Six Cellos, a Bass, NPR, and Alec Baldwin

I want to thank everyone for all their good wishes last week on the trip to Kansas City. Leslie, I want to tell you that even as I was reading your comment reading the Kansas City St. Patrick's Day parade, we were stalled on Broadway, waiting for all the pedestrians in the funny green hats to pass. I have pictures to prove it.

St. Patrick's Day in Kansas City

However, to start in Kansas City would be wrong, and so for posterity, I'm going to recount our trip, not all 40 hours in the car, because well, someday you will all see the movie version – a sort of romantic dramedy wherein blood was spilled.

To set the scene, we ended up driving a burnt orange Dodge Caravan. All of my fellow University of Texas Whine Bitches Sisters, will start snickering now, because I did not go to UT. I went to A&M, their arch rival, which does not have ugly burnt orange colors, but very classy maroon and white instead. But did Budget (who was donating the van) have a classy maroon? Oh, no, because you know, everybody wants to drive a classy maroon van and NOBODY WANTS TO DRIVE AN UGLY BURNT ORANGE VAN.

So, here's the pics:

the UT-Mobile

On the first day, me and the Hubster left at 4am. In the morning. It was very dark. I packed a pillow and a blanket in the UGLY BURNT ORANGE DODGE CARAVAN and I dozed for most of the first three hours. The Hubster is not a fan of my driving (all females whose hubsters are a fan of their driving, please raise their hand. Not any? I rest my case.)

Somewhere in Pennsylvania, I awoke to the sounds of NPR. My family likes to tease the Hubster about his NPR addiction. The boring stories, the hushed voices, the Saturday Night Live skits. And it goes on, because frankly, if you can't make a joke out of NPR, then you have no sense of humor at all.

Eventually I talked the Hubster into switching to Classical Vinyl and also Classical Rewind on the Satellite radio. It was as we were in Hour Six, driving into West Virigina, that we began to argue about who was a better guitarist, Frampton or Clapton. I very patiently explained that while Peter Frampton was a very talented guitarist, he had no soul, whereas Clapton was all soul. It was somewhere past the Chesapeake watershed (Hour Seven) that we devolved into a Harry Met Sally montage of all the reasons that our marriage was a bad idea.

After food and a bathroom break, our marriage was miraculously saved (we both agreed that Van Halen was better with David Lee Roth than Sammy Haggar) and also agreed that we both never really got into the Stones nor the Beatles like the rest of America. Also, the Hubster loves Flock of Seagulls. How can you not fall in love with someone who loves a band that is that cheesy?

By the time we got into Ohio (hour fourteen), the marriage was back on solid foundation. We made two reservations for that first night. One in St. Louis (Gateway to the West), and also in Kansas City (Heart of America). The plan was that if we were about to pass out from exhaustion or death, then we would stay the night in St. Louis. However, by the time late afternoon was approaching, we were back laughing at NPR (it begins to repeat, so the second time we heard Wait, Wait, Don't Tell me it was funnier than the first) and decided to drive onward to Kansas City. I wrested the steering wheel from the Hubster's hands (the darker side of chivalry) and insisted on driving until we stopped for dinner. Instead of sleeping, which any smart person would do, the Hubster took a conference call from work. Yes, because you know, after driving for sixteen hours on four hours of sleep, the smart thing to do is to talk business.

Somewhere during Hour Eighteen, my eyelids began to hurt. I saw fuzzy lights in the dark, and was fading in and out of consciousness. The Hubster (on his fifth Starbucks cappuccino) was having a one-sided argument with Click and Clack from Car Talk.

Finally we arrived. It was nearly midnight when we pulled into the Kansas City hotel and began to unload the instruments. Now, the mother of the one bass (not the actual birth mother of the bass, but she was the mother of the bass player who owned the bass instrument) had suggested that we book a room on the first floor. We forgot and ended up on floor seven. Some of you will think, so what? Well, we were at the Hampton Inn, so there was no bellman, no bellwoman, nor bellchildren, so once again, it was only me, the Hubster, six cellos, one bass, and one violin. So, me and the Hubster carried six cellos (two that were on wheels and four that had to be hefted), one bass (no wheels), one violin (wheels not necessary), and one tux (long story) to floor seven — all after driving for twenty hours straight, on four hours of sleep (I had dozed, but the Hubster was running on fumes at this point).

During this unloading, we 'debated' the proper instrument handling techniques, and the most efficient way to roll a baggage cart. It is moments such as this that really prove the solidness of a marriage. After the instruments were all packed away safely in the room, we fell into the sweet arms of Morpheus where all arguments are forgotten, where NPR is only a distant droning hum, and where all female drivers are the greatest in the world.

The next morning, life was SO much better. We found a great breakfast place. Classic Cup in Country Club Plaza, Leslie, if you haven't checked it out, try the buttermilk pancakes. YUM! After breakfast, we got coffee and shuffled the instruments back in the car and to the Marriot near the Convention Center. It was on this particular juncture that we got stuck behind the St. Patrick's Day Parade traffic.

The rest of Thursday was an easy day. We walked around the Plaza and watched the news and ate and rested and laughed, and it was awesome. Friday was performance day, so we had to get up at the CRACK OF DAWN (not really, but Jeez, it felt like it), and watch the kids play. We thought they did awesome. I cried (as mothers are wont to do), and then we listened to the next orchestra play, and they weren't nearly as good, and we left with light hearts and spirits soaring. After that, we listened to the afternoon orchestras and our hearts no longer soared. Gotta say, there are a LOT of really talented musicians in this country – not just my daughter, which prior to this experience, I would have told you could never be true. However, we went into the awards ceremony, still with light hearts, but now spirits were sitting somewhere around 'Oh, God, PLEASE!'

In the end, the kids scored fifth of seventh. Now, some of you will think, FIFTH? Seriously? However, these kids are awesome, and I'm uploading a video to prove it.

Hoe-Down

After the awards ceremony, the kids were not in that much of a mood to party, and instead sat in the lobby and discussed the judges comments. The word 'discussed' is a respectful word since not all the terms to the judges were complimentary. Actually, it was only one judge that caused problems, much like every Russian judge in Olympic ice skating history. However, it was a lot of good feedback, and when the kids return in a couple of years, they will be better prepared, they will be stronger, they will be better. It is losing that defines our biggest moments, not winning.

On Saturday, we loaded the instruments back in the UGLY BURNT ORANGE Dodge Caravan, and hit the road once again. This time, we did the trip over two ten hour days and it was a lot of fun. On Sunday morning, I called the house and talked to my daughter to see how they were holding up, and she talked about the Alec Baldwin fundraiser at the high school the night before (you were wondering about the Alec Baldwin part, weren't you?). He had generously agreed to do a talk, interview, Q&A at the high school, with all the proceeds going to the arts programs there. Near the end of the program, the bus with the orchestra kids had pulled in, and they got to watch, and afterwards my daughter and one of her friends had gone to the music room where he had been stowed after the show (our High School has no green room). The man didn't blink at the two girls. He answered their questions, congratulated them on their achievement, and in general, acted very graciously. I was impressed.

So, that is my story. The Hubster and I celebrate twenty years of marriage in May, and after this trip, I feel very confident that we can celebrate another twenty years, and I'm very proud of my daughter.

I appreciate all the good wishes and hey, we'll be driving back to Kansas City in two years, and this time, we're going to kick some orchestra ASS!!!

So, any other good road trip stories? Are you a fan of them or not? Do you listen to NPR, or (like me), do you secretly mock them? And remember, we are in the home stretch for the Nook contest! Comment to win!!