The actual move-in...

...took place last Saturday, after a pretty good night's sleep at a motel in upstate New York. What are you supposed to do when the desk clerk tells you that the only rooms left are on the same side of the building as the train tracks? (Red flag.) Oh, and even though the trains do pass by in the middle of the night, they don't usually blow their horns or anything. (Double red flag.) Am I supposed to negotiate at 11:00 at night after driving several miles off the highway to find this place? And then what am I supposed to say, "No. I want you to kick someone else out of their room and give me theirs?"

"I'll take it."

Big mistake. Oh well, a waitress with a nice smile gave us free coffee to take with us the next morning so I guess it wasn't a total loss.

So on we drove, through a light drizzle, into Saratoga Springs for breakfast. It's easily my favorite town along the way, and one you should visit if you ever find yourself in that part of the world. We both had eggs Benedict and Joe pronounced it quite possibly the best he'd ever had. He also remarked (again) on how well I could clean my plate after what is usually such a messy dish for everyone else. "It's a gift," I confided to him.

We continued on through Woodstock, Vermont (my second favorite town along the way, not to be confused with Woodstock, Ontario), and finally crossed the Connecticut River. I knew we were getting close to the campus when I noticed a pretty coed walking along on the sidewalk. "Another homely Dartmouth girl," my son observed. (Mind-reading is not one of his talents.)

After a quick victory lap around Hanover, we parked the van outside the house he'll share with six other students. He's right about one thing: it's much bigger on the inside than it appears. And although all seven of them will have their own rooms, Joe has finagled by far the largest one. (Conning people is one of his talents.) I had originally hoped to drive straight through to Hanover on Friday and spend the night in the house, but my son told me, "Dad, you don't want to do that." After just a few minutes spent meeting and talking to this group of sophomores, I grasped his point. They didn't exactly strike me as an "early to bed, early to rise" crowd. (I've often remarked to my son that the most attractive feature to me of his school is the "substance-free" dorm on campus. This always elicits a double-take from him, but I'm serious. I can even imagine leading a pep rally in the hallway some night. "Okay, everybody, let's see how early we can get to bed tonight. Waddya say, Ten? NINE-THIRTY? NINE?")

Just then a car with a large piece of plywood on its roof (to be used for beer pong) screeched into the driveway on two wheels, and I took that as my cue to get back in the van and start home. I hugged my son, got my iPod going, and headed west through Vermont.

The return trip was uneventful--pleasant even--as the weather turned sunny and the drive through Vermont, especially, was beautiful. I was able to catch the second half of the USC-Ohio State game in my hotel room just west of Rochester, and although I had my doubts about the wisdom of starting a freshman quarterback against the Buckeyes in Columbus, Pete Carroll once again proved to me that maybe, just maybe, he's more qualified to run a college football program than me. Maybe.

I sailed past Buffalo (no Bills game this year) and didn't have to worry about Chicago either, as the Bears were in Green Bay on Sunday night. Just when I thought I had it all figured out I started to see guys in Browns jerseys driving just outside of Cleveland at around 11:00 in the morning. I missed the worst of the traffic, somehow, but it made me reflect on the phenomenon of grown men wearing NFL jerseys. I think I stopped doing that in about fifth grade. What are these guys thinking, that there's an outside chance that they'll be called down from the stands and put into the game? The only thing worse than men who wear football jerseys are women who wear hockey jerseys to NHL games. And the only thing worse than that are women who wear hockey jerseys to minor league hockey games. If you're going to be a groupie, at least be a groupie of somebody who's good.

I think it was also in Ohio that I drove up behind someone with a hand-lettered cardboard sign in his rear windshield that said, OBAMA IS A DAMNED LIAR. I desperately wanted to give him the single-fingered salute, but as I pulled up next to him I suddenly realized that anyone who felt that strongly about Obama might feel just as passionately about gun ownership, too. (And the corollary about carrying a loaded one in public.) So I had to settle for hunching over the steering wheel and scowling as I sped past him. "A*****E!"

I ended up making good time (doesn't everyone?) and pulled back into my driveway around 4:30 on Sunday afternoon. The old van survived another long road trip and went on to pass the emissions test on Tuesday. Now it's time for me to really focus on the high school football season. Loyola travels to Mt. Carmel tonight; could be a long night for the Ramblers.