Wormhole to Woodstock

Soon after they got off the exit for Bethel, the traffic slowed down to a crawl, then came to a stop altogether. The Fords and Chevys of America, Cadillacs and Pontiacs, Chryslers and Mustangs, the occasional Volkswagen bug or bus, all glutted up in a knot on this one road and every side road that led to this one. The inexorable irrepressible irrefutable font of the American baby boom had received the word of the brand new Mecca, unknown to them but secretly desired, and the word was love; from every direction they came like cells surging through veins of blood and they all ended up here, coagulating, a massive clot on the map, enough to give New York State a heart attack. Every car had happy crazy heads popping out the windows and every other car adorned on top with freaky people with funny hats and flowing robes or half naked playing the guitar. Daphne was in awe. “Oh my god, look at all these cars!”