Pony Express
I used to have this thing where I would not tolerate more than a ten minute commute. Any job I've ever had - with the exception of a three-year tenure managing a jewelry store - has been within walking distance of my house. The jewelry store job was a nine minute drive. This means that I've always lived in areas that are at least somewhat urbanized, and the present is no different, but then I had to go and get myself into law school.
Which is great. Really. Except that the campus is in the middle of f*cking nowhere. And that means I have to drive. Lots. Every day. It is a huge pain in the ass, especially on days like today, when I woke up on the 'Burg side to support someone else's Big Day (just to get grumbled at), drove to Tampa to get my sh*t together, and then drove to Gulfport for Civil Procedure. In other words, I spent two hours in the car for a fifty minute class. Oh, untold joys.
But recently, I have become accustomed to the Gandy, where before I was a little sketchy on exactly how it worked. The prior skepticism was mostly a reflection of my feelings for what was on the other end of it than for the Tampa side, but this morning at 7:15, I had a moment of rejuvenation that is purely attributable to the Gandy.
I've heard about the beauty of the Howard Frankland and whatnot. The Weekly Planet loves to talk about how you can't be mad at a commute when you get out on that water, but I disagree, and besides, the Planet isn't really as New Media as they think they are, even when you use the term loosely, so I'm not impressed with statements like that. But the Gandy! Now that's a view!
With the venerable Derby Lane behind me, I coasted over the bridge at a cool 85 as the sun's rays spread pink and purple over the water. Smokestacks and refineries sent plumes of gray toward the sky, their silhouettes solidly cylindrical against a backdrop of auroran color. Cranes, at least twenty of them, towered into the air, piercing the horizon with intricate metalwork as the Bay shimmered in the foreground. I spied the far-off outlines of warehouses and truckyards and dingy brown Bay birds, and my heart was happy.
Then, when returning to Tampa the second time, after a droning review of supplemental and diversity jurisdiction, I got a ticket on Bayshore for doing 53 in a 40, failing to show documents, and failing to register my tags. D*mmit. I am chalking this up to a save, anyway, though, because I had to do 104 all the way to Gulfport this morning because I spent too long in the shower.
And, no, I do not drive recklessly. I drive European. The difference is that the reckless driver doesn't think about you or your safety, whereas the European driver has given these issues considerable thought and decided she'd rather have you get the f*ck out of her way.
Which is great. Really. Except that the campus is in the middle of f*cking nowhere. And that means I have to drive. Lots. Every day. It is a huge pain in the ass, especially on days like today, when I woke up on the 'Burg side to support someone else's Big Day (just to get grumbled at), drove to Tampa to get my sh*t together, and then drove to Gulfport for Civil Procedure. In other words, I spent two hours in the car for a fifty minute class. Oh, untold joys.
But recently, I have become accustomed to the Gandy, where before I was a little sketchy on exactly how it worked. The prior skepticism was mostly a reflection of my feelings for what was on the other end of it than for the Tampa side, but this morning at 7:15, I had a moment of rejuvenation that is purely attributable to the Gandy.
I've heard about the beauty of the Howard Frankland and whatnot. The Weekly Planet loves to talk about how you can't be mad at a commute when you get out on that water, but I disagree, and besides, the Planet isn't really as New Media as they think they are, even when you use the term loosely, so I'm not impressed with statements like that. But the Gandy! Now that's a view!
With the venerable Derby Lane behind me, I coasted over the bridge at a cool 85 as the sun's rays spread pink and purple over the water. Smokestacks and refineries sent plumes of gray toward the sky, their silhouettes solidly cylindrical against a backdrop of auroran color. Cranes, at least twenty of them, towered into the air, piercing the horizon with intricate metalwork as the Bay shimmered in the foreground. I spied the far-off outlines of warehouses and truckyards and dingy brown Bay birds, and my heart was happy.
Then, when returning to Tampa the second time, after a droning review of supplemental and diversity jurisdiction, I got a ticket on Bayshore for doing 53 in a 40, failing to show documents, and failing to register my tags. D*mmit. I am chalking this up to a save, anyway, though, because I had to do 104 all the way to Gulfport this morning because I spent too long in the shower.
And, no, I do not drive recklessly. I drive European. The difference is that the reckless driver doesn't think about you or your safety, whereas the European driver has given these issues considerable thought and decided she'd rather have you get the f*ck out of her way.
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