Like many Californians experiencing the odd vacuum of historical culture and consequence that is the West Coast suburban landscape, my wife and I once took our school-aged kids on a tour of some historic spots in the Eastern US, including a stopover in Gettysburg on our way to DC.  I had just bought an early model GPS device, with the big suction cup to stick it on the dashboard, for the trip. I made the mistake of giving it to my wife for her birthday shortly before the trip, and she has ever since accused me of buying gadgets largely for myself and giving them to her.  (Tip to Husbands: If you must buy her a gadget, (i) make sure it is something you have no interest in using and can’t derive any obvious benefit from her using (a salad spinner or vegetable spiralizer is a good bet) and (ii) get her something else that she actually wants.)

I asked it to take us to the Pennsylvania state capitol, in Harrisburg, which I was proud to remember from 5th grade, when Mr. Seline would test our state capitol knowledge with flash cards, and release us to lunch only when we got them all right.  Pennsylvania, Missouri (Jefferson City) and Kentucky (Frankfurt) were the typical stumpers, except when it was poor dumb Bill Waterman’s turn, for whom even recalling Sacramento was a crapshoot.

Anyway, we tapped Harrisburg into the GPS 1.0 while still in Gettysburg, just a few miles away, but somehow the device drew a blank (and later on the trip delivered us not to our hotel but to a homeless shelter).  I then got out the regional map of the whole mid-Atlantic region, which we had bought at a gas station as our hedge against new technology, only to discover that Harrisburg was not big enough to register as a city there either.  Determined to live the cliche, I was for setting out on the main highway and grokking our way along watching road signs,  but my wife insisted that we stop and ask directions–which got us on the right road.

We visited Harrisburg, which we declared a nice town that could use some sprucing up.  We saw the state capitol, had lunch by the river that runs through town, and headed on our way.

I note all this only because Harrisburg has a prominent place in the musical, as the promised land, the shining city, the Oz of Lester’s misguided quest.  It even gets its own song, inspired by our experience: Oh Harrisburg?

Good company in a journey makes the way seem shorter. — Izaak Walton

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