, breweries, wineries, museums, local tours. By now, I've been to most of the attractions offered by my destination, though a respite day need not introduce me to something I've not done before. With gas tank filled the day before, I had no distance restrictions. At 9:30AM, I drove off, following my usual route, though still without a destination. About halfway there, I opted for a local farmer's market where I've visited a few times before. I can attend better markets far closer to my home, but this one has the advantage of other things to do nearby. Since it sits in a tourist area, one that attracts people from New York three hours away, traffic can get challenging on a Saturday. With a little motoring aggression that those New Yorkers will recognize, I secured my right of way at a few crowded intersections, and once parked safely, I showed similar assertiveness when crossing streets.
The Farmer's Market had little that attracted me. At prime time, I needed to park farther from the main building than I usually do. A separate brick building steps from my car offered Amish-style crafts with Amish attired women attending the customers. I looked around. Good deal on logo mugs. I resolved to return for one when ready to drive off. The main building had places to get baked goods,sandwiches, craft boutiques, meat and cheese vendors. In the basement, walkable by ramp, sat an emporium that sold souvenir type items that tourist coming to think they were having an Amish experience might want to bring home as gifts. With mid-day arriving, and nothing that I really wanted to buy, I walked across the street. I expected to sample three brick buildings selling Amish crafts, but they were all interconnected by hallways. Attractive stuff, tastefully displayed, and at acceptable prices. Another time, maybe in the late fall when I need to obtain Hanukkah gifts that my recipients living elsewhere would not easily obtain for themselves. Quick reality check. With Amazon and Etsy, everything can be obtained everywhere from a laptop. I walked outside to an adjacent building. A small food court, mostly baked things and ice cream, a place frequently cited by visitors' YouTube podcasts of their tripd to the area. I bought an oversized custard filled donut. Taking a chair at a shelf style seating area, I got confectioner's sugar over myself, the table, and the chair, but it was a yummy treat. A wipe with a napkin brought the powdered sugar to the floor, where it became hardly noticeable.
Cars driving along the street let me along with a few others get safely across to the Farmer's Market parking lot. I re-entered the original building, selected an oversized porcelain mug, handed the Amish young lady my Visa Card, which she processed, before wrapping my possibly fragile purchase securely for its trip home.
Next stop, a winery. Pennsylvania allows tasting rooms, places rented or owned by a vineyard, sometimes in another state. These places offer tastings of their sponsoring vineyards' vintages at a fee. I much prefer to visit an estate. My Wineries Near Me request showed nearly all tasting rooms, with the nearest vineyard a half hour's drive. I had been 3once before, recalling a pleasant place that required some rural driving to reach. By now, some rainfall had begun. Instead of setting Waze, my usual GPS, I followed the directions displayed by the winery's app. It lacked audio but displayed the turns with large enough images and distances that I could get there safely. It stood on a high hill. When I arrived, the tasting room appeared full. Not having a reservation at mid-day Saturday, they accommodated me in a back room, eventually joined by a brand new father tending to his six-week old son while his wife partied someplace else. I chose my five wines. The attendant brought me a wooden rack holding six test tubes, the one on the far right with water. As I sipped from #3, an attendant approached me about my car. When I arrived, I had nudged the trunk release. After closing it, I neglected to shut my own door. The rain now soaked part of my front seat. They closed the door for me, but I would have to place my nylon jacket atop the bucket seat to keep my pants dry.
As I started my journey from the Farmer's Market to winery, I drove past a Sheetz convenience store, almost at the corner of the road I wanted to take home. It being one of my favorite road trip breaks on other travels, I decided that on the way back, I would stop there for lunch. Sheetz and WaWa have a regional rivalry, this store being at the junction of where one takes dominance over the other. I programmed Waze to get me there, appreciating the audio. The sandwich menu falls short of what WaWa offers, a place I visit frequently at home when they have sandwich promotions. I chose a hoagie with a disappointing pretzel roll option, definitely less of a sandwich than what a WaWa would have sold me. The super-sized drink cost less, though. Intending to eat only half the sandwich, I found myself not adequately filled and not wanting to take the rest of this mediocre sandwich home. I ate the rest, tossed the wrapping, saved the majority of the soda and unused napkins.
Returning to my car, now with a brisker downpour, I headed to the route that I planned to take home. On my day trips to Amish country, I usually return by a different route than the one that got me there. The roads have a variety of numbered cross streets, mostly rural. With a GPS and destination, I can always get back on track, so often I will enter one of those streets that I do not recall driving along previously. The GPS has an algorithm preference for highways. On these Me Drives, I often ignore the female voice telling me of an entrance ramp, then redirecting me later, but not before trying to backtrack me to the highway. I chose a street to sample, but did not find it. Instead, I took a rural road, one with a name instead of a route number, through a state park. At one time I used to visit this park for its fishing, though not in a long time. Winding roads, not much traffic. Before long, I returned to familiar home territory. For the final leg home, I entered the usual roads, only to find a key bridge closed by flashing police cars. The other drivers in my blocked lane courteously took their turns making U-turns. I knew the alternate route to my house well, following that path uneventfully.
Home. Away for some seven hours, about half of it behind the steering wheel. I had set out for a day of multipurpose. Escape. New experience. Some amusement, Scenery. Taste buds. New places, even if only from the car. Mostly accomplished. I returned more tired than expected. A measure of annoyance from my own carelessness of not closing my car door, but also some appreciation to the winery attendant who minimized the wetness that the car's interior would acquire. A stop at a favorite roadside convenience store, even if the meal fell short of what I might have eaten elsewhere. And an alternative to my more customary Saturday morning place in my synagogue's sanctuary. A welcome time to myself, despite those elements that could have gone better.
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