Starry-Eyed & Laughing
Starry-Eyed & LaughingOctober 21, 1995 -- for the first time in my life, the idea of going on vacation seems strangely burdensome. Through my bedroom window, I can see the rain and my neighbor's trees swaying in the wind. I feel exhausted even though I've had more than enough sleep. It's 8:00 am, and I call (and awaken) Wilson, who seems to be in a similar state of mind. It takes virtually no prompting to get him to agree to delaying our departure by three hours.
At 1:00 p.m., we meet at National Car Rental on 12th Street. I'm soaked from my walk from the Union Square subway station, and the idea of a car ride through Manhattan in this weather less than excites me. We're presented with our white Buick Regal, and after grabbing a burrito across the street from the rental place, we're on our way. Getting out of NYC is no big deal, and pretty soon we've exited the Holland Tunnel and are cruising through New Jersey. We've acknowledged that this trip will be heavily interstate-dominated, and our first course of action is to get to the starting point of the scenic portion of the trip, so we cruise I-78 to I-81.
By the time we reach Pennsylvania, the weather has improved, and we make the obligatory stop at the Stuckey's in Shartlesville. Of the endangered Stuckey's chain, this location is one of my favorites. In addition to the eponymous pecan logs, the Shartlesville Stuckey's offers an impressive selection of Pennsylvania Dutch crafts and merchandise, including, but not limited to, "I [heart] Intercourse" postcards, t-shirts, and refrigerator magnets. I also snap a quick photo of the big cow that flanks the left side of the K & M Burger Barn.
We get to Virginia as darkness falls. I like the idea of stopping in Winchester and possibly stopping by Dinosaur Land the following morning in order to stock up on their excellent postcards. First things first, however, and we stop to feast on t-bone steaks and endless salads at Ponderosa.
Winchester turns out to be a bust. It seems that this is Civil War Reenactment Weekend or something, and all the hotels from Winchester north into Pennsylvania on down south to Roanoke are booked. This is like a 300 mile radius! How is this possible? At one point, we pass through one of the battlefields which is dotted with tents and illuminated with lanterns as far as the eye can see. People dressed in Civil War regalia run back and forth across the road. Wilson has to brake to keep from hitting them.
We decide to be clever and head east on I-66 towards D.C. We pull into a Super 8 and ask if they have a room. The woman at the counter gives me a look that makes me think I've just asked a truly ridiculous question. I tell her of the goings on an hour to the west, and I learn that she's oblivious to all the brouhaha. This motel is "whaaad open."
Two free donuts and three free coffees the following morning, and we're well on our way back to Skyline Drive. The drive is beautiful and leisurely; the foliage appears to have peaked a few days prior to our arrival. Nonetheless, the leaves provide a splendid golden canopy for much of the drive. Skyline Drive completed, we begin the Blue Ridge Parkway.
Our Blue Ridge Parkway experience happens in two parts; day one ends in Roanoke, VA. We deem The Friendship Inn unfriendly after having frustrating dealings with the desk guy. We can see the discounted rates displayed prominently on the outdoor sign. What we know to be 20% and what he considers to be 20% differ by about 10%. But he won't budge. He has a bad attitude. He loses our valuable business.
Fortunately, there's an EconoLodge just beyond the Pizza Hut, so we take our business there. Having driven all day, we are extra-glad to have found lodging the previous night without having had to sacrifice our slow-lane sojourn. We're groovin' on the American Steak House thing, and we opt to dine at the Western Sizzlin. Western Sizzlin doesn't compare to Ponderosa, and we begrudgingly pay our additional 49 cents for the sundae bar. The restaurant is closing for the night, so we eat quickly and walk through the adjoining parking lots back to our motel. Off in the distance, Roanoke's eighty-foot neon star is glowing a peaceful white.
Monday is a clear, sunny day -- perfect for the remainder of our Blue Ridge Parkway drive. We hate to admit it, but we actually kind of prefer this road to Skyline Drive. For most of it, we're spared of RVs, and we manage to make pretty good time. We enjoy our lunch at Crabapple Field (or Cranberry Cove, or whatever the heck it was called...) which is quite the coffee shop that time forgot. I think the anachronistic decor is cool, but it seems to disorient Wilson a little. Discombobulation is setting in bigtime; it may take more than one Twix Bar to cure him. We drive some of the Parkway in twilight, stopping once to investigate a small waterfall. Eventually, we're in pure darkness and looking forward to the evening's destination: Cherokee, North Carolina.
I had tried to spend the night in Cherokee during my Country Music Trip of 92. At that time, the passage through the mountains was closed because of a snowstorm, so I went to Chattanooga, where I drank bourbon, bowled a 169, ate donuts at the Krispy Kreme, and slept on a waterbed. This time around, there are no obstacles, and we start seeing the bright lights of Cherokee piercing the black sky. Visit Santa's Land! Buy Cheap Moccasins! Have your photo taken with a real Indian--only $3.00! I suddenly find myself curious about who's won this evening's Braves/Indians game.
With its vibrant, multi-colored neon headdress, The Chief Motel seems like the obvious choice for the night... but, alas, a "closed" sign is taped to the door. We continue on U.S. 19 and settle in at the El Camino Motel which has a nativity-like Halloween display gracing the yard. We unpack our belongings and go to the Western Steer for our daily helping of red meat. Not so long ago, I eschewed these mega-corporate restaurant chains in favor of mom-and-pop operations; I have since come to appreciate the generous hours and bland predictability that accompanies dining in this fashion.
Morning comes, and Cherokee is looking pretty gloomy this Tuesday. At breakfast, "Welcome to Cherokee Big Boy" strikes me more as flirtation than salutation, and I finish up my eggs over hard (or over WELL, as I was corrected...) The Great Smoky Mountains come and go quickly compared to the previous days' leisurely and relentlessly scenic drives. The fog hangs low and thick, and upon its clearing, we're spat out in Gatlinburg. We're impressed that the integrity of the mountains' natural splendor is respected, and all of the touristy stuff is conveniently lumped together. In the past few days, Wilson has apologized to me on occasion for the lack of roadside kitsch. Apologies no more! Gatlinburg is downright tasteful compared to Pigeon Forge, and I seize the opportunity to pose in front of three-headed monsters, giant skulls, and animated gold-panners.
The next stretch is a long one as we make our way to Memphis. Not much action on I-40, and some hours later we're trying to get our bearings in town. Wilson finds a landmark and orients us. We check out the venerable and once quite respectable Admiral Benbow Inn, but the dark corridors creep us out a little. In the lobby there, Memphis' underbelly huddles as though drawn together by a spiritual depravity magnet; prostitutes, crackheads, winos, and thieves kill time and wait for something to happen. Some guffaw at their own jokes; some glare; some sit slack-jawed and satisfied. Or perhaps Wilson's medication is simply wearing off -- it's been a long day.
As we make our way to a precautionary pre-check-in room inspection, we encounter a seedy character on the dark landing. Lookout? Pimp? Dealer? It's a moot point as we tear down Union to the Red Roof Inn, where we commit for two nights. Our red meat cravings instinctively direct us to the Rendezvous, where we partake in some late evening feasting.
Wilson has family in Memphis, so the next day and a half are a combination of visiting relatives and scoping out local cool things. We are equipped with our "Low Life's Guide to Memphis" [excellent! send $3 to Shangri-La, 1916 Madison, Memphis, TN 38104], so we're never at a loss for something to do, especially with our time divided into smallish chunks. We cruise by Tav Falco's former home on Princeton; we search for Big Star grocery stores, but to no avail. Wilson shows me the huge neon sputnik that towers above Joe's Wines. We've both been to Graceland, but I insist on going to Elvis Presley Boulevard to do some souvenir shopping. I also request a trip over the bridge and into Arkansas, having never previously touched the soil of our president's home state. Perhaps we'll go to the dog races next time around.
Memphis is chock-a-block full of things that are bad for you, and choosing our dining locations accordingly is difficult. Do we have burgers cooked in nearly-70-year-old grease at Dyer's, or do we hang with the punk rockers at River City Donuts? One of Wilson's co-workers recommends Gridley's Barbecue, so we search for that and end up way far on the edge of town at Gridley's #2. The food is nothing special...standard ribs in an institutionalized setting. A matted and framed gold Johnny Cash record with color-copied royalty check, as well as a small Plexiglas showcase of Elvis souvenirs, adds "authenticity" to the setting. Let it be known, this is NOT Junior Kimbrough's Juke Joint.
A little more family stuff on Thursday morning, and we're back in Arkansas. Wilson has become brand-loyal to Mapco Express, one of the few gas station/convenience stores offering both flavored coffee creamers and ersatz cappuccino, a thick, frothy liquid so sweet that even Wilson, with his usual four sugars, need not supplement it. With the car gassed up and our hypoglycemia under control, we stop only at Stuckey's before continuing into Missouri. The rain falls in sheets as we pull into the parking lot of Lambert's Cafe, "Home of the Throwed Roll." I order chicken fried steak, and Wilson has the hot open roast beef sandwich. Service is too quick, and the timing of the roll throwing is out of synch with the order of the meal. Sated though I am, I cannot resist that last dollop of sorghum.
The rain has ceased during our short time indoors, and we're off. The extreme weather produces amazing light as we cross the Mississippi River. We enjoy our two minutes in Cairo, Illinois before entering Kentucky. An incredibly vivid double rainbow spans the highway, and the sunset behind us casts a Maxfield Parrish-esque illumination on the trees. We hop on scenic SR 70 and follow it to Cave City, where we bed down in teepee number 2 at Wigwam Village.
This is the third of the Wigwam Villages I've visited, but this is the first time I've stayed the night. It's nasty outside, but inside it's warm and dry; the units have recently been protected against leakage.
We backtrack on 31W to get some dinner at the local Minit Mart. While we're awaiting our pizza, our xenophobia rears its ugly head at times, most notably at the fellow we've come to refer to affectionately as "the crippled hillbilly." We try to embrace tolerance and diversity, but we can't help but wonder if people really DO wear those goofy hillbilly hats that we've seen for sale in many a giftshop. We're thinking maybe they do.
The sign at Wigwam Village used to say "Eat and Sleep in a Wigwam." The eating part has since been whited out, but Wilson and I decide to do it anyway. We pull the original (circa 1937) Wigwam Village wooden chairs up to the original wooden table and have a few slices of pizza. Perhaps eating in a wigwam is not that thrill that it once was. It's a stormy night, and our teepee seems to shake in the thunder crashes. Still, it's cozy there in our concrete conical condo, and there's a comforting sense of protection from the elements.
We arrive in time for the first tour at Mammoth Cave on Friday morning, but it's already sold out. We buy tickets for the next tour and walk around the trails in anticipation. For a basic tour, one that doesn't include stalactites, stalagmites, and garish lighting, we're quite pleased. When someone in our group asks about artifacts, our tour guide comments that "human remains were discovered and displayed on a cave ledge, but they were removed in 1976 because it was decided that it was not proper for them to be exhibited for visitors to gawk at." We disagree.
It's noon, and we have 25 hours to get the car back to New York City. Twelve hours and numerous honey roasted peanuts later, we get a room at the Motel 6 in Hagerstown, Maryland. On the road at 8:00 the next morning, and we're back on 12th Street with 22 minutes of rental time to spare. Laden with Hillbilly Taffy and Goo-Goo Clusters, I catch the N train to my apartment in Queens. Wilson, with his newly acquired Mud Boy and the Neutrons CD, heads downtown...
Every time I make a move to love you, red light.
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This page modified on July 12, 1999
