Andy and I spent last weekend in the country – the closest thing to a vacation we are planning this summer, thanks to a huge amount of paperwork as they applied for new funding for his neurology research. As we drove back, we felt refreshed and invigorated, despite a day or two of not-the-greatest weather. “Why is being in the country so relaxing?” I asked. “Is it just being away, or something about the country itself? You know, the green and the nature?” “Probably a combination,” my vigilant, eyes-to-the-road husband answered. It was early afternoon, and I was staring out the window at the green of the Taconic. “Even this drive is relaxing,” I said. “I’m telling you,” Andy said. “This weekend totally clinched it for me: We really should buy a country house.” We’d been making gestures towards a country house for the last couple of years – ever since deciding to move to Brooklyn, in fact. At first, we viewed it as a sensible alternative to buying in the overpriced city. But it was really about something beyond a real estate investment. Getting a country house seemed the most surefire defense against moving to the suburbs. It seemed like the perfect combination: urban living on the weekdays, country living on the weekends. And there was the added element of the car, and how delighted I was by the fact that we only used it for “freedom” – to get to somewhere we wanted, as opposed to needed, to go. What could be more freeing than a country escape any time you wanted it? The irony of us getting the country house was, of course, that we were not particularly outdoorsy. This fact had been evidenced by our weekend’s activities. It’s not as if we’d hiked or fished. The extent of our commune with nature was a couple of trips to the lake and a mile-long “nature walk” on a paved path with a view of a waterfall at the end. Both events had, of course, required driving – as did our visits into town and our numerous trips to the grocery store for provisions. As we’d commented more than once on our trip, given the fact that country roads are winding and sidewalk-less, it’s much easier to go for a walk in the city. Judging from the weekend, if we bought a country house we’d essentially be plunking down a large chunk of cash for a nicer place to sit around, drink coffee, and read the paper in (after we’d driven into town to get said paper). Oh, yes – and a bigger kitchen in which to cook pancakes. And let’s not forget the laundry room. All in all, a worthy investment. I began taking note of the towns we passed on the parkway, all the better to scope out homes on the Internet. “I’d definitely want a place off this road,” Andy was saying. “It’s nice to drive the Taconic.” “Mmmm,” I said, sounding my agreement. This was a case where getting there was indeed half the fun. Or, at least half the getting there. For even as we basked in the traffic-free Taconic, our country-road enjoyment was coming to an end. It began with an innocent question. “So what route do we take back into the city?” Andy asked.

“Hmm,” I shrugged. Because I’d picked him up at work, we’d taken the West Side Highway to the Saw Mill – an easy, painless route, but surely a silly way to get to Brooklyn. “I don’t think it matters much,” I said. “All roads lead to the city.” “True,” said Andy. “But to which part? We don’t want to end up on the Cross Bronx.” I have no idea the reason – or whether it’s based on 1010 WINS or “Bonfire of the Vanities” – but avoiding the Cross Bronx at all costs seemed a city driving imperative. “I guess the question is, is it better to take the FDR or the Triboro?” I asked, flipping to AM in hope of finding the answer. “Where do we even turn off to get to the Triboro?” Andy asked. “You’d better get out the map.” Something about Andy: The man loves maps. I,on the other hand, love signs, and prefer to keep my eyes on the road. He’s the one who always gets lost, but that doesn’t stop him from thinking his navigational method is better. I let out a bit of a harrumph, then reached into the glove compartment. After consulting the map, we decided our best bet was to take 278 – a straight shot across the Triboro to the BQE. “So we want to get off there,” I said, pointing at a sign for the Hutch and the Bruckner. We were in the wrong lane for the exit. “I thought you said 278,” Andy said. “I did,” I said. “278 is the Bruckner.” We slid across and off just in time, exchanging less-than-thrilled looks with each other. We sat in silence as the road got harrier and filled with ever-more cars and a smattering of orange work cones. “You need to get in the other lane for the Triboro,” I told Andy. Why couldn’t he keep his eyes on the signs? I started fumbling around on the floor, searching for the EZ-Pass. “Where is the stupid thing,” I said, rooting around in frustration. “Are you gonna find it or not?” Andy said. “If you can’t, I’ve gotta switch lanes.” “Here it is!” I said, producing it from under my seat and holding it up to the windshield in triumph. “From now on, we should just keep it attached to the window,” Andy said. The chopped-up road was packed with cars; I could see why he was grouchy. Once over the bridge and in Queens (“Stay in this lane!” I’d snapped) we began to let our guard down. But then I saw a teeny, tiny sign saying 278, BQE, right exit. “Quick! We need to get over!” I told Andy, and he did so. Once safely on the BQE, we could try to relax. “This is no mark against getting a country house,” Andy said. “We just need to get the hang of it.” But then, our “drive” on the BQE was stop-and-go from Williamsburg. It gave us both the chance to reflect on how non-scenic the drive into Brooklyn was – that is, when we weren’t dodging lane-changing livery cabs. I thought back to our drive up to the country: We went up the West Side Highway to the Henry Hudson and the Saw Mill. They may not be the country, but the majestic buildings off Riverside offer their own kind of Shangri-la fantasy. If we still lived there, I couldn’t help thinking, we’d have been home now. By the time we hunted down a parking spot in Brooklyn, we were totally exhausted. “I need a vacation to recover from the last hour of driving,” Andy said, expressing my thoughts exactly. “Yeah,” I said. “A nice, relaxing weekend in the country.”