The Road To The Globe

My niece and nephew are not the only ones around here who have the courage and wherewithal to undertake a Quest, you know.

Months ago, ages ago, back in the old days, back before, as Jacquie puts it, we lost our innocence, I undertook a Quest of my own.

It was Sailfest weekend, and New London was absolutely swarming with peeps who come out of the woodwork every summer. I mean that, too. That is not an exaggeration, nor is it a metaphor. New London has custom trim around its perimeters -- crown molding up high and baseboard molding down low -- and the Sailfest peeps crawl right out of it every year, the weekend after the Fourth of July.

It was the Saturday evening of Sailfest, and we needed booze. Not that hard a Quest, right? You need booze, you walk to the downtown package store, blazing with light in the distance.

But this was New London, and this was Sailfest.

And everybody and his brother sister was trying to get to the Globe package store too.

Thankfully, there is a well-marked path to the Globe.

But just ask Dorothy and her friends how much trouble they had on their well-marked path. Just because a Yellow Brick Road leads to the Emerald City, that doesn't mean it's not paved with quagmire and quandary along the way. The crosswalk to the Globe doesn't have sleep-inducing poppies or nightmare-causing flying monkeys or ornery apple-throwing trees -- no, its perils are a whole lot worse. The Road to the Globe is full of people. Scary Sailfest Woodwork People. And a whole lot of 'em . . .

. . . a whole lot of 'em who are waiting in line outside, waiting to get into the Promised Land.

But once in, once across the threshold, once that incessant bell rings strong and true, well, that is the Promised Land. And even though in this Oz you still have to wait in the line that snakes around to the back of the store . . .

. . . well, you're in. And, oh the fun to be had in there. Everyone's in the same boat -- wait, I mean on the same Quest --in The Globe. And it's very festive.

And so, not unlike Dorothy who finally scored the Wicked Witch of the West's broomstick, and began her return journey to success and redemption and home, we, too, finally, got our booze and embarked on the next leg of our Quest . . .

. . . wait a minute, that's not me . . .

. . . Oh there I am . . .

. . . We headed right up to our friend's deck looking out over the Thames River, the best spot in New London that night.

Oz, the Emerald City, Eden and Shangri-La, all rolled up in one.

Mission accomplished.