Atlanta to Brunswick to Atlanta

It's a long drive from Atlanta to Brunswick (4 1/2 - 5 hours) and I should know - I did it today. Twice.

I had to go to Brunswick to look at a piece of property and do a little research for a client, and even though it was only about two hours of work, it was a long day with all of the driving.

Now, there are flights from Atlanta to Brunswick, but they're so infrequent that the day would have been just as long anyway, but with most of the time spent hanging around the airport terminal. Just as long and just as boring.

When I drive to Brunswick, I like to get off of the interstate as soon after Macon as I can, and take the back roads (U.S. 23 to 341 and then on to route 25 into Brunswick), passing through the occasional small town (Cochran, Eastman, Baxley, etc).

I used to do this drive frequently back what seems like lifetimes ago. In the early 1980s, I would head to Brunswick on Monday mornings to go supervise a drilling crew and return on Friday afternoon. I would drive a Georgia DNR pickup (I was assigned a Ford F-150) with no radio. It was explained to me that the taxpayers of Georgia saw no reason to buy state employees a radio to listen to while they were on official business. So, I would bring along a classic boom-box and set it on the floor of the truck and play cassettes of all my early-80s New Wave favorites (Talking Heads, Gang of Four, Romeo Void and Ian Dury come to mind) as I headed down to Brunswick.

Those memories came back as I drove down today in my Jeep Grand Cherokee listening to CDs of my current faves (on this trip, it was mostly Soul Coughing, dj Cheb i Sabbah and Elvis Costello's "The Postman"). The alert reader will probably notice that I've changed more than my music has.

But in addition to the drive and the music, memories of past relationships also came back. As you can imagine, being on the road five days a week took its social toll, so I was often heading south full of anxiety on Monday, and speeding back as early as I could get away on Friday.

As I drove today, I recalled working in 1983 on a long-term pumping test in Brunswick right after Anne had left for Denver, after sharing an apartment with me for a couple of months, and how I kept trying to call her at night from my hotel (this was way before cell phones) and became frustrated by not reaching her. Something like 17 attempts only to hear the phone ring and ring with no answer, and the hotel still wanted to charge me $3.75 for each of the "long-distance calls."

I also thought of the trip along the same route that I took last summer with L., going to and from Saint Simon's Island for the July 4th weekend. And rushing back from Brunswick later that summer on my way to catch a flight to meet her in Budapest, and having to buy her cranberry juice on the way.

Before I left this morning, I had sent L. an e-mail, but then realized as I drove down that I would not be able to read her reply until I got back home (I don't carry a Blackberry, and there aren't any internet cafes in Cochran, Eastman, Baxley, etc). Then on top of that, the battery in my cell phone died, so I couldn't make or receive any phone calls. What if she were trying to reach me?, I wondered. How would she interpret my lack of response? So on the way back home, I drove as fast as I could, even getting a speeding ticket in Dodge County, anxious to get back into the communication zone, and frustrated once again that work was getting in the way of my personal life.

Which is fine when you're in your 20s, but a little unseemly when you're 50.

When I got home, I found that L. had sent me a nice but non-committal reply to my e-mail, requiring no answer, and there were no messages from her on my voice-mail.

It's a long drive from here to Brunswick.