roadtripping.

Funsters ISO kitsch: a trip to the grooviest motel in Wisconsin.

continued from page 5

"Indianapolis?" I hear you cry. "I don't remember hearing anything about you guys going to Indianapolis."

Well, that is undoubtedly due to the fact that we didn't get out of the car or anything, jut sort of cruised on down, at ridiculous speeds (the road is so straight and flat! I couldn't help it!), noting many dead deer on the way (What is it with American roadkill? Here you rarely if ever see anything larger than a rodent). We said, "ahoy, Indianapolis!" turned left, and zipped across to Ohio, where we dined at Denny's (rejecting White Castle as just too horrifying to contemplate - just walking inside was scary, let alond trusting these people to serve us food). We decided to doss down for the night at a charming and authentic motel (parking for tractor trailers!) in Mount Gideon. or maybe it was outside of Mount Gideon. We didn't notice anything like an actual town. Mind you, we had been drinking authentic milwaukee microbewery beer (Three beers between the two of us! Shocking!), so perhaps there was a thriving metropolis out there that we just didn't notice.

The next morning, we rose and shone bright and early for the drive to Youngstown to meet fellow threadie Annie L. for lunch. Youngstown is just about the most corrupt town in America: they don't even bother pretending the mafia doesn't run the place. Their congressman is insane. So this was the last place in the world that I wanted to get pulled over for speeding by a state trooper.

So you know what happened.

I decided to say "to hell with feminism" and play dumb. "Goodness," said I, "I'm from Canada and I just can't figure out how to convert from the metric system."

"The miles are marked on the speedometer," said the cop helpfully.

I think I blushed. "Oh," I mumbled. "I guess I have no one to blame but myself."

He asked the reason for our visit, how long we'd be in town, needed to see the registration. He walked away, and them came back to say he'd give me a warning this time, since I'd never been in trouble before. I drove more slowly from then on.

Daniel and I found our way downtown easily, and headed over to bw3 to meet Annie and her husband. We were disappointed to see she'd chosen contacts that day, as if she'd opted for the glasses we would have been the most spectacular (groan) foursome Youngstown had ever seen. We ate wings and cheese fries and the guys indulged in hot sauce. The wings fortunately came with celery sticks, the only vegetable we'd eaten outside of potatoes (french fries, home fries) and the pickles that accompanied our Big Boy burgers on the first day of our trip.

After a few pleasant hours of dinner and discussion, we continued homeward, north and east, darting through a corner of Pennsylvania, and into New York state. We stopped in... Buffalo? Tonawonda? Niagara Falls? Somewhere around there, at any rate, to visit a supermarket (the size of a stadium) in search of coveted American ice cream (Annie had warned us that Edy's scooby snacks was not as good as she had hoped, so we opted instead for Ben & Jerry's chubby hubby), and a final American meal. We headed to Bob Evans, famed for its sausages. I thought I'd get a salad (by this point, I was in the beginning stages of both scurvy and artiosclerosis, and was craving tabbouleh), and was disappointed and horrified to discover that all Bob Evans salads contain bacon *and* cheese *and* chicken or ham. Those of us who wanted something crisp and green and fresh were out of luck. I'm still amazed at how overpriced these roadside joints are; bucket o' grease in a "family-style" resto south of the border will cost you as much as something edible - and tasty! - in a decent café in Toronto. astounding.

Finally, we were on our way back to canada. There are many many signs along the highways on the Canadian side saying "Bridge to U.S.A." but almost none guiding us back home. It's like a sneaky way of making people stay in the states: no exit sign. But we eventually find our way through.

The woman at customs smiles. "Where are you from?"

"Canada!" we practically cheer. We declare our ice cream, bottle of wine, and three cans of beer, and are on our way home. It feels so good to be on the QEW, where you can happily drive 140 kmph with impunity! No nasty state troopers here! And Toronto is surprisingly large and glamourous-looking. We had been surprised by the size (and style) of towns like Milwaukee and Columbus, but wow! Toronto looks amazing approached via the QEW, all glittering lights across the lake.

And as much fun as we had, it felt good to be home again.

Post script:

This past summer (2003), I drove out west and was passing through Wisconsin on my way back home, so of course had to stop at the Gobbler. I'd read that it had been destroyed in a controlled fire, but needed that sense of... you know, "closure." So, I headed off the I-94 in search of Gobbly goodness. The supper club still stands, empty and untouched as though no one has ever been inside since it was built, cutlery and glasses and paper placemats laid out on the tables. It is for sale. The motel is thoroughly gone, nothing but a round slab of concrete marking where it once stood.

Rest in peace, Gobbler. You are sorely missed.

links:
roadtrip stories mapquest
roadside attractions
bed'n'breakfasts in canada
time and weather for cities around the world