A Conspicious Lack of Industry

Tuesday, 16th April 2013

Map: Webster, New York to Sandusky, Ohio---342 miles

We breakfasted a la business class at the Hampton Inn---rubbing elbows with the suits, chatted up by the relentlessly cheerful staff.  We stood out in boots and plaids, and upon hearing of our journey one of the skirts behind the counter was ready to join us.

The first forty miles of the day was via Interstate 390 to Geneseo, New York.  Golden morning light made the rolling countryside attractive but left a stranger unprepared for the view driving into town on US 20A.  Cresting a low ridge, we suddenly came upon a long view dropping like steps over the farmland to the west.  It was very clear, and it seemed if it was just a bit clearer we would have been able to see all the way to Lake Erie, about sixty miles away.

Geneseo is a charming little university town threatened by its exurban status to Rochester.  It does seem to be striking a balance, though---with projects like the restoration of a beautiful old high school for university use.

West of Leichester we turned southwest on Highway 39, driving through rich farmlands to Castile.  The sky was rapidly darkening as we climbed a bit towards Bliss, where the countryside again broke out into a beautiful step down view.  Huge wind generators spun below gray violet clouds.  A large sign at someone's farm screamed NO FRACKING WAY.  Fracking is particularly contentious in New York state, where it's not allowed---while many farmers are reaping huge profits from it in Pennsylvania.

As we dropped down to Arcade, I tuned onto Radio Zoomer---CFZM 740---courtesy of the amplifying effects of Lake Ontario some 75 miles to the north.  Lake Erie would have the same effect on the signal, allowing us to easily listen in at up to 200 miles west from the transmitter---almost to Cleveland.

Spanish blue bells

I must admit I've lost the location of the following two photographs.  Nothing definite comes from studying Google maps, which has already saved me several times, but it's safe to assume this town was somewhere between Springville or Gowanda---although I'm not promising it's Collins.  At any rate, the Spanish blue bells in the lawns around town were fantastic, and the first sign of spring we had seen in four days. I was also duly surprised to see a rainbow flag flying off someone's porch, for the town seemed inhabited predominately by senior citizens.

A darker blue form of Spanish blue bells.

We dropped down into Gowanda, zigzagging through town and then along a charming Main Street.  It looked a lot like a movie set, and indeed it was used for the Steve Martin vehicle Plane, Trains and Automobiles (1987).  Less charming was a peculiar odor to the general area---like something less than wholesome cooking.  We never saw the source of it.

After pausing in the bustling city of Fredonia, we took a beeline side road under the New York Thruway and out to Lake Erie.  A light rain was falling now, draping the landscape with a dreary veil.  Still it was interesting for the thousands of acres of grapes, something a Westerner doesn't expect to see in New York state.  Wineries waited impatiently for the tourist season.

Looking east of the harbor at Barcelona, New York.

I served off and down to the tiny harbor just below Highway 5 at incongruously named Barcelona, New York.  Not that it isn't a charming little village, but it could never stand in for Spain.  Looking east, we could see waterfalls dropping into the lake.  On a clear day it must be a beautiful sight, but the weather didn't dampen our enjoyment of the scenery much.

We drove right through Erie, Pennsylvania on their Bayfront Parkway---through a waterfront redeveloped for pleasure instead of industry.  It's very attractive but feels removed from the city just above the bluff.  The parkway shifted back up into the city and then made it's way westerly through decades of suburbia and then exurbia on Lake Drive.  Lake Erie was never in sight, but the little farms and crossroads were attractive.

The lake came into view again at Conneaut, Ohio as we drove down Broad Street and right down to the little harbor.  The town had a sleepy, off-season charm---a far away feeling that I'm not sure would survive the warmer months.

Glimpses of the water, estates and parks passed by as we continued west on Ohio 531 through Astubula to Geneva-on-the-Lake, the latter a place to avoid at all costs during the warmer months.  On this cool overcast day it appeared to be an empty carnival---tidy and expectant.  Old trailer courts with vintage trailers vied for my attention midst the rental cottages.  Everything had the look of a long held tradition, largely ungentrified.  It's a prospective long gone way out West, where speculation and rapid expansion have no patience for such settings.  I'm glad I got to see it---on that day, not in high season.

We had to head inland to old US 20 at this point, and then west again towards Cleveland.  Old motels and half-forgotten crossroads made it an interesting drive, and I had long forgotten any worry of heading straight to the waterfronts of these big old cities.  After connecting to the old Lakeland Freeway and driving through a stretch of somewhat seedy old blue collar neighborhoods, the cityscape opened up again to a revitalized waterfront, clean and breezy.  All the factories were gone, with their attendant grit and grime, and the scene was expectant, proud.  Perhaps there's reason to be, but if this was an equitable world there would have been a compromise for the environment and our economy.  Fundamental goods like steel can be manufactured with less impact locally and globally rather than simply drawing a curtain over the poisoning process by moving it half way around the world.

Once past Edgewater Park, we connected onto Clifton Boulevard---very much a pleasant surprise.  Designed in a grand style some 120 years ago, it still moves six lanes of traffic along nicely midst wide tree shaded medians.  Upper middle class homes and apartments in Beaux Arts, Tudor and associated styles lined the way like dowager duchesses---maintaining their distance from the rush with quiet dignity.  They wore a patina of consistent maintenance instead of a new-found glory.  Children walked home from school, the youngest accompanied by both men or women.  It was an uplifting scene.

The boulevard narrows into Lake Road, lined with lakefront estates both old and new.  Occasionally a more modest house appeared, allowing the peek of the lake from around their small dimensions.  One, well maintained but giving off the air of despondency, was for sale---and I wondered how much it was worth, and how little the house would be valued in comparison to some McMansion.  The view from the street would be filled in someday soon.

There's a gradual shift as US 6 continues towards Lorain.  The estates are left behind, and then the twee small town feel of Avon Lake falls away to the dead end feel of old blue collar neighborhoods.  I know the name Lorain from circa 1930 ads for gas ranges---in particular, the Lorain automatic oven temperature control, which took the guesswork out of baking.  I looked around as we drove along, wondering where that factory was, but all there was to see were the largely lookalike houses and an occasional electric plant that lorded over all like face brick castles.  Major cross streets were empty of both commerce and traffic, but the town looked clean and respectable along Erie Avenue.

We checked into Knight's Inn on Cleveland Road on the outskirts of Sandusky---a motel with a common Google complaint of being noisy, but being off-season I assumed that would not be a problem.  Aside of the busy train tracks across Cleveland Road it wasn't, but the motel had a palatable spiritual vibration---a residue of running, thumping and splashing way into the summer nights, peaking at around midnight, when the Cedar Point amusement park would likely close.  It was easy to tune out, though---and the dirt cheap room was clean.

Rear of condemned fitted native stone block building, Sandusky OH

Driving on into Sandusky is interesting only for the plethora of dubious tourist attractions that vie for Cedar Point's traffic.  Gray sky met gray asphalt---yet that was more comforting than the aspect of a hot and humid summer's day.  Eventually this is passed by for old blue collar neighborhoods and a downtown trying to maintain its dignity, with fair results.  The waterfront, stripped of manufacturing, eeks out a living via ferry traffic, pleasure boats and fishing.

We came down to the waterfront to eat dinner at a fish joint recommended on Roadfood---The New Sandusky Fish Company.  It turned out to be as much a fish market as a fish fry place, providing a minimum of seating and ambiance.  That usually portends great food, but first we had to figure out what we wanted from the limited menu.  The man behind the counter bore a striking resemblance to my dead friend, right down to his plush beard and an expression as if I was trying to pull something off and not succeeding.  He looked over at my husband and then back at me.

"You can't grow whiskers like he can, can you?" he finally asked, his tone knowing but friendly.

I was taken aback, because my mustache is always ignored---I presume because most people don't say anything at all if they can't say something nice, let alone that it grows in the shadow of my husband's publicly revered, luxuriant handlebar.

"No-o," I finally replied, touching my throat.  It was a cool day, and my shirt wasn't unbuttoned enough to show my hairy chest. 

"My dad's the same way," he smiled---taking my no as an affirmative.  "He can go without a shave for a week and his face just looks dirty."

I smiled wanly, realizing that there was no gaydar going on---only a mirror image of his familial situation.  No use explaining that my beard is just has thick as his, although I was tempted to say Well, you ought to see my back hair!

Cedar Point from Sandusky's waterfront

We shared a combination dinner of perch and walleye out on a picnic table under occasional raindrops.  The fish was good, but not extraordinary.  As I ate, I recalled deliciously fresh and succulent white fish in Mackinaw City, Michigan.

Rude Reentry

Monday, 15th April 2013

Map: Saint-Zotique, Quebec to Webster, New York---264 miles

Dawn at Saint-Zotique, Quebec

A ruddy winter's dawning glowed through the unshaded windows of our fifty dollar once DeLuxe room at the Motel Rive du Lac.  I got up and went into the dingy kitchenette and inspected the stained Mr. Coffee before brewing a pot.  I handed a cup to my husband still in bed, and we sat and watched the colors warm and the waterfowl troll for breakfast.  Eventually the sun peeked over, and an orange glow spread westward over the dock.  I ran out in my nightshirt to photograph the scene and then darted back in, thankful that the heat had finally dropped out of space above the suspended ceiling and warmed our room.

Sunrise at the dock on the Fleuve St. Laurent.

The water was hot and shaving with the light behind me wasn't as annoying as I expected.  We packed Patsy Prius and headed out, passing a number of cars parked in front of the lesser rooms.  I wondered about their condition, and the price the guests had paid for them.

We planned to drive for awhile and then stop for breakfast, but not atypically we drove a lot farther than we expected before we found a cafe to stop at.  The border with Ontario was quickly reached, and then the mailboxes along Highway 138 slowly switched from French to English names.  Lancaster seemed as likely a place as any to find a meal, but despite a rather busy early morning appearance we saw nothing open at that hour.

The view from Summerstown, Ontario

Highway 138 returned to the edge of the St. Lawerence, swaying by retirement and summer homes.  The restaurants were still closed for the season in Summerstown, but the views were pleasing.  The water was so clear you could see the rocks on the bottom, and the lavender gray light painted the land and waterscape a nostalgic, bittersweet shade.

The name of the highway changes to Montreal Road as one nears Cornwall, so it was not surprising when we found ourselves in a neighborhood reminiscent of the French-infused cities in the state of Maine.  Twenty-four percent of the city's population claim French as their first language, although the commercial signage rarely reflects that.  It's a very bilingual way of life, where the public tongue is English and the private is French.

Prom Dresses: Babydoll drag or future mother-in-law's Dreamcicle chiffon.

My husband pointed out the King George Restaurant, a venerable eatery with its name awkwardly spelled out in gold face-brick, but I drove on---looking for something more interesting.  We never found it, but enjoyed circling back around and looking at the many old concrete block homes along the way.  The food at the King George was satisfactory but unmemorable, the view amusing from our booth.  We spent most of the meal commenting on the tacky dress shop across the street.

Unbeknown to us, the landscape west of Cornwall and continuing for some thirty miles to Iroquois was greatly altered by the creation of the St. Lawrence Seaway in 1958---but I did notice the whole stretch looks like a tidy, well planned rural roadside commercial and residential district, circa 1960.  Towns were wholly or partially submerged by the project, and relocation efforts were conducted by an international design competition.  Historic buildings were moved to a site called Upper Canada Village, a living museum.  Now the consolidated villages of South Dundas has a museum quality themselves---removed from through traffic by the Macdonald-Cartier Freeway to the north, they sleep until summer.  In the 1990s Ontario removed the provincial highway designation from the main road we drove on, providing an even deeper sense of isolation to the the low forest and islands.

The ubiquitous McIntosh apple was discovered in 1811 at nearby Williamsburg, Ontario---growing midst a thicket of second growth forest at an old farm.

The Iroquois Locks on the St. Lawrence Seaway

At Iroquois my husband wanted to detour to see one of the seaway locks on Harkness Island.  An adjacent park and huge parking lot suggested it was once a popular tourist stop, but the rough asphalt and the fact that the gift shop was for sale indicate it is now low on the scale of interest.  We stood there for awhile, I recalling learning about the Erie Canal and St. Lawrence Seaway in high school---wondering if that kind of history of commerce and transportation is even covered anymore.  Nothing happened while we were there---I suppose that shipping also has a season, just like tourists.

The countryside returns to a full sense of history west of Iroquois.  Old farms nestle close to mid century modern homes along the St. Lawrence, and the towns of Cardinal and Prescott seem livelier. Perhaps this is because they're close to Brockville, an old and long upscale city once home to lumber and transportation titans.  Driving into town, the St. Lawerence is lined with magnificent old homes---turrets putting on airs in a reception line.

The dowager queens of Brockville, Ontario

Brockville was also our last chance to visit Canada's top tourist destination, Bulk Barn.  Since Patsy Prius's GPS is largely indifferent in Canada, we had to stop and ask a woman at a gas station for directions.  My studies of the store locator map that morning proved helpful---we were only a block away from the store.  Being that we were now in a British-esque province, I could find those delicious wine gums in the candy section---as well as other curious items, such as coconut flour.  However, I'd soon be lamenting the fact that I didn't buy enough of their high quality flavored black teas.

We were so intrigued by the glacially groomed, granite studded landscape on the old highway west of Brockville that we failed to see the short and easy connection back to the freeway and the border crossing into New York.  So with irritation as the waste of time and the trepidation of impending annoyances, we continued almost to Ganonoque before making the connection and then headed back to the Thousand Islands port of entry.  This border crossing is very touristy---a plus at that time of the year, since there are no tourists.  Only one car was ahead of us, and they soon passed through.  Of course this meant the agent would be on the rather bored side and may pull out all the stops on interrogation.  Our passports were handed over, our relationship lied about.  One is never sure how to answer that question when your country doesn't recognize your marriage but your state does; however an agent has never countered our assertion of being friends, either.  I'm under no delusion of privacy.  Someone that spends more time looking at a computer screen than your face has much more information on you could ever give him off your cuff.  He typed and read a little more and then said:

"So you're telling me that you drove all the way across the country just to spend two days and nights in Quebec..."

If I was in the driver's seat I would have given him a Zsa Zsa Gabor bitch slap, but I only glared off into space as my husband once again went into even more details of who we visited along the way.  This kind of government mandated insolence is just disgusting.  If I was trained for violence, do you think I'd crumble under such obvious machinations?  Eventually he and/or the computer was satisfied, and he handed back our passports and lifted the gate.

"Welcome home," he said a bit too cheerily.

Oh, fuck off.

My husband drove on for another grumpy twenty miles through the most unwelcoming part of upstate New York.  The farms along New York 180 have gone feral; the old homes imploding and the mobile homes exploding from either social or chemical disaster.  Tourist services were weed choked.  It was a shock after being in Canada for several days, where the countryside always displays a veneer of respectability, if not good taste.

We switched drivers down at the old mill stream in La Fargeville and continued south southwest through an improving landscape on New York 3 and 104.  Unfortunately there's no through roads along or very near the shores of Lake Ontario, and there's a distinct feeling of missing out on something when the lake is occasionally seen from afar.

At Webster we splurged on accommodations at the Hampton Inn---mainly because there was nothing cheaper that didn't have a bad reputation.  I find this kind of generic luxury interesting---I can see the appeal of the predictability of it all, and at the same time how it isolates the guest even more from the community they're staying in.  It would be easy to stay in such places every night and drive the Interstates all day and have nothing to say for yourself except that you slept very well.  Which, of course, we did.

We had family diversions on my husband's side in Webster, though---nieces and nephews grand and otherwise, not to mention their better halves---half of whom I only had acquaintance with via Facebook.  We met at one's rented farmhouse---a virtual time capsule of a post war remodel of a circa 1900 house, save for some Carol Brady wallpaper in the kitchen.  Via my postings on Facebook they knew I'd be enthralled and chatty about the details---right down to the wall tile in the bathroom, which I declared looked like the advanced stages of colitis.  The ceiling was ultra-coved into a tunnel effect and covered with gray subway tile---essentially giving the feeling of going under the Hudson or walking into some Automat shrine.  The basement was a maze of storage and somewhat sinister prep areas for the turkey operation the farm once was.

Nieces and nephews---grand and otherwise---and their significant others.

We carried on our revelry and frank observations down the street to the local Red Robin, where I considered a cocktail but settled for caffeine.  It was a thankfully quiet night there, so we could hear one another and mostly just disturb the staff.   Our ginormous fresh salads pleased both me and my husband---he so much so that he thought it was a worthy stop four days later.

But that's another story.

Snow and Sun in Quebec

Sunday, 14th April 2013

Map: Quebec City to Saint-Zotique, Quebec---246 miles

It had snowed again overnight in Quebec City, but since it was a couple of degrees Celsius it was not sticking to the pavement or sidewalks.  West southwest at Montreal it was already partly sunny, so we didn't expect to have problems driving in that direction.  And we didn't---although it was a bit dicey after we got of Autoroute Felix Leclerc and drove into Saint-Augustin on Quebec 138.  It was snowing heavily there, and had been doing so for quite some time, judging by the slushy highway---but Patsy slogged on through without mishap.  The snow soon stopped falling after that, and for a couple of hours thereafter it was merely a dreary winter's morning.  We drove in the opposite direction when Patsy was new some nine years ago, but since that was a late May day and the road was clogged with convertibles and motorcyclists enjoying a warm weekend it was hard to match up anything from that day.  The naked trees and flat gray light made it a different place.

I did recall at Donnacona that last time I had missed the turn for the old alignment through the heart of the city, so I made the point of taking it this time.  It was so dark that some of the street lights were on, and a few people moved about for coffee and donuts before church.  I didn't make it through the most interesting part of town though, as the bridge over the Jacques-Cartier River was closed for renovation.  We had to wander through tacky 1960s-70s residential streets to again connect to Quebec 138.  Donnacona was once a thriving pulp mill down, so these homes reflected the middle-class aspirations of the time with designs more often reserved in America for dentist offices or similar professions.  Think of wood siding on the diagonal and soaring roof lines with clerestory windows, or glittering panels of crushed white offset with pink or aqua siding.

Eglise de Saint-Francois-Xavier at Bastican, Quebec

Gradually the gray lifted over the fallow fields and murky Fleuve St-Laurent, rising higher and higher until the sun burned through from time to time.  I stopped to catch the silver sun shining off the typically silver steeple of the Église de Saint-François-Xavier at Bastican.  By the time we reached La Pointe-du-Lac, there were patches of blue to match a cheerfully purple Quebecois cottage.

Atypical color for a typical Quebecois cottage.

From La Pointe-du-Lac we could see a cold copper peak on the horizon along the St-Laurent, evidently a cathedral with a very broad skirt around it, like a witch's hat.  As we rolled into Cap-de-la-Madeleine we could see it peeking around houses and trees, so it was obviously a worthwhile detour.  Up close Sanctuaire Notre-Dame-du-Cap is a stupendous basilica in the round---and although officially Norman-Gothic in style, it also displays liberal applications of Gothic Moderne and Mid-Century Modern.  It's theatrical to the point of being campy---otherworldly enough to stand in, with appropriate props, as a Siamese temple.  When consecrated in 1964, it must have symbolized the advancement of the Catholic Church into the Brave New World---a world it has since retreated from.  Compared to the latter-day jail-like Our Lady of Angels in Los Angeles, Our Lady of the Cape is an exuberant celebration in trying something new.  Since Sunday mass was in progress, we didn't see the interior---which photographs as properly solemn yet grand.

Would Cecil B. DeMille approve? (Google Image)

It was all an escape from the gluey stench of pulp mills and chock-a-block brick tenements that more or less remain to this day.  We wandered through these, trying to connect to Autoroute Felix Leclec to make some time west through Trois-Rivières.  We continued for forty miles through more fallow fields and naked, stunted forest---all made duller by the lack of something humanly quaint or crappy to focus on.  Studying the motorists passing us by on the left and the sky were the only forms of entertainment---blue billowing gray and white.

We exited at Berthierville onto Quebec 158 and headed south and west across the prairie to Joliette.  Farms and their upturned bathtub shrines for Mary provided interest, as well as my perverse need to drive into the center of cities to see what there is to see.  At Saint-Lin–Laurentides I didn't even have to go astray, as there was no other way to proceed except through the heart of the scrappy old town.  We sat in post-church services traffic, witnessing some very unchristian like behavior.

A few miles before Saint-Lin–Laurentides we passed a syrup house restaurant Des Erablière Aux Rithmes (The Seasons of the Maples), also very popular with the church crowd despite a rather disreputable road house look.  We considered stopping for lunch, but it was so crowded we drove on and eventually settled for a pedestrian meal at Subway in St. Jerome.  My husband said he had a hard time recalling all the names for vegetables for the making of our vegetarian sandwiches---and the slightly slangy, indistinct French spoken by the teenagers was sometimes confusing.  In retrospect, I wish we had braved the crowd and had a more interesting dining experience.

The ProLite Eco twelve foot trailer.

St. Jerome appeared to be still under the affects of a hard winter, as mountains of dirty snow filled vacant corners on the gritty south side of town where we had stopped.  We drove through downtown, which was marginally nicer, and then out to the light industry area just west of the Autoroute des Laurentides to visit the Roulette's Pro-Lite trailer factory.  Their little showroom was packed with folk putting a down payment on springtime---it was not the quiet scene we were expecting.  We waited for the salesman my husband preferred---perhaps he was picking up on some homophobia from the other, but in a crowded room resonating with a different language I was pretty much shut down and just tried to stay out of the way.  We noted the improvements on our favorite 750 pound model over the one we saw last fall in Salmon Arm, British Columbia, mainly sleek frameless windows and LED lighting.  Eventually the preferred salesman was available---very pleasant and smooth, and segueing between French and English effortlessly.  Of course he complimented my husband's French, and without fuss jotted down the prices on their little glossy catalog and gave it to us.  Twelve thousand dollars, minus a couple hundred at the current exchange rate.  We could take five similar month long road trips like the one we were on at that moment for the same price. In spite of all the driving/travel we do, we'd be hard pressed to really get our money's worth out of a new trailer.  If we bought at all, we'd follow the suggestion of the salesman and go for the occasional trade in.

We spent the next hour and a half traversing the autoroutes in and out of Montreal sprawl and out towards Sallyberry-de-Valleyfield---only to hastily exit when we realized the freeway bridge over a section of the St. Laurent had a toll.  We made our way down to the old bridge and crossed directly into suburbia and Canada's greatest tourist attraction: Bulk Barn.  Long a cultural icon in Ontario, it has only recently moved into the Far West (British Columbia) and its closest neighbor, Quebec.  We have found that the stock varies from store to store---here they presumed Quebecois would not be interested in British Wine Gums, that delicious not too sweet confection akin to Gummi Bears.  Oh well, we'd just have to stop at the Bulk Barn in Cornwall, Ontario the next day.  Meanwhile there was quality bulk teas to stock up on, different cocoas---coconut flour, hmm---something interesting to bake with.  The cashier was a teenage girl with an OMG attitude and high-pitched voice my husband could not understand.  Being a new store and new on the job, she sent the store's pretty boy off  a couple of times to find the price code on several items.

We retraced our route, crossing back over the St. Laurent on Boulevard Monseigneur Langlois and then west on Quebec 338 to Saint-Zotique.  Our bargain basement Priceline room for the night was at the riverfront Motel Rive du Lac, a rather shabby looking midcentury modern building of glittering granite blocks.

"How did we get this room for fifty bucks?" I asked my husband as he directed me to drive right up to the water.

I opened the door to our once DeLuxe waterfront apartment and immediately saw why it was only fifty bucks.  The new goldenrod paint did not hide the fact that these were distressed accommodations furnished with thrift shop furniture.  At least it was reasonably clean and the mattress comfortable.  The battered kitchenette was overstocked with garage sale items, the bathroom sink had no mirror over it---one had to turn around to shave in front of a mirror on the opposite wall.  I turned the heat on and found the heater was hidden above the suspended ceiling, so we probably roasted the manager's apartment upstairs before we felt anything.  Best of all were the homemade drapes on homemade flat rods that made it nearly impossible to draw them back.  We tugged and yanked and propped them back with whatever was handy so we could reveal the picture windows and the million dollar view.

One of the views from our once-DeLuxe room at Motel Rive du Lac

There.  Just look outside.  The weather had cleared enough to offer beautiful skies and far views.  The water changed colors as the sun went down, and suddenly the light caught the windmills some fifteen miles across the water and up on the hills to the south.  For a few minutes I watched the long, undulating line of them spinning in the wind, and then the light sank into twilight and then night.  The windmills winked red---sometimes in waves, sometimes in florid disharmony.  We never drew the drapes.

Four Miles Afoot in Quebec City

Saturday, 13th April 2013

Where We Walked


The streets and sidewalks of Quebec City had been swept clean in our sleep---the hard white lines softening into a gray and black world as the morning passed in leisurely fashion.  My husband sat at the large window, recalling his New England past, and then as I continued to write he wandered down to the tiny dining room to find our little acrylic breakfast box.  The box contained things like cups of apple sauce and such, but there was toast to be made, bagels and cream cheese and cereal, apples and oranges.  He sat down there for awhile, having a rudimentary conversation with a German couple who spoke very little English or French.  They had been visiting their airline attendant daughter, who lives in Montreal.

At St. John's Gate.  Quebec City

After I finally finished and sent out a blog entry, we took the bus down to Parc de l'Esplande.  Initially my suburban mentality was surprised on how crowded the bus was, until I considered Saturday was the urbanite's day to shop and socialize.  We disembarked and crossed the park to Rue Saint-Jean, but away from the nominally gay neighborhood and east through St. John's Gate into Old Town.  It was about lunch time, and the restaurants were full of the young and the restless.  The blocks between the gate and the city hall seemed very hip but unpretentious---authentic, I'd say.  I kept my eye open for a particularly interesting place to eat, but my husband was indecisive---and feeling awkward about my minimal French, I wasn't going to drag him somewhere.

We continued down Rue de Buade, falling into the more touristy zones down near the ramparts.  Being out of season, the neighborhood was deadly quiet, and although the buildings were interesting I could not dismiss the superficiality of it all.  Without people going about their everyday affairs the history is reduced to a showcase.  About the only excitement under the bright gray sky was sheets of soft snow sliding off the roofs and exploding onto the sidewalks.

View of the Fleuve St. Laurent from Parc Montmorency

Of the very few tourists about I noticed a young man who was noticeably autistic or the like.  He liked the snow falls and studied the roofs that had heavy accumulations.  He decided to settle under one and within a minute he was rewarded with a dump of snow on his head.  The snow action always made pedestrians jump and than gawk at the source, so it wasn't until then that they seemed to notice him.  Perhaps some of the onlookers were his family---at any rate, everyone held their breath, waiting to see his reaction.  After the shocking rush of cold, he broke out into laughter and everyone else---not seeing that he set himself up---relaxed.  I paused to consider if he just made a lucky guess or, like many other people with a different outlook on life, had a sense of the impending that we're too busy to notice.

Funiculaire to Le Chateau Frontenac

Being cheap, we resisted the Funiculaire du Vieux Quebec and climbed back up and around to the copper-roofed palace-like Fairmont Le Chateau Frontenac.  We continued along Rue Saint Louis, lined with small expensive hotels that offer a rather dreary prospective off-season.  My husband commented that he was glad we didn't splurge for a stay in this part of town.

Instead of heading back to that exciting stretch of Rue Saint-Jean, we headed west back through the gate.  I suppose my husband was looking for some gaiety, but the guy out cleaning the sidewalk tables at Le Drague Cabaret Club said they were only a bar.  So we ended up at the Hobbit Bistro down on the next block, a nice little restaurant just coming off the lunch rush.  Our waiter, a most handsome dark blond, spoke both French and English, so we were often switching between the two.  I ordered buffalo ravioli and my husband ordered a seafood pasta---both excellent.  Behind us a large Quebecois family was finishing their meal, and in front of us, at the front window, a middle aged couple carried on a quiet conversation in English.  Eventually my husband commented that the man gave off interesting, pleasant energy---which was true, but hard to describe.  A sort of unobtrusive masculine strength.

We sat left of the topiary at Bistro Hobbit

Our next destination was Boulevard René-Lévesque and a bus stop, but I suggested that we just walk back to our Maison Roy.  It wasn't that far, and it was mostly flat to slightly downhill.  Actually, it was about two miles, quite a walk after already covering a couple of miles of hard pavement in cowboy boots.  But it was interesting to study the housing along the way---mostly duplexes and quadplexes.  Every ten blocks or so brought us into a new decade---the architectural styles segueing from Beaux Arts to Moderne to Streamline.  Most fun was watching the occasional pedestrian approach us in the opposite direction.  Often we were greeted with a friendly bonjour, but one young woman gave our quasi Western attire a look over and us a most bemused smile before her cheery greeting.

Winter Wonderland

Friday, 12th April 2013

Map: Burlington, Vermont to Quebec City---231 miles

As forecasted, Burlington was an island of relative mildness overnight.  Most of the precipitation fell as rain, and what little of otherwise did not stick.  It was a nice way to start the day, driving past the pedestrian activities of students of all ages bundled against the cold.  Many of the old mansions along South Willard Street have fantastically reused office space for both Champlain College and the University of Vermont.

We crossed over the Winooski River into Winooski, duly noting the old mills and the falls, and continued north out of town---opposite a steady line of commuters coming into work.  The landscape promptly turned white and US 7 occasionally slushy but never treacherous.  The scenery and little towns were a diversion from the prospect of the possibility of worse weather.

Taylor Park, St. Albans Vermont

Light sleet and snow started falling at Swanton, where we filled up on cheaper American gas before crossing the border into Canada.  We proceeding onto Interstate 89, having no other way to cross the border in that vicinity---besides, our previous experience has shown us to avoid the smaller crossings when larger ones are nearby.  Californians wandering into back road border crossings are regarded with suspicion.  The last time we attempted such with an Interstate crossing nearby we were held aside for over half an hour with no explanation.  I suppose they wanted to read all the snarky op-ed features I wrote twenty years ago before they'd let us through.

The Interstate was empty, and only one kiosk was open---fortunately staffed by a woman.  We find women handle the apparently official post 9/11 rude interrogation better than men.  They politely ask questions and never insult us with a variation of you drove all across America to spend three days in Quebec?  Or why are you driving there---everyone goes here.  Within three minutes she was satisfied we were legitimate if not normal tourists and let us through.

At St. Pierre du Veronne we went east on Quebec 202 through Bedford and Dunham---and then getting lost in Cowansville for our want of going into the heart of towns instead of around them.  It was snowing quite heavily now, which pretty much obscured any sense of direction, and Patsy's GPS is particularly negligent in Canada.  I pecked at her screen until I found the sweet spot where she could lead us east to Brome Lake.  This is a bit of a climb, and the snow was sticking in shady spots.  Fortunately it was well-driven over and thus a hard surface, so it posed no problems.

Lac Brome, Quebec

Lac Brome is an interesting little year around resort town, a nice mixture of old cottages and fancy vacation homes.  The lake still had a nearly solid surface of ice---the breath of Spring was still well to the south.

We now headed north by northeast on Quebec 243, dropping down through Waterloo and Lawrence and leaving the worst of the weather behind.  The landscape opened up to farmland rolling down and northwest to the Fleuve St- Laurent.  Eventually the overcast rose high enough to expose very far views across the river and to the mountains low on the horizon west of Trois Rivieres.

Quebec 116 took us directly to the cross-river suburbs of Quebec City.  Along the way, we drove over the Richelieu River on an ancient truss bridge and through the quaint town of Richmond, passed through the generic modern city of Victoriaville and the strangely remote village of Lyster.  Strange in that the traffic was effectively shuttled off west to the freeway (Route Transcanadienne) near Victoriaville, leaving us on a remote highway through a largely one street town strung out for a mile or so.  Geographically we were within thirty miles of bustling cities, but it felt like Lyster was in one of the most forgotten sections of northern Quebec.  Farms had given away to a patchwork of soggy pastures and stunted forests under again-lowering gray skies.

Suburbia was just a short way out from Saint-Redempteur, where we joined the Trans-Canadienne to cross the Riviere Chaudiere.  The river falls just south of the freeway, and it was near flood stage, making for a roaring beige wall of water.  We then joined the Autoroute Robert-Cliche and crossed the St-Laurent on the Pont Pierre Laporte into Quebec City.

Once on Boulevard Laurier, we were glad we didn't choose one of the dreary hotels in this typically sterile postwar Canadian business district.  There are advantages to being cheap---but only if one copies down the right address.  Or any address.  My husband did not.  We only had what was supposed to be cross streets---except one did not cross the other and perhaps did not even exist in that part of town.  So there was a lot of fuming and heated conversation to warm us up, with plenty of ventilation caused by the passenger door opening and my husband wandering off to ask for directions.  People claimed to know of the street, but were vague about its exact location.  After cruising up and down Boulevard Rene Levesque a couple of times I was turning around to try again when my husband cried out there, there!  Not the street we were looking for, but the hotel itself---its door canopy a green beacon on a gray day.

Auberge Maison Roy is not a hotel for large Americans.  One enters a small front hall, where guest's shoes greet you like the United Nations.  Then there's the small lobby/office to pass by the scrutiny of the proprietresses, then small stairs to squeeze by your temporary neighbors, and finally a small room with twin beds---where we could play horny college dorm mates.  I mean where twin beds allowed me a small desk to write at.  You get the picture.  Small attached bath, sans ventilation.  Sixty bucks.  Although the price suggests big city voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir, Masion Roy is a clean and comfortable small hotel.

The view from our room at Auberge Masion Roy

"Just like Paris," my husband sighed over the room, flinging back the curtains on its one big amenity: a large window looking out over the residential district.  Snow was just starting to fall.

The proprietress suggested that we keep Patsy parked in their driveway and get a three day bus pass.  I chose not to ask my husband how much that cost, but with the proprietress's warning about the parking police, it seemed the best and least expensive way to avoid unpleasant situations---especially with the snow starting to fall.  Besides, the last time we wandered into Old Quebec, my husband kept driving far beyond any unofficial or outsider's car was supposed to go---fording through tourists along a narrow cobblestone street until it came to a dead end.

We dressed for the weather.  To avoid being a near match, my husband kept his newsboy cap on, but I was Way Out West from head to toe: cowboy boots, oiled Sou'wester and a heavy felt hat that started smelling like a wet dog as the snowflakes melted on it.  My husband got more notice, though---if only for his age.  Everyone on the crowded bus was exceptionally courteous, always offering their seat to any new boarder that appeared older.  My husband preferred hanging on to a pole, being too short for one of the straps I swung around on.

"You handled that very well," he praised as we disembarked at Parc de l'Esplanade.  "I was afraid you'd get all uptight.  You'll be fine in Paris."

"I have been on public transportation before," I replied coolly.  "I rode the Washington DC subway alone at fifteen." 

Of course, not speaking the language with any intelligence was my major drawback.  Unable to understand what was going on around me, I just sorta zoned out and thought of 1920s Brooklyn strap hangers snapping gum and reading the latest tabloid sensation until some poor old lady shrilly exclaimed excuse-moi, excuse-moi! so I'd get out of her way before the bus launched off again.

On Rue St. Jean

Instead of walking into Old Town, we walked west onto Rue St. Jean---Quebec City's nominally gay neighborhood.  Although it's home to the provinces' oldest outwardly gay establishments, it never developed into a flaming gay ghetto.  There's a few bars and a bathhouse with hotel en attachement, but the street scene is merely metropolitan.  Being hungry, a gay little cafe would have been nice, but we had to fish for whatever the street had to offer.

My husband nabbed a young straight couple on the sidewalk, speaking to the handsome man in French, of course.  The woman, taller than he and almost as tall as me in boot heels, looked me over with pleasant appraisal and asked in perfectly unaccented English: "So, where are you from?"

"California," I grinned.  "We've been driving cross country, through the South and East."

"Oh, how wonderful!"  I wasn't sure what she thought was particularly wonderful, the road trip or being from California---which is very much larger than life to the Quebecois.

Her man suggested a creperie a block or two down Rue St. Jean, and she approved it.  However, my man's French is getting quite archaic, and he later admitted he wasn't quite registering the name.  It mattered not, for some idle window shopping brought us together again with the couple and she leaned down to point out the sign to my husband.  I too leaned down, and she smiled over at me: "See?" 
  
Crêperie-bistro Le Billig is a small eatery with a few tables and a nook kitchen.  The waiter, in rapid parlance, asked if we had reservations---but it was no problem, he had one table available.  He then suggested that we could hang our outerwear on the pegs next to the door, but it took a moment for it to sink into my husband's brain and he in turn to instruct me.  Once the waiter realized I spoke only English, he offered me an English menu, which I declined, and thereafter he went back and forth between French and English---always in rapid fire.

The crepes are huge and excellent, come with a side salad of the freshest greens and the prices are reasonable.  We started off by sharing a bowl of 'green soup'---pea soup with other greens pureed into it, which was delicious and very much an appetizer.  I ordered cider, to which he mused a dry one would be good with my crepe---and brought it to me in, curiously, a wide coffee cup.  The cider possessed interesting herbal notes, which unfortunately reminded me of Bactine.  Not that I didn't enjoy it, it just was an amusing idea that I couldn't get off my palate.  Having a big enough serving to get a buzz would have made it even more amusing.

After mincing back to the bus stop. St. John's Gate, Old Quebec.

The snow was starting to stick as we left Le Billig.  We continued walking up Rue St. Jean until it became relatively uninteresting at Rue Turnbull, and then returned down the south side of the street back to Parc de l'Esplanade---I mincing along like an Asian princess to avoid falling on my ass.  Here we passed a bakery somewhere mid block, its window full of dark and milk chocolate Easter bunnies at fifty percent off.  What a sad and delicious display, so we ventured inside to buy a couple of the smaller ones.  As the woman selected and weighed them, I gazed at all the pastries in the cases, as well as some wonderful looking pot pies and other savories---so otherworldly compared to most American bakeries.  The woman and my husband discussed the coinage, the bunnies were bought and enjoyed back at our room at Maison Roy.  Such delectable, melting hollow chocolate bunnies.

I Love To Ride A Ferry

Wednesday, 10th April 2013

Map: Rehoboth Beach, Delaware to Bordertown, New Jersey via the Cape May Ferry---126 miles

When days promise to be warm and travel distances are unusually reasonable, my husband and I like to take a walk in the morning.  This day he donned his best summer frock and brought along his chain of paper doll men to remind himself of past triumphs before hitting the boardwalk to duly note the sun rising over the Atlantic.

The wind was still blowing off shore, making a walk through the neighborhoods more interesting.  Fragrant Chinese magnolias were in full bloom, and giant fish leaped out of the busy surface of Lake Greer for their breakfast.  Feral cats wandered around, looking for their own breakfasts---one canned buffet being conveniently placed on top of a car hood.

Back at the Royal Rose Bed & Breakfast, we had quiche on

Chinese magnolia.  Rehoboth Beach, Delaware.

the sun porch and then I finished a blog entry at the same table, since there was no desk in our room.  I had started the entry during the wee hours, sitting on the floor and placing my laptop on top of our thermoelectric cooler.  The other guests at the inn made their appearance---a middle aged straight couple from the DC area.  We had parked next to their Prius V, so there was much discussion about that, and then he settled into his Washington Post crossword puzzle.

"Depression era shantytown," he read to his wife.  One could imagine this was their usual morning conversation.  "Hoover...."

"Hooverville," I piped, although surely she would have said so only a second or two later.

"Ah, another crossword puzzle player," he said.

"Nope," I replied.  "Just know my history."

Greer Lake.  Rehoboth Beach, Delaware.

I finished writing just as it was becoming uncomfortably hot on the sun porch.  My husband had packed Patsy, so it was time to hit the road to Lewes (pronounced Lewis---well, I didn't know...) to meet up with the Cape May Ferry.  Having no interest in driving through Philadelphia and having never seen the south coast of Jersey, I thought it would make a nice excursion.  We arrived at the dock with perfect timing, as we were soon heading out onto the open water, minus $52.  That was considerably more than I expected to pay for the trip, but I failed to note online that $32 was simply for the car---as a car would take itself for a joy ride on a ferry---while there's an additional ten dollar charge for each car passenger.  But hey, it's really a bargain because there's about ten minutes of duty-free shopping in the on board gift shop.

Cross currents on Delware Bay.  Cape May Ferry.

It was a perfect day to ride a ferry, and we stood up front, Titanic style, the wind playing sexily over our bodies.  This was the first time I had been on the practically open sea, and I took the lunging over the cross currents like a sailor---or at least like a drunken one when I tried to walk.

I had noticed a peculiarly coiffed old who looked just like a geriatric version of Guy Fieri of Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives---his gray hair heavily processed into silver white spikes over the top of his head.  Apparently he thought my husband's mustache made them one of the same, so he wandered over for a chat.

"So where are you from?" he asked after my husband mentioned some of our travels.

"California."

"Oh!  Hey, Mary...!"  But his woman had wandered off.  "Now where did she go now?  My Mary, she's from California.  Turlock."

Apparently he thought it was terribly important for three Californians to meet, as he went off looking for her---returning with a typically attired dyed middle aged tourist displaying a slightly harassed attitude, as if to say Joe, I've got shopping to do.

"At least your not from Southern California," she sniffed upon hearing of our hometown.  "I don't know why they just split the state into two."

"I was born in Southern California," I said.  "Third generation."

"Oh."

I smiled and shrugged.

"The last time I was in Southern California was to go to Disneyland---in 1961."

"Those were better times to go there," I replied sincerely.

She went on about her hatred of Southern California, unable to see that Turlock has become pretty much like Southern California sprawl in the last twenty years.  This geopolitical game has become so dated and transparent during the rampant growth of central and even parts of northern California in the last thirty years.  It always comes down to water, even if the Bay Area sucks their vast majority of water from the same Delta---a frightfully fragile, highly adulterated ecosystem that could collapse whenever the Hayward Fault decides to whip out one of its perennial 7.0 earthquakes.  Mother Nature will have the last laugh at the expense of all of us.

"I mean, whenever they mention the weather in California, it's always about Los Angeles," she continued, as if the city was an attention whore, climbing out of a sports car sans panties.

Fortunately the captain called out the duty-free shopping, and we were left alone again to muse about travel.  At the mention of New Brunswick, Joe became quiet---displaying an introspective look.

"You ought to go to the Twin Towers site," he said softly.  "I live a forty minute ferry ride across from there.  When I saw what was happening on television, I walked down to the docks to see what I could do to help.  I was given a clipboard and told to get the names and addresses of the people coming off the boats so it could be assessed how best to get them on their way home."

"There was this woman," he continued after a pause.  "It took me a long time just to get her name and address, she was in such shock.  Finally she told me she was from New Brunswick, and I could send her along to get transportation.  Naturally she stuck in my mind, so a few days later I looked on the Internet to see if I could find out more about her.  There was a big article about her experience in the St. Johns, New Brunswick paper---that as she had ran out of the lobby of the World Trade Center part of a body had fallen on her."

Joe stared out over the water, seeing the day all over again.  I could feel a political diatribe beneath it all, but fortunately he kept the moment in a quiet, human prospective.

We were now approaching New Jersey, and the refreshing wind slackened---making me realize I had already been out in the sun way too long.  I moved to a bench in the shade of the captain's quarters and watched Mary return and leave again---my husband reach out and touch Joe's arm.  I knew exactly what had happened then---that the discussion had turned to today's political scene, and my husband had made a gesture of I hear you, but I disagree.

"Actually," my husband later reported, "I said you sound just like my brother."

That gesture went a long way.  Joe eventually admitted that some people do need all those social services.

Interestingly, Mary had departed again with you're not going to go off on politics again, are you?

As we came into the docks at Cape May, New Jersey, a school of dolphins dutifully frolicked off by the lighthouse.

I was surprised and interested to find Cape May so ungentrified.  Little postwar box houses still run down right down to the narrow shore along Delaware Bay, rarely replaced with McMansions.  It felt like going back in time, with nothing but little stores and little restaurants and little houses waiting for summer.  Towards Villas and Middle Township the postwar houses thin out and are mixed with farms, some featuring old two story houses as tall and slender as chimneys.  I wish I could see inside one, as the houses can't be more than twenty feet square and the stairs must be more like ladders.

Dennis and Corbin City can stand in for vintage New England, with large rectangular houses and doorsteps almost on the narrow pavement.  Pines and sloughs make the area very scenic and deceptively rural, despite the proximity to Atlantic City.  Although I had chosen the route carefully, I was surprised by the beauty and calmness of the area as we drove along with Patsy's windows down.

However, the rural atmosphere does have its drawbacks when it's in the upper 80s and one's looking for a Dairy Queen, let alone a frozen custard.  There just didn't seem to be much going on, and I wondered where the residents wandered off to shop and dine.  I was feeling the effects of sun exposure, so in desperation from heat and thirst, we stopped at a McDonald's in May's Landing. We decided to try their much ballyhooed McWraps.  The presentation is novel, if not wasteful: a tall box envelope one tears back on the perforation to reveal your meal.  The ingredients are surprisingly fresh and tasty, especially the mixed baby greens---but then they ruin it all by pouring on their chemical-flavored sauce, a bow to economy and efficiency.  At $3.99, McWraps aren't cheap fast food, and the lack of variety and disharmonious mix of fresh and chemical makes it no real competition to Subway, their ever more formidable foe.  Perhaps the happy result will be Subway offering fresh baby greens for their sandwiches.

Naturally we passed a prosperous frozen custard stand a scant five miles away in Egg City Harbor...

Now satiated by chemicals and cooled by Patsy's refrigeration, we drove northeast on Highway 563 through Jersey's pine barrens.  As the name implies, it isn't particularly interesting country---but compared to the alternative of tollways and suburban sprawl it is a pleasant short cut if one needs to head due north.

Flowering weeping cherry trees.  Bordertown Fire Department.

At Pemberton, we turned onto US 206---where infamously bad Jersey drivers preferred my ass over the left lane.  There was too much to see to pay them much attention, though---from funky old motels to this pairing of lovely, large weeping cherry trees at the Bordertown fire department.

After settling into our Days Inn equipped with a supersized Dunkin Donuts, we drove off to meet my baby sitter of some forty years ago for dinner.  She's a Lesbian, just so you know it's contagious...  While not quite the far out forty year reunion---I had reconnected with her for awhile in my twenties---there was a lot catching up to do.  It was nice to see her happier and well established in the East after a series of SoCal misfortunes some twenty years ago.

"You look about the same," she said upon our meeting.  "Only grayer."

At least she didn't say gayer...

Down By The Sea

Tuesday, 9th April 2013

Map: Tarsboro, North Carolina to Rehoboth Beach, Delware: 342 miles

Leaving the window open all night in our motel room exposed us to just enough humidity to remind us we were in the South.  Thick yet benign while the temperatures hovered in the sixties, it would lay low as the day warmed, becoming a stultifying blue gray glare.

For now, it provided a golden atmosphere as the old fashioned crossroads signage pointed out the way through a few plots of tobacco midst the cotton stubble and swamp cypress.  What wasn't old fashioned was the fact that North Carolina Highways 11/42 avoided what few towns there were at all costs, causing me to occasionally jerk the wheel and fling Patsy down a side road at the last moment.  This is how we discovered Aulander, a nice little town full of interesting old houses and a narrow Main Street barely three blocks long. Folks were out for a walk or just sitting on their porches, waiting to see what the day would bring.  My husband would wave, and they'd wave back.

Near Woodville, North Carolina

Ahoskie is big and bold enough to give a shout out along the highway, so I made a more graceful departure to visit it.  Soon I found myself in a lineup of cars on South Academy Street, stopping for some sort of police check.  I automatically pulled out my wallet, expecting to be turned away because of some sort of police action would be keeping everyone but residents from the area.

"What's the problem?" I asked as I flipped out my license.

"No problem," replied the short policeman,  "Just checking that driver's have their licenses."

He was such a handsome African American that I considered making a problem.  "Oh," I said, taking my wallet he handed back and trying not to stare too much.

"Have a good day now," he said---but I had already distractedly touched the accelerator, and his pleasantness was left in Patsy's wake.  Oh, how terribly rude of me.

$95,000---Winton, North Carolina

In Winton, on the Chowan River and the very top of the Albemarle Sound, you can buy this four bedroom, two bath Southern Victorian for $95,000---which means if this block home was for sale, it would probably command something like $35,000.  The garbage can was the neighbor's...

Now I had to stop this detouring into small towns because we had a lunch date with our great nephew in Newport News.  I had not planned the most direct route from Winton to the Newport News area, and then there would be unexpected construction and the forgotten fact that Virginia has the worst road signage in the United States.  The most sensible thing would have been to take US 13 directly to Suffolk, but I had thought detouring around the Great Dismal Swamp would be scenic.  It's not.  The swamps way back on 11/42 as one crosses the Roanoke River south of Woodville provide plenty of that kind of scenery.

Not on the market---but surely considerably less.  Winton, NC.

"Are you sick of us yet?" my husband asked as we finally arrived at the Mexican restaurant that was our chosen meeting spot.  He was referring to the umpteen times he had called in the last hour.  Our nephew, standing there in his gray Army fatigues, just smiled and gave us hugs---too polite to tell us our lives would be much easier if we just got an iPhone.

Although we had been anticipating this lunch meeting, as we sat down we realized that the last time we had any sort of conversation with him was when he was fifteen---well, okay, maybe twenty.  That he had been a good kid then, already sitting down to talk to the adults---at least for a minute, suggested we wouldn't have too hard of a time making conversation with him at the ripe old age of thirty.  After some small talk about our travels, we settled into relationships and---when reminded of his uncle's counseling profession---a lot about that field, which he's interested in after completing his army career.  Since being a captain is akin to being a life manager, he's already gained a lot of insight into the field of therapy.  Our nephew also has a broad physical/emotional appeal---one that would allow a man to spill his guts without feeling especially ashamed about it, or appeal to the bullshitter who will only arrive at the truth after moving through the maze of machismo.  My husband told him to let him know when he was ready to discuss his education options, and he seemed happy to have someone to bounce ideas off when the time comes.

Unc and great nephew.

We crossed the James River again, this time at its mouth and via yet another underwater tunnel, as it appears Chesapeake Bay is shallow and its bottoms unsuitable for supporting tall bridges.  Along Norfolk's Ocean View Boulevard there was no view except for the thousands of houses vying for the view.  Then it was onto the the Chesapeake Bay Bridge/Tunnel for the hefty toll of $12, but one gets a free cup of soup with the receipt if they buy lunch at the restaurant out on the bay at the tunnel entrance.  Actually the toll is pretty reasonable, considering that the bridge and tunnel totals out at twenty miles long.

It takes some getting used to, this Atlantic Ocean always hiding behind dunes, or in rare glimpses giving the uneasy impression of being sightly higher than the road you're traveling over.  No matter for us, as we were making time on US 13, and if I wasn't napping I was listening to rather wacky WMBG 740 out of Willamsburg, playing anything from obscure 1950s country western to some light disco.

I was duly aware that Ocean City, Maryland is less than classy---but I wasn't prepared for a place that makes Laughlin, Nevada look classy.  The huge, ugly hotels, the small ugly motels---the shops and restaurants that replicate themselves every few miles to cater to the hordes.  The place is as colorful as the 1970s, as if it was a set for a never ending caftan clad cameo bore-fest called Ocean City.  I was thankful it was off-season, or this ghost metropolis would have been pure hell.

Eventually we arrived at Rehoboth Beach, Delaware---our destination for the day.  The time and temperature on their fire department announced it was 90 degrees, but Patsy was more discreet, never saying it was above 88.  It felt like---well, just very unpleasant---not that the old folks seemed to mind one bit.  Our gay little bed and breakfast had yet to place the air conditioner in our window, but the two ceiling fans proved satisfactory.

"When's the last time you've been in Rehoboth?" asked our chipper, middle age host(ess).

"Never," replied my husband.

"Thirty years ago," I said.

Rehoboth Beach, Delaware---with the kitsch removed.

"Oh," he said, sucking in air between his teeth.  I got the impression that thirty years ago was a worse impression to overcome than never.

Not that it mattered much to me.  I have little memory of it, being but fifteen at the time and dank cold March weather pretty much shrank my recall to a bag of salt water taffy.  Although Rehoboth is certainly nicer than Ocean City, I could tell my husband was disappointed by its lack in quaint appeal.

Even if it was hot, it was still off season and a lot of the restaurants were closed---at least during the week.  We walked the boardwalk, but the breeze was hot off the land and hardly refreshing.  Eventually we found that Fins Fish House on Rehoboth Avenue was still in happy hour mode, so we bellied up to share fish and chips and a tall light one.  The bartender was equal to the beer---at least we liked to think so.

"Another one?" he asked as I put down my empty bottle.

"No, thank you.  This one had the desired effect."

He chuckled and in my condition I actually thought I  had amused him.

Walking back to our room, we passed Double Dippers---an ice cream parlor we thought was closed, but apparently it was only closed during the dinner hour.

"Hello, boyz,"called the chubby middle aged man from behind the counter.  He called the woman sitting at a table in the corner 'ladies'---although it was fairly clear they were lezzies of a certain age.  We had found the gay hot spot of Rehoboth Beach.

My husband had his favorite, Rum Raisin---which is very rarely found on the West Coast, and I had Coconut Almond Chocolate Chip.  I eavesdropped as we sat with our cones, listening to the chubby one talk to an athletic middle aged male couple about having opened a second shop somewhere in Florida for winter income.

"We have a lot of repeat customers already, so we're doing well."

I wondered if he called out hello boyz there, too.