A discussion over appetizers led to a phone call being placed to Cinnabon to confirm hours while housing buffalo chicken dip at a noisy bar. Hours confirmed, a delicious decision was made – drive 30 miles to a rest stop Cinnabon. Consumed with wanderlust and craving for fatty cinnamon laden pastry, two women hopped in the trusty Honda CR-V that would bring them to their dessert destination. Wawa piss & cigarette stop completed and the rain unable to dampen the sweetened spirits. As the duo went north on the turnpike, the rain changed into an intense snowstorm. Visibility dropped significantly, and the fearless driver pondered if this was ominous foreshadowing. Nonplussed, Twenty One pilots were turned louder as the speed limit plummeted to 40 due to low visibility. The long sought sign finally in sight – 3 miles to the rest stop. 3 miles away from gooey, warm, icing covered buns. Salivation resumed, as memories of prior Cinnabon experiences were traded like intangibly delicious currency. Car now parked, they jumped out with enthusiasm and glee. After 45 minutes of driving, Cinnabon was merely steps away.
Eyes gleaming, drool unabashedly sliding down their chins, they walk towards the Cinnabon. The lights are out. Cinnabon is closed and the shelves are barren of the bun of their heart’s desire. They glance dejectedly at a Starbucks, like the girl that beer goggles won’t even help. Sadly, they marched up and placed orders for coffee and cake that was no replacement for the bereft buns. The cake crumbled dryly in their mouths, like the sensation of hope and joy that once filled their souls. Pure unadulterated feelings of defeat and worthlessness consumed them as they dejectedly trudged through a random blizzard to the car. “Fear not”, the driver cheerfully suggested as they exited the rest stop they drove 45 minutes to specifically to get a cinnamon bun, “Yum Yum is open until 11:00!” While it may not hold a candle to Cinnabon, a Boston Cream doughnut with yumsters does not sound entirely awful. It would at least chase the bitter taste of consolation coffee cake from our mouths. New destination fixed, doughnut dreams being shared, the two friends determinedly drove on. After another stretch of time, a tunnel appeared, and the duo realized they went the wrong way, and are, in fact, the complete opposite direction of Yum Yum. A glance at the clock confirmed that their doughnut dreams were assuredly dashed.
They exit the turnpike, knowing that south was the only way home, and managed to continue going north. They made a fatal mistake of going left at an intersection. If they had turned their heads approximately 15 degrees further, they would have seen the massive sign advertising the turnpike, but alas, their attention and hearts were drawn left. Another 25 minutes of driving and finally noticing a sign indicating they were going north, they turned around. Fuck GPS they thought with grit and determination, they would figure this out. They found the massive turnpike sign previously overlooked and finally made their way south. They lamented the buns not eaten, the doughnuts not digested, and the fact that they have spent about 3 hours in a car on the hunt for rest stop snacks. They optimistically declared their rest stop Starbucks to be the best Starbucks they ever had, and vowed to attempt the hunt for Cinnabon earlier the next day.
This is America, and this is the land of the free, home of the brave. Like the post office, rain, sleet, nor snow deterred us from our quest. Operating hours, on the other hand….