4 FRIENDS--1959 CADILLAC

VACATIONS! 

The lure of the open road...

Hmm, that road bit borders on being an oxymoron.  Doesn’t it?  Well, whatever, even a traffic jam won’t stop most of us from pressing on to our destination. 

Vacation trips wear many faces.  Yes, they do.  High-style, simple, rugged, exotic, horror-filled and hilarious masks cover our countenances.  Sometimes we are required to wear several of these masks, because what you think you will get on vacation isn’t always as advertised. 

Buck up folks!  Any time spent away from the ordinary drudgery of our daily existence is better than no time at all.

As the kids say, the bestest vacations are the ones where we have the most fun. 

Fun is foremost, but memories follow and endure way beyond the whoops and hollers of jolly fun. 

When we are young and childless, we occasionally figure that our friends have similar goals for the ideal vacation.  We draw together and bond our ideas into a no-fail itinerary of adventure. 

Pish-tosh!  Have you ever succeeded in getting just one other person to completely agree with your way of thinking?  I thought not. 

Add to that the fact that selecting one of your personal cars to transport you all to the desired destination is fraught with the pits of desperation and despair. 

Automobile machinery doesn’t care about our sweet words of encouragement to make it to the next service station.  When they’re thirsty and tired, they stop.  They know nothing of reservations, or our need to have the best vacation ever. 

Automobiles are not our friends; so don’t waste your words.

Our friends are our true-blue compadres.  And choosing well is the best way to survive when the real meaning of friendship is tested.  To illustrate, I’m going to take you into the distant past, where friendship not only survived -- it grew into the most hilariously grim series of misadventures for two married couples. 

The condensed version is as follows:

1966 did not offer easy interstate travel.  Those lines on the map abruptly ended or dotted their way hither and yon, and service stations and eateries were hit and miss.  You took your chances.

We plotted and planned for a cheap vacation that took us from New Jersey, to Florida, to the Bahamas, and back.  No frills for us.  We would survive on simple sandwiches while driving.  And we anticipated no car worries other than fuel.

Ah!  The wonder of it all -- fun, sun, surf, roulette, the freedom of the open road in a 1959 baby blue Cadillac convertible!  No problem!  No waaaay!!

Alas, we barely crossed the Jersey line before our plans began to unravel. 

The sandwiches languished while we dined in quaint restaurants.  

Rain and fog plagued us. 

The roads...well, the roads were less than great once we left the Jersey Turnpike and went increasingly downward until we reached Florida’s Sunshine Parkway.

In between, our ship-of-fools fed herself whenever she took the notion.  Oh, she was beautiful.  No doubt about that.  But she became an aging damsel in distress, at midnight, in the less than bustling town of Glynco, Georgia.  (Blown generator.)  We thought we were doomed.  (Credit cards were in their infancy.) 

Fate intervened in the form of a real live Cadillac dealer cum service station -- open all night -- with towing services.   Rescued, a little light in the pockets, and armed with a friendly trooper’s radar locations we blasted that blue baby through her newly revived paces.

Hunger and fatigue threatened.  We rotated drivers every two hours, and went back to our original budget.  Come hell or high water, we were going to push straight through to Ft. Lauderdale. 

That blue bombshell of a Caddy caught the excitement and performed at her maximum.  She also looked much prettier than all four of us after the grueling 36 hours of travel (truth) we had all endured.   

We knew she looked prettier because the motel manager smiled at her and carefully inspected us.   It was necessary to burden him with our tale of woe.  He relented and later agreed that we ‘cleaned up pretty good’ after a nap and a shower. 

The Bahamas beckoned the next morning, and the Caddy was left to rest at the airport.

With renewed vigor, we boarded what best can be described as an island-hopping wreck.  For ninety air miles, we shook and rattled our way to Freeport, Grand Bahama Island.

The hotel was lovely, and we were sure our hearing was restored when we heard the prices the food and drinks cost us.  (!Groan and impending poverty!)  Visions of hitting a gambling jackpot were hampered because our drachmas were dwindling.

Okay, cut out lunch.  Breakfast would become our main meal.  We could do this for a few days.  So, so wrong!   

We immediately turned snappish and grumpy from lack of food.  I drafted a new plan.  Ready, set, go to the room with breakfast leftovers.  My companions were appalled.  That is, until I whipped out the food at lunchtime and we all pounced upon it.

Just as we were ready to congratulate ourselves, one fell under the influence of a virus, requiring a taxing Taxi trip to the doctor -- more misery in paradise.

Finally, we said ‘good-bye’ to the Bahamas, and  ‘hello, Miami’.  I’m not kidding when I say we were glad to spot the glimmering blue of the Caddy, as we endured the landing of the same wreck that took us to the island of our near downfall.

Miami gave us, all-inclusive, three meals per day.  Such a deal!  Yeah, until you realize that the elevator shaft uses the walls of your rooms to rumble against -- day and night. 

We endured and took advantage of free sunburn.

The quest for home found us determined to become the biggest cheapskates on the planet.   We fueled ourselves on sandwiches.  (Oh, how the mighty did fall.)  Her blue Caddiness choked on cheap, so we were forced to feed her hi-test.

Keep going, boys and girls.  We know the way.  Let’s go straight to Jersey.  Wrong!  Capt. Jack’s Motel beckoned in Yulee, Fla.

“Aye, me hearties!  Don’t worry about the bugs.  Just turn on that there window fan.  She’ll suck the bugs right out of the room."

Aye yourself, Jack!  Just tell those poker-playing, party-hearty mates next door that we’ll pass.

Further up the road, we did find a cute cottage complete with a garage and beds with Magic Fingers. (Oooh, give me a quarter.)

Our trip progressed.  We barely had twelve dollars left -- total.  But the good cousin in Virginia Beach was about to find squatters on his doorstep. 

Yep, our pride had given way to necessity.  Bless his heart, he put us up in the driveway, in his unbalanced travel trailer, and fed us breakfast before slipping us an emergency loan.

Somewhat misty-eyed, we plunged forward to Jersey.  What a wonderful sight it was to cross over into the Garden State.  We fought the good fight.  We survived.  We all shared an experience never to be forgotten.  Most of all, we were then, and still remain, the dearest of friends.



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