In northeastern Pennsylvania, there is a highway sign that reads:

Shouldn't that be 'Next 600 Exits'? I got past the supposedly endless mountains without having to change CDs.

That was Friday, coming back from seeing Turandot in New York City. The trip was otherwise uneventful, though I noticed a lot of military trucks between Scranton and Binghamton, all heading north, all empty, one stopped on an upgrade with its hood up and a couple of guys standing around looking worried. I wonder if they were returning to base after dropping off some heavy equipment in Philadelphia or some other eastern port? Or perhaps heading north to pick some up? Or both? They were obviously planning a long drive. Some of the flatbed trailers were carrying other flatbed trailers, though there were a couple of spare tractors that could have been pulling them. I suppose they double them up to save wear and tear on the tires.

My drive to New York was mildly eventful. I drove the first 86 miles with a nagging feeling that I had forgotten something (spare clothes? ID? money? CDs and player? no, no, no, and no) before I realized that it was my Turandot ticket. Having to go back for it made the round-trip 900 miles in two days instead of the usual 720.

In other boring news, I bought a bottle of Calvados in New York, one of those that comes in a cardboard box. When I got home I discovered that it had been opened: the wax seal was carefully broken off all around in ways that could not have happened from shaking or bumping. I can't think why anyone would have done that. It's the right color and the right smell, the level is just right, the chance of someone having poisoned it is one in a million, but . . . . I'll be back in town next weekend, so I guess I'll play it safe and return it. I was really looking forward to drinking the stuff.