Branson Vacation

This morning I wake to find myself in Branson. I know…Branson. This week was meant to begin with a car trip to Virginia but a winter storm and 12 inches of snow nixed that. At first, I was decidedly certain that fate hated me. I had gotten it into my head that salvation lay in Virginia, somewhere different and away. But, refusing to stay home during my first week off from work in over a year, we began to formulate a plan B. With little time to plot a new course, John and I settled on Branson as there were packages galore and we had never been. Perhaps the strong stereotype of Branson being reserved for the old and the hillbilly was baseless.  You know, like other stereotypes of women being emotional or Star Trek conventions filled with 50 year old men who live in their parent's basement. So, off we set to a hotel boasting indoor water parks and the world’s largest banjo. Relying heavily on technicality to sustain different and away. Hotels with doors on the outside and the distinct feeling one needs to break out the black light don’t really fit the romanticized version of getting away. That said, about three hours into the car ride, it was clear that what I had seen as disaster was a blessing in disguise. It was as though God looked down on us poor souls and knowing we were out of our freaking minds to consider 21 hours in a car with a 3 year old, graciously said let it snow and saved us from ourselves. Lesson learned.  Always fly.  Having made it within 30 miles of Branson, we began to see our first glimpse of the city by way of billboard. The old man holding an infant playing a double necked banjo sealed it. Stereotype true.  Really, I had grown suspect of Missouri itself. An hour out of Branson we began to see routes that were letters instead of digits. Route Z. Route PP. A state unafraid to stand in the face of route numbering convention and say let’s turn this mother on its head. A state that had a higher population of people who could recite the alphabet than count to 100. The first official Branson attraction to come into view was a neon lit buffet named Yakov. I don’t think the humor there needs any help. And then there is the moment you drive over the hill and see the strip in its pearls on pigs glory. Grand Country Inn. Radiators and indoor/outdoor carpet but free unsecured wi-fi. Something only in perspective when you realize what a hotel snob I am. I can literally feel my white trash reputability rising. Is this what the world views as down home American? Yosemite Sam and 4 generations of Presleys? And no, not the King of Rock and Roll variety. Still, as I look out at my day, chiding my son to stop picking up the phone to call "all our friends", I have the hopes of lazy rivers and Silver Dollar city to keep me warm. And the belief that if I somehow get stuck in hillbilly hell, I have friends like you to come save me from the twice daily jamborees.