Wednesday, July 19, 2006
New Jersey: Road Signs and Dogs
There are two basic rules to this venture:
1) No interstate highways.
2) No national chain restaurants.
So I start by taking US 1-9 across the scenic Pulaski Skyway to Newark:
... and thence west toward - well, whatever's west of Newark. Mostly I've blown past this at 70 miles an hour on I-80, or some other freeway. And mostly, that's what I did on Thursday, except that the road isn't strictly labeled an interstate highway.
But along the way it occurs to me that New Jersey is probably a good place to break the first rule of the road. Which in part is simply in keeping with New Jersey's tradition of observing most rules of the road in the breach. But mostly it's because, when you leave the superhighways in America, you're pretty much dependent on road signs to guide you through the unexpected turns and weird little intersections you come to along the way. The old U.S. highway system - the most prominent examples being Route 66, or US 40, the National Road - was actually just a systematic way of labeling roads so that out-of-towners could find their way through.
Depending on road signs in New Jersey is pretty much a fool's errand. If there is a sign, and if it points in the right direction, it's probably obscured by a tree, or placed so close to the intersection that you hear Nelson's Muntz's laugh in your head as you discover that you need to be in the left lane. And even if there is such a sign, it will not display a route number such as might be found in your road atlas, but will assume that you are so familiar with metropolises like Mount Olive that when you arrive at Mount Olive Road you'll instantly be able to navigate to wherever it is you're trying to go. Which, the scenery suggests, is most likely the SUV dealer or the Home Depot.
So there I am, frantically searching for Netcong or Flanders on the New Jersey pages of Rand McNally's magnum opus in hopes of figuring out which way I want to go on Flanders-Netcong Road to get to Route 613 before the light turns green and the driver of the Ford Nimitz behind me starts screaming expletives because I'm delaying his acquisition of a new Brinkmann Grand Elite. And only when I'm sailing halfway through the intersection do I learn that Flanders-Netcong Road is Route 613. (Cue Nelson.)
Somehow - with the help of a mile or two of I-80 - I pick my way through and end up on US 46, heading north toward the Delaware Water Gap. And it's exactly the sort of road you want to be on during a trip like this, winding between cliffs and the Pequest River, leading you through Manunka Chunk and past Hot Dog Johnny. Which, if you're the sort of person who makes Rule #2, is pretty much exactly what you want to see at 6:45 in the evening (even if you'd much rather have seen it at closer to noon, and three days earlier).
In truth, the hot dog I get is utterly lame for an establishment called Hot Dog Johnny, redeemed only by pickle relish that appears to be homemade. But the birch beer is pretty outstanding, and I can stretch my legs, and I do get to see this excellent example of Americana:
Ten miles or so more and it's on to Pennsylvania. On, I confess, an interstate highway. About which when I can. Thanks for reading.
1) No interstate highways.
2) No national chain restaurants.
So I start by taking US 1-9 across the scenic Pulaski Skyway to Newark:
... and thence west toward - well, whatever's west of Newark. Mostly I've blown past this at 70 miles an hour on I-80, or some other freeway. And mostly, that's what I did on Thursday, except that the road isn't strictly labeled an interstate highway.
But along the way it occurs to me that New Jersey is probably a good place to break the first rule of the road. Which in part is simply in keeping with New Jersey's tradition of observing most rules of the road in the breach. But mostly it's because, when you leave the superhighways in America, you're pretty much dependent on road signs to guide you through the unexpected turns and weird little intersections you come to along the way. The old U.S. highway system - the most prominent examples being Route 66, or US 40, the National Road - was actually just a systematic way of labeling roads so that out-of-towners could find their way through.
Depending on road signs in New Jersey is pretty much a fool's errand. If there is a sign, and if it points in the right direction, it's probably obscured by a tree, or placed so close to the intersection that you hear Nelson's Muntz's laugh in your head as you discover that you need to be in the left lane. And even if there is such a sign, it will not display a route number such as might be found in your road atlas, but will assume that you are so familiar with metropolises like Mount Olive that when you arrive at Mount Olive Road you'll instantly be able to navigate to wherever it is you're trying to go. Which, the scenery suggests, is most likely the SUV dealer or the Home Depot.
So there I am, frantically searching for Netcong or Flanders on the New Jersey pages of Rand McNally's magnum opus in hopes of figuring out which way I want to go on Flanders-Netcong Road to get to Route 613 before the light turns green and the driver of the Ford Nimitz behind me starts screaming expletives because I'm delaying his acquisition of a new Brinkmann Grand Elite. And only when I'm sailing halfway through the intersection do I learn that Flanders-Netcong Road is Route 613. (Cue Nelson.)
Somehow - with the help of a mile or two of I-80 - I pick my way through and end up on US 46, heading north toward the Delaware Water Gap. And it's exactly the sort of road you want to be on during a trip like this, winding between cliffs and the Pequest River, leading you through Manunka Chunk and past Hot Dog Johnny. Which, if you're the sort of person who makes Rule #2, is pretty much exactly what you want to see at 6:45 in the evening (even if you'd much rather have seen it at closer to noon, and three days earlier).In truth, the hot dog I get is utterly lame for an establishment called Hot Dog Johnny, redeemed only by pickle relish that appears to be homemade. But the birch beer is pretty outstanding, and I can stretch my legs, and I do get to see this excellent example of Americana:
Ten miles or so more and it's on to Pennsylvania. On, I confess, an interstate highway. About which when I can. Thanks for reading.
