Traveling yesterday afternoon, taking advantage of the nice day for the month of July (I thought it was scheduled earlier in the week, but I'm so wrong about this stuff so often), my wife and I were heading from Norwich to Waterford via Route 32 (we can go 395 but there's such a level and pace of traffic it wears me out trying to keep up with it).
It's not really the road less taken, though the volume of traffic pales in comparison to 395 which is just as well as it connects Norwich and Montville and New London as you travel around the not-so glamorous back entrance to the Mohegan Sun casino.
The only tricky part is just as you're hitting Quaker Hill, because 32 blends with an exit of 395 and I know from experience on both sides of the merge, it's not a day at the beach. For a driver on 32, the merge involves a reasonably extreme over-your-right shoulder scan of your sector, so to speak, as cars entering far faster than your speed are (in theory) trying to slow down as they merge and before they hit the traffic signal (or you).
If you're coming off 395 at this exit, all the turtle drivers are to your left and to make it interesting for both of you, at that traffic signal I just mentioned, there's always a lot of people making the right at the light which means they need to get into that lane, and if they cross in front of you, well, stuff can happen.
Which it did yesterday, but funny stuff. It was a guy in dark Saab, the sedan model (I think that means four doors, right? Anyway, that's what I mean) and he's looking to go straight and get into the left lane on 32 coming off from 395. There wasn't a lot traffic and it was a pretty easy maneuver.
So much so that I had more than enough opportunity to eyeball his shotgun partner, his dog, a big brown one, window rolled down, head out the window (I'd love to know what they are thinking about aside from 'here, kitty, c'mon Kitty') wearing wraparound sunglasses, just like his owner. For a moment, I was watching the SPCA version of the Blues Brothers movie. The part of a trimmer, and far more hirsute, Jake, played by the dog. My turn was approaching and as I put on my blinker, I murmured a short prayer, "Our Lady of Acceleration don't fail us now."