By now most of the spring breaks are over, and students are looking forward to the end of the school year. Back when our older girls were young grammar school pupils, I wanted the family to go to St. Petersburg, Florida, to spend the week with my sister’s family, who were all contemporaries of our children. The cousins always had a great time together. Unfortunately, Doug could not get away at that time, but we decided to go anyway, leaving him at home.
Sometimes we made the drive in one day; but this time, since I was driving alone with three children, I had decided to spend the night en route. We made reservations at the Holiday Inn in Dothan, Alabama.
Now, if you have ever stayed in Dothan, you may know what I mean. As dusk, and then quickly darkness, fell, I felt like a lost child in a fairy tale. In the distance we could see lights glowing. There were even lights that said, “Holiday Inn.” We just could not get to them. It seemed no matter how long we drove, the lights stayed equidistant away from us.
Finally, I flagged down a trucker who kindly showed me where to exit the highway, and by a maddeningly circuitous route we arrived at the motel. We checked in and then, frazzled, dragged ourselves to the coffee shop to get something to eat.
We plopped down wearily at a table. A pleasant waitress appeared, poised to take our order.
“You’d never imagine what we’ve been through,” I sighed and explained to her our frustrating attempt at getting there.
She flapped her hand as if brushing aside the episode. “That’s nothin,’ honey,” she said. “Last week we had a family stay here on their way to Florida. They had breakfast with us, left for a while and came back for lunch. They sat down and ordered, and the wife looked around and said, ‘This looks familiar. Where are we?’
“‘Dothan, Alabama,’ I said. ‘Oh, my gosh!’ she exclaimed. ‘We ate breakfast here! We thought we were on the highway to Florida! We must have been driving around the beltway all morning!’ Her husband said something worse. Happens all the time.”
I restrained myself from saying something like the husband. We, too, had been driving round and round the city of Dothan.
Of course, that was a long time ago. I devoutly hope that by now Dothan has its exits marked with many signs large enough for weary mamas with a carload of vacationing children to follow the directions. I was comforted somewhat to be assured that I was not the first or only traveler to make that mistake. I tell you I felt as if I had wandered into Brigadoon.
I was glad not to be stuck there 100 years as in the story, but I felt spooky anyway. Come to think of it, I don’t think I have ever tried to stop in Dothan again.
Maybe I can blame the gaffe on my distractions. Maybe I just need a keeper. But let me do my little bit for humanity: I f you are going south for a vacation, beware of Dothan! It just might capture you.
The Dispatch Editorial Board is made up of publisher Peter Imes, columnist Slim Smith, managing editor Zack Plair and senior newsroom staff.
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