A ride through (endless) time

On our trip to the Shenandoah Valley, we visited a quaint little town called Staunton, whose motto is "We Don't Know Our Name Has a 'U' in It." It is pronounced "Stanton," for reasons no one can adequately explain and which probably the original settlers did not even know. But this quaint little town has several interesting attractions, one of which is a trolley ride, which we were urged with great excitement on the part of the information bureau person to take advantage of.

"Thank you," we said politely, and continued to browse through the dining brochures.

Sensing our lackluster interest, he said, "It's a great way to see the town while giving your feet a rest."

"Well..." we said, beginning to relent. Our feet were tired.

"And," he said, smiling, "it's free."

"Where do we sign up?" I said.

When we got on the trolley, there wasn't room for us both to sit down. However, the trolley sat for a while, and the longer it sat the more people decided this was where they wanted to get off. And so half the trolley population ended up disembarking. Now I can't be sure, but this might possibly have had something to do with a woman near the front who was pontificating, in a very loud voice, about the wonders and amazements of the great city of Staunton. At first I took her to be the tour guide, but it was clear she was giving her personal opinion about the city, which was very high indeed, although she was quick to point out, several times, that she was not a native of the area. No higher praise could be given an adopted land than she gave. And when she ran out of things to say about the city, she started right in on her own personal history.

I have noticed that there is a direct proportion between the private nature of a topic of conversation and how loud one's voice is when speaking on the topic. I have also noticed that it is not the same proportion one would expect, that is, the more private something should be, the more it is not. We heard details about the woman's marriage, which brought her to Staunton. About the children, who were numerous. About the divorce, which sadly took her away from her beloved town. Mothers of small children were covering the children's ears.

I was fearful that, in the woman's desire to praise the staff of the hospital of Staunton, we would hear all the details of her six C-sections, but mercifully the trolley was ready to be on its way and she had to get off. Instantly someone uttered, "Amen!"

We had thought there would be a replacement guide, who would, we hoped, stick to the usual tourist topics -- "Staunton has a population of 4,000, made up chiefly of students, tourists, and stray dogs" -- but none came, and off we went. Then we thought that perhaps the driver would give us a narrative about the town. In vain we waited for someone -- anyone -- to tell us something about what we were seeing as we drove. By the third stop, we knew we would not be getting any information other than what the pontificating woman had imparted. This annoyed me. "This is supposed to be a tourist attraction!" I fumed to Joe. "Why don't they tell us some tourist stuff?"

"For a free ride, you expect Charles Kuralt?" he said.

As stop after numbing stop went by and people got on and off -- including a woman with several fishing poles, although there was no body of water bigger than a puddle in sight -- we fell into a sort of trolley trance. We couldn't even eavesdrop on anyone else's conversation to relieve our boredom, as those immediately around us were speaking in sign. "Remind me to take sign language lessons," I muttered to Joe. "If people are talking about me, I want to know."

The restaurant where we had planned to eat suddenly came into view, and though it was only 4 in the afternoon, Joe jumped up and yanked on the rope to let the driver know we wanted to stop. "Not here!" I whispered vehemently. "It only stops at scheduled places!"

He had time for a quick look of panic at this faux pas before we all lurched forward as the trolley screeched to a halt. "You want out here?" the driver snarled, and everyone looked at us with disdain.

"Yes, thank you," we mumbled as we made our escape.

"Whew," said Joe. "I'm glad it was free, but I would have paid to get off that thing."