'Tis Better to Show Your Tush (Lessons Learned from a First Time 'Rooer)

Hindsight is 20/20, right? But as I stood on the shoulder of the interstate, unable to see where my friends had driven at least 10 miles ahead of me, there was no hindsight. There was no end in sight.

Let me back up a little… (which is what I wished they could've done).

We finally arrive in the famous line that begins about 17 miles outside the Bonnaroo Music & Arts Festival gate. If you've ever driven by it on I-24, you know what I'm talking about. Cars line up on the shoulder for an incredibly slow-moving experience. People get out and wander between cars. If a bathroom break is required, you just head off into the woods. Or so I thought.

The famous line to the Bonnaroo gate

It's 5:30 a.m. and in the next hour, we move from one side of an exit ramp to the other. My brother's girlfriend clocks it at one-fourth of a mile. As the cars line up behind us and the minutes tick by, my bladder begins to scream. Then it hoots and hollers. Then begs for mercy. I decide to take the plunge, but wait, there's a fence along the side of the interstate. So although the guys can take care of business, we girls have no place to squat. Unless we want to show our tush. Oh so inconvenient. Finally my husband Ryan, who's standing outside the car, stops two girls heading in the direction of the exit ramp and asks if I can walk with them. Their destination: a service station.

So we walk, making chit-chat. Both from West Virginia, they're newcomers to 'Roo as well. It's not a far walk, and we hit up the first place. It's a small one, with not-so-clean facilities, but we don't care. Neither does another group of girls. As I'm washing my hands, my cell phone rings. It's my best friend Gemi, and here is where the oh-so-horrible part of the story begins.

"Emily," she says, as serious as if someone has died. "We just drove about four miles."

"Are you kidding?" I squeak. She isn't. I relay the message to the other girls. I don't remember running out of the station or to the exit ramp, but I remember my first glimpse of the empty shoulder. No cars. Oh shit. We can see them up ahead, though, so we start running. I'm in better shape than the other two -- I'm wearing sneakers vs. their flip-flops. I have my little wallet and phone -- they don't. We make it to the row of cars, but another call from Gemi informs us that they're moving again. I look back to my cohorts, asking if we should try to hitchhike. We start looking in the cars as we walk, trying to find someone who has room in their vehicle. Everyone's packed out.

"Should we ask one of these RVs?"

"I don't think so," says the brunette. And then the line starts moving again. Faster. Crap. Crap. Crap. And suddenly they're gone; we can't see the line ahead of us. A third call from Gemi confirms their mile marker -- 10 miles ahead. We are alone, walking down the interstate. Well, not exactly alone. The girls from the bathroom are about a half-mile behind us, in the same predicament, now trying to flag cars whizzing down the interstate.

"I'm Emily, by the way. I feel like we should know each other's names." Becca & Megan introduce themselves, although now I can't remember which one was which. To skip ahead a bit, I think we walk about four miles before a state trooper takes pity and finally stops. He's incredibly understanding and drives us back to where Ryan and Gemi have pulled into an "official use only" spot in the middle of the interstate.

Our Friendly State Trooper

"Can I take a picture? This is the first time I've been in the back of one of these," I ask. He laughs and says, "Well, that's good."

"This isn't my first time," says the redhead.

The story ends with Ryan, Gemi, and me waiting on the right shoulder of the right shoulder (while the line of cars creep along on our left) until our group catches back up. But not before a different state trooper rudely tells us to move along, and chews me out for leaving my vehicle. To which I reply (rather testily), "Trust me, I'll know better next time."

The Centeroo Clock from our campsite - look closely

As you may have guessed, it wasn't the last time I muttered those words that weekend. After getting lost my first time back to the campsite (and learning that Ryan and Gemi each did, too), I know why other people bring balloons or blow-up animals or giant flags made of underwear. It didn't take us long to memorize a path based on identifying markers: Turn at the campsite with the tiki torches. Step over the rope holding up a pop-up tent (marked by a pile of boxes surrounding the rope so nobody trips). Go through the maze of tents (literally stepping between them and on them because they're so close together). Look for the AllState tent with the inflated frog on a pole. Walk directly under the pop-up tent that keeps falling down (also marked by a growing pile of empty Pabst boxes, which may or may not contribute to its nightly demise). Finally look for our neighbor's Eastern Carolina tent.

Trust me: I'll know next time to bring one big-ass flag on a 30-ft pole.

I'll know next time not to pack so much crap. We didn't need a case of toilet paper -- a single roll would've sufficed. We brought too much food and if you can believe it, too much water. I'll know next time to bring a battery-powered car battery charger (what's the real name for that thing?) We killed my car battery charging our cell phones and blowing up our air mattresses every night. Thank goodness the girls next to us let us use their handy device. Twice.

And speaking of cell phones, I'll know next time to keep mine on hand and charged at all times. After getting separated from Ryan during Saturday night's headliner, I was a wreck. His phone was dead and charging back at the site, my phone died and then I was separated from both him and Gemi. With 100,000 people packing in to the main stage, it was a disaster. By the time I found him we'd missed most of the show and I cried. That's right: I had a wee little meltdown. This was one of those moments I mentioned in the last post where I hated Bonnaroo. Obviously, I got over it.

So you see, I learned several important lessons my first year at Bonnaroo. They may or may not apply to everyday life, but you can be sure of this: 'Tis better to show your tush (or pee in the backseat) than leave your group to walk up an exit ramp.

Make sure to check out my earlier Bonnaroo post -- My Brother Was Right. Who Would've Thought? -- and become a fan on Facebook.





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