No time to linger in Southern California as it’s time to return to Arizona so we can all get back to work. Just a quick run into L.A., mostly for those VR business purposes.
Hawaii – Day 10
There’s a fine line between helpful technology and technology that intrudes and disappoints. The pen and paper I use to capture these notes rarely fail. Though pens run out of ink, they are easily replaced. While an SD Card in my GoPro failing, taking with it snorkeling footage and a time-lapse of us driving from our cabin to Hanalei is a disappointment. The intrusion occurs when my mother somehow thinks it would be cool or helpful to let us know that our car that is camping at her place is having problems starting. Wow, is it the engine, battery, Mayan apocalypse? Why in the world does she think we needed distressing news texted to us? By the time we saw the message last night, it was already midnight in Arizona and so we got to go to sleep in worry.
From today’s sunrise, it wouldn’t be too far a stretch to suggest that Kukulcan, the Mayan feathered serpent god, had left the pyramid of the sun and was arriving to personally greet me in this new age; alas, it was just the patterns of the clouds allowing in patches of fiery light that stroked the imagination into fantasy.
This cock is relatively stupid while simultaneously protective of his hens; mine is out with her snorkel, scratching at the sea and pecking for fish. Sure this feathered specimen of maleness may look elegant, bold even, but at his core, he fertilizes eggs and battles for supremacy from any and all threats. Pardon the screed I’m about to share; it is my inner-cock mouthing off nonsense from my growing bias emanating from the encroachment of age.
Why wear a bikini for your cell phone when it’s for your boobs? Why wear a swimsuit that requires constant decracking? What’s up with the skimpy bikini top that forces you to dig your chin into your chest to ensure you still have nipple coverage? Small talk on beaches is highly overrated and most often inane. If the face can be an indicator of intelligence, it might appear that smarter women are more modest about their bodies and are dressed more conservatively out here. Those relying more on sex appeal than brains are flaunting a serious amount of butt cheeks along with more tats and piercings. I know I’m likely going to be accused of being sexist, but the same applies in other ways to the lunkhead men who are strutting their stuff in the same fury.
Older men still running on the high side of testosterone care little about the bulge of midriff fat or gratuitous amounts of body hair confronting others. Older men from professions tend to wear t-shirts out here, maybe due to the practicality of worrying about skin cancer. The higher the number of tattoos, the more cock-like the swagger. Forty with a rear-facing baseball cap? I can only wonder about the person’s carrying capacity that exists between their ears. ALL men check out young women’s rear ends, all of them. Muscular men travel in packs. Overweight middle-aged men travel with their spouses. Men who are traveling alone demonstrate some creepy anti-social behavior and the body language of lonely desperation, appearing sad and tragic. Strangely there are no solo women visitors to this beach. Hindus wear too many clothes in the ocean. I’ve only seen two hipsters over the course of our stay; I’m guessing they cannot afford Hawaii on coffee-shop wages. Not a goth in sight, I suppose the sun would foil their goals.
The other half of this Statler and Waldorf shtick has returned from the sea and kicks the pen from my hand, as she can tell by now when I’m channeling the grumpy old man routine.
The road to Waimea Canyon is paved with bananas and guava, along with a bevy of flowers, greenery, vines, and fields of coffee plants. These fruit, drink, and occasionally homemade baked good stands that work on the honor system are a real treat and a compelling reason you should travel with cash while on the islands.
Do you like beautiful, colorful spiders that try tricking you that they are not spiders by pairing up their legs, so you might think this four-legged yellow and black thing on the web is a trapped kitty kat? Then, venturing into the woods should be on your itinerary, too, because Hawaiians love their insects.
This orchard planted in red earth is growing some kind of stuff that is certainly not marijuana, coconut, pineapple, bananas, or corn. I’m wondering what it is, but I made no notes, nor do I remember going up to one of the trees to investigate just what they were.
We are 1,000 feet above the ocean and there is Ni’ihau again in the distance. In the foreground is Buffalo grass, which is invasive, but it does add a nice appearance to things. It is a shame how many species have invaded the islands; seems like everything and nearly everyone here is from somewhere else.
This is our first look into Waimea Canyon on this trip. This appeared much larger on our last visit, but back then, we hadn’t spent weeks at the bottom of the Grand Canyon or had just come off an adventure into the enormity of Alaska. Coming to grips with the nature of familiarity and how it alters our perspective might be a part of the maturing process, but there’s certainly a place for naivety and celebrating our first encounters with novelty.
Gaining elevation as we progress, the canyon grows in depth. Now, with our second visit to the area in pocket, we’ll have to consider hiking in Waimea Canyon should we find ourselves in Hawaii a third time. Upon searching for trails, it looks like the Kukui Trail would be perfect, especially if we could spend a night at the campground down there.
Here we are at the Kalalau overlook with the southern end of the Napali Coast over our shoulders. Down below are nearly ever-present helicopters that ply the airway to show others the spectacular part of the coast that we have yet to effectively visit. While last time we embarked on a hike out the Kalalau Trail, a broken toe that I acquired on Molokai in the days leading up to our time on Kauai thwarted our ambition under otherwise perfect weather conditions. One day, we will make it out there.
This is the Cliff Trail and is one of the shortest trails we’ve ever been on. A mere 1/10th of a mile is completed in about 4 minutes.
As we looked for vantage points to check out the view and consider trail options, this wild goat approached laughing out loud that we needed trails while it went where it pleased.
Before we get to the sunset proper I thought I’d try something different this late afternoon and share what the edge of a Hawaiian sunset looks like.
This was tough as one of my sunset photos had amazing god rays in the distance…..
….while this one is terrifically molten gold with a small boat passing by.
As we approached Waimea, the long string of parked cars was a good indicator of what lay ahead, so we simply pulled over and parked. So we wouldn’t miss a moment of the Christmas parade, we hoofed it and arrived just as the Waimea Canyon Middle School was turning the corner as the beginning of the festivities.
The parade is great with the spirit of the kids and families lining the street, making this into a party atmosphere. It all reminds me of another great parade when we were so lucky to be in Canadian, Texas, for a Middle of America Fourth of July celebration. Click HERE to visit that trip.
Along the parade route were plenty of food vendors to satisfy those of us who hadn’t set up a small BBQ in front of our chairs; as a matter of fact, Caroline and I were without chairs in any case, so where would we have set up a BBQ? The first thing I tried was some corn chowder, while Caroline opted for pasteles, a kind of Filipino tamale. After Santa passed and the parade ended, it took us over an hour to get to the other side of town. On such a small island with few roads, the people who live here full time are lucky that others allow them to pull in front of them instead of the mainland way of ensuring no one gets in. By and large, the atmosphere on the Islands is one of tremendous friendliness and people going out of their way to be polite.
It’s late, and yet it is still bright out, with the moon shining enough to illuminate the trees and our cabin from a distance. The stars are out in force and strangely enough, I wish for rain as I miss its sound on our tin roof.
Hawaii – Day 9
We wake here at Fortress Kahili Mountain, where the hot water flows to the shower, the electricity is working, the temperature is perfect, and the sky is aflame in the glory of the rising sun. Uh-oh, the coffee maker is not functioning; we’ll have to venture away from our enclave.
The crowds are out at Poipu, with the beach overflowing as tourists flock into the sea……NOT. The clouds are lighter than on the previous days, with a brisk wind coming from the east rearranging them quite quickly. While a large cloud or two will come along to blot out the sun, casting the beach into shadow, it too quickly moves on, allowing the sun to illuminate the turquoise waters. Caroline has been out there snorkeling but comes back to report that the fish are far and few between and then runs back.
When my two-legged fish finally returns to shore, she is cut and bleeding from encounters with sharp volcanic rock, but she is all smiles. She wishes I was out with her but admits that the current is treacherous. With a sudden change of mind, Caroline decides she’s not had enough though she heads to the car first for her river shoes to better protect her already bleeding feet and then is back in the surf searching for sea life.
The horizon clears while behind me, the clouds pile up, hugging the mountains of Kauai. The molten silver sea seduces all who gaze upon it, eliminating tensions and leaving little for the mind to produce in the way of words. This likely has much to do with why Caroline and I return so frequently to the ocean that washes our brains with waves that hypnotize us into tranquility.
By the time we leave Poipu, we need that coffee we never had, and Starbucks will care for us on that front while another stop at Da Imu Hut Cafe serves us some fried seimen noodles along with a teriyaki fried chicken & steak combo. Learning that this inexpensive joint will be closed for the next four days as they are closed on weekends, plus the closure for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day we commit to return tonight for dinner.
At a fork in the road, it’s up to a proverbial coin toss if we will head to Waimea Canyon or Polihale State Park at the west end of the island. Left it is, and for the next 16 miles, we are on a paved road, but after that, it’s almost five miles on a washboard dirt road that feels like 80 miles of mainland dirt road. It is abundantly obvious by now that we’ve never been in this area.
Without knowing what was ahead, the primitive road was, at times, intimidating, especially not seeing anyone else on the road. We maneuvered the ruts and sandy spots with relative ease in our small rental car. Finally, at the beach and the end of the road, we found maybe 40 other cars parked down there. On our right is the mountain range that stretches across the Napali Coast, while on our left is the longest beach on all of Kauai.
This place is a treasure, and spending a day out here should be on everyone’s to-do list.
Caroline throws herself into the surf, or maybe more accurately, the surf pummeled her into submission, knocking her down. Having grown up in a world of flatwater, she is ill-equipped to deal with the crashing waves of the Pacific and is easily toppled by pounding surf, but as usual, she is having fun.
I instead opt for watching shorebirds, clouds, people, Caroline’s frolicking, and the dark green mountains with streaks of red earth cutting into them.
The air is so clean out here you can make out reliefs on the moon and almost believe you can see mountains rising off the surface. Behind me, the ocean gives no hint of its rise and fall other than what breaks at the shore. As that surf pulls back, the flat beach momentarily takes on the appearance of a mirror reflecting the few clouds that are overhead at any given moment. Surfers work the furthest set of waves in the distance while people on bodyboards are riding the next set. Waves at the shore are the domain of swimmers who are playing it safe where their feet are within reach of the sand below them.
We stay long enough for my face to start crisping, and that’s even with sunblock on and this hat that two years earlier was worn down the Colorado River in the Grand Canyon and just this past summer went with me down the Alsek in Canada and Alaska. The truth is that my complexion is an easy target for a wrathful scorching sun looking to victimize those of fair complexion. Even with the sunburn setting in, we hung out a bit longer, and lucky us as some whales not far from shore were spouting off, sadly though there were no breaches.
On our way out of town earlier, we would have been smart to pick up refreshments because the 16-mile stretch of road and five dirt miles are without services. By the time we finally do get back into the car, we are parched and race back to Waimea for a stop at Ishihara’s to rehydrate.
With our thirst quenched, the idea of giving in to a little something sweet was sounding quite appealing, so we stopped at JoJo’s Shave Ice for their famous #2 with macadamia nut ice cream topped with guava, lilikoi, and mango syrups on the shave ice. As we walk out the door, we are greeted by yet another glorious rainbow. This prompts me to wonder out loud if Hawaiians care about seeing these things when they probably see a dozen or more a day.
It’s the first day we have been bathed with perpetual sunlight, even when it’s raining in one direction or the other. As sunset falls upon the middle of the Pacific, we have taken up a vantage point that has afforded us a view of Ni’ihau over to the right, and while impossible to see in this view, we have been spotting the arched backs of passing whales and their spouts of mist shooting above the surface of the sea.
As the sun crawls lower in the sky, readying itself to dip below the horizon, our lonely spot on the shore is no longer so lonely, as others have recognized the location as a desirable one to be witness to the end of the day.
Suckers for local flavors and the knowledge that Da Imu Hut Cafe will be closed for the next four days, it was established earlier that we’d be back, and sure enough, that is exactly where we find ourselves for dinner. We split a Lau Lau and a Loco Moco. By now, if you haven’t picked up on it in previous blog entries from this trip or the many others, you will start to notice that food plays a large role in our travels, especially local fare. Maybe you could suggest we visit L&L Hawaiian BBQ in Arizona or California? Well, that’s like eating Chinese food in Alabama or Mexican in New York. Foods indigenous to one area are typically poorly represented in another, as local palates have expectations for authenticity. Even in these areas where a particular food originates, it is somewhat uncommon to see tourists in the local joints, as many of them require weak-tasting approximations, added sugar, a side of ketchup or ranch, and some specifically boring children’s dishes such as cheese pizza or chicken strips.
A few days ago, shortly after arriving on Kauai, we visited Talk Story Bookstore and learned that on Friday night, there was an Art Walk through Old Town Hanapepe; we had to come back. Strolling the streets sharing a citrus-spiced cup of hot tea followed by a slice of caramel pecan apple pie while window shopping the various art galleries made for a great way to spend the early evening.
We celebrated the end of the fourth world here on the 13th b’ak’tun, or Maya date 13.0.0.0.0, which we read as December 21, 2012, and take solace in knowing that the apocalypse was either narrowly missed or it is so insidious as to be occurring outside our consciousness. I’ve waited for this day for 20 years since first learning about the “Mayan Prophecy” from Terence McKenna, and while it might play well to the story if I could tell you that we are here in Hawaii just in case it was the end of the human reign of earth, that would be a lie. By the way, this is the historic swinging bridge that crosses the Hanapepe River and was our last stop of the night before heading back to Kahili Mountain and the beginning of a new Mayan calendar.
Hawaii – Day 8
The sun is slowly creeping over the mountains, allowing the water droplets on the surrounding plants to glisten. Clouds are showing hues of red and pink, triggering a chicken in these early moments of the new day to stroll right by me up the stairs of our cabin like this is what it does. By the time I can start to say the words “Caroline close the…..” that chicken was well within the four walls of its new prison and our hell. Two minutes earlier, it would have won a Darwin award as it bolted right for the gas stove that had been cooking our breakfast. Fortunately for us, we now only had to get a raucous chicken out the door it came through instead of dealing with a floundering ball of flames that would have likely burned our cabin to the ground.
Caroline immediately tried shooing it away, but it took flight and landed on a light fixture, where it cackled at my wife; surely it was laughing at her. It’s almost three seconds into our tropical chicken adventure before I join Caroline, who is now armed with a broom and trying to take a swat at the unwelcome boisterous guest. I’m barely through the door which blocked its escape; my bad. Encountering me at the entrance, the chicken bolts left to land on our bed. I rush it, but this chicken is mind-reading my intention and launches itself overhead to land on the top of the bathroom door. Either in a show of fear or total disrespect, it let off a gob of liquishit. Not to be distracted, we keep up the pressure, but it’s already landing on my clean shirt on the second bed. I’m certain it is there to display supremacy and shit on my clothes but lucky for us, it was out of ammunition.
All of a sudden, the chicken is not at my center of focus as Caroline has gone primordial and becomes as animated as our fowl friend. She leaps on the bed in what can only be described as a dominant chicken pose and corners the errant bird. Two or three exchanges of position and Caroline establishes her place in the food chain using her shirt as a bullfighter’s mantilla, ushering this bird brain right out the door. We are near-hysterical in laughter at this point from the chaos this chicken has brought.
Now able to eat our breakfast, it isn’t long before Caroline is under the banana leaves showering while I purge our nest of the poo our visitor left us. We briefly discussed staying here the entire day to explore the 197 acres of the park, but instead will head to Hanalei.
It’s before 9:00 as we travel down Kauai’s first paved road toward Koloa. This tree-lined tunnel is beautiful and a pleasure to travel on every time. I’m loathe to turn around to continue on our journey from this brief detour, and going all the way to the fish market doesn’t matter anyway, as they don’t open until 10:00. But you never know if things can go your way unless you try your chances. I pulled up right in front of their door, which was slightly ajar, stepped in while excusing myself, and blurted out, “We’d just LOVE two poke Bentos for the road today.” The guy says, “Sure!”
Back through the tunnel, I turned off the main road toward Anini Beach. It’s gorgeous here, perfect even. Some windsurfers are in the shallows, receiving lessons in the art of standing on a tiny board in a vast ocean. Watching them exercise their determination as they crawl back up, again and again, we decided why wait for lunch so we broke out our brunch and accepted that we might be overeating today.
Finally, at the Hanalei Strings shop, where they sell yarn and ukuleles, Caroline is on one side stroking the fibers before rubbing them on her cheek to see if they pass the softness test while I was looking at ukes.
For over a decade I’ve listened to Caroline tell me how she’d like to learn how to play this instrument that is so very intertwined with Hawaii. Now, here we are in Hawaii at a shop that sells these things, and she wants to hem and haw about not having the time to learn it, how much they cost, and that she could order one online in the future.
I took her over to the counter, and the saleswoman put a ukulele in her hands. She showed Caroline a C chord and told her to strum it; her face turned to ukulele happiness. I could feel her starting to crack. Another uke was handed to her, and then another; this last one was a $1200 work of art. I asked, “Anything between the $65 Chinese unit and this Stratokalele?” Not able to choose between what we were shown, we asked the lady to play the three models she had chosen. A locally made ukulele ended up the winner and a free case was thrown in! If only you could have seen Caroline’s face as she walked away from Hanalei Strings with her great new uke.
Not able to spend another penny in Hanalei, we set off to finish the drive west; we didn’t make it, though, because the police had the road blocked. So we turned around to visit the Limahuli Garden and Preserve we’d passed along the way.
This is the kukui or candlenut tree and is the state tree of Hawaii. At one time, they were used for making candles, hence their name. The blossom of the kukui is also the official island lei material of Moloka’i.
The bird of paradise related to the banana plant is not native to the islands but is instead from South Africa.
Monstera deliciosa is also not a native of Hawaii, though these invasive species thrive here. You might have guessed that this is also known as the Swiss cheese plant.
The thick green blanket eats light while tossing back oxygen and moisture it doesn’t have a need for. This exchange conveys the necessities the majority of life on our planet requires to be alive. How we treat it is a measure of how we effectively treat our mothers.
The blood of trees flows out of the forest, allowing us to participate in the ritual of replacing the water that must also flow through us.
Cellular level activity not only creates the plant itself but powers the machine that pumps water from the ground into the sky. The plant is the membrane that exists between us and the vacuum of nothingness.
Breadfruit is said to taste like potato and, when cooked, is similar to freshly baked bread. The wood pulp of this plant is used for making paper and cloth, as we described on Day 4 while in Hawaii visiting the Bishop Museum. Click here to view that entry.
Upon the sunlight, plant, and water Caroline and I are afforded the fuel that allows our bodies to move our brains around in order that our senses collect impressions and skills that we will share with others. Such is the symbiosis of being alive on Earth.
I try to imagine life in Hawaii 300 years ago on an island without predators. A place where food easily grows, fresh water is abundant, and the essentials of life surround you. On any given day, one could jump into the warm waters of the ocean or meander on a circumnavigation of the island, as there would be no demand for one to return to operate a machine or pay rent. I can only wonder what the future holds for a society bent on a kind of enslavement to both ignorance and economy.
Opeakaa Falls in Wailua is our last stop of the day before returning to our cabin in order to wash the clothes that have eight days of accumulated grime on them. After performing our laundry chores, Caroline fires up the ukelele and crushes a virtuoso rendition of The Hawaiian War Chant. No, she didn’t, she actually kind of roughed it, but for a few minutes, I felt like we were in the Tiki Room at Disneyland, kind of.
Just in case tomorrow is the apocalypse, or some other version of doom unfolds that involves the end of the world, we at least were out in Hawaii and were pretty happy being here while it lasted.
Forgotten Oregon II – Day 6
Disclaimer: This post is one of those that ended up being written years after the experience was had. Sadly, there were no notes taken so whatever is shared here must be extracted from the images and what memories they may have lent us. Fortunately, there was an itinerary still in my directory of travel plans, so that will help with some details. As to why this wasn’t noted or blogged about, I was in the throes of writing/editing my book Stay In The Magic and felt that any other deep writing would derail that fragile effort.
If you can dream of a better way to start the day than looking out on a molten sea with a fishing boat heading out past a lighthouse, please share that experience with me.
Okay, this would definitely enhance the experience. Linda’s Seabreeze Cafe and their oat corn waffle topped with tropical fruits and toasted coconut. Yep, now all is perfect in the world, except that we have another 12-hour drive ahead of us.
Make that 14 hours: how could we pass through Pacific Grove while the monarch butterflies are wintering over?
Not just a butterfly, mind you, but millions of orange and black fluttery little butterflies.
While we’re here, we should have one last look at the ocean, as from now on, we’ll have to get serious and drive like hell.
But first, we must linger and take in the Monterey Bay because we are here.
Lover’s Point in Pacific Grove, we’ll be back.
Oops, forgot that in San Luis Obispo, we’d be stopping at Yarn at the Adobe, but we’ll be quick.
Until we pulled into the Ventura area for a stop at Mussel Shoals.
No, Caroline, we don’t have time for you to take off your shoes and walk one more time in the surf. I swear, if those shoes come off your feet and you dare touch that water, we’ll be stopping at the North Woods Inn for dinner. I triple dare you to attempt such foolery. Fine, we’ll just get home at midnight, and it will be all your fault, like everything else. 🙂
Forgotten Oregon II – Day 5
Disclaimer: This post is one of those that ended up being written years after the experience was had. Sadly, there were no notes taken so whatever is shared here must be extracted from the images and what memories they may have lent us. Fortunately, there was an itinerary still in my directory of travel plans, so that will help with some details. As to why this wasn’t noted or blogged about, I was in the throes of writing/editing my book Stay In The Magic and felt that any other deep writing would derail that fragile effort.
Last night we spent at the Umpqua Lighthouse State Park in the deluxe yurt with its own bathroom and kitchen. While those things are convenient, they take away from the rustic yurts that feel closer to nature. The idea of a TV in one of these defeats the magical sense of place I feel in the single-light-and-rickety-heater type of yurt I prefer. There was no time this morning to linger in the luxury of our temporary abode as we were out with the sunrise so we could tackle the 12 hours of driving required to get to Santa Cruz, California.
The drive is actually 538 miles via Highway 101, and it would be quicker if we took Interstate 5, but that road is every shade of ugly one could imagine. Time is not important; only life is important, such as this great blue heron.
We cannot stop at freeway pullouts for encounters with the ocean, and even if this delays our arrival time this evening, it won’t be the first time we pull into a motel at midnight.
Every so often, we remember to take some of the various seashells we’ve collected on our travels and part with them by returning them to the ocean. Strangely, the seagulls didn’t think we were tossing food into the air for them which is what I expected.
Something else: lightweight seashells don’t travel far when tossing them into the surf we’ve learned. From those shells taken from their place on a shelf at home, this is the final reminder that for a time, they returned us to other visits to a beach somewhere or other. It’s interesting to think that on subsequent visits, the sand we walk upon might include a solitary grain made from this particular shell.
Hmmm, like our seashells rejoining the ocean, did someone throw this old fishing vessel back into the sea so it, too, might break down into its smallest component parts?
Hey, threat of rain, you don’t scare us! We have arrived in late November, knowing full well the tempests with which the ocean gods deliver their fury on these shores at the time of their choosing, and while we are respectful, we are not fearful.
Blink, and you miss this double arch as you speed your way up or down the 101. Plenty of times, we’ve wanted to stop but were already too far past it to feel safe about backing up on the highway. Here, on an early Sunday morning, we are all alone at the overlook and, for the most part, on the road too.
I might be mistaken, but I thought these were liberty caps of the psychedelic kind. No, I don’t just pick any mushrooms with the hope they are something I want them to be; they were left right where they were growing.
Who knows where we are or who even cares as we delay the inevitable of needing to join Interstate 5 because we chose to dawdle next to the Oregon coast?
A final glance back at the ocean with the longing in our hearts that it won’t be long before we return to once again stand in awe of this most perfect stretch of land and sea we’ve visited on so many occasions.
And let’s not forget that it’s fall at this time of year with the ensuant colors that arrive with this season.
Who cares where beauty is found as long as it is found and can be appreciated?
Grabbing desperately for those reminders that will tell us we were in Oregon.
I believe this is scientifically known as a “Cuddle of Shrooms.”
Back to Buffalo, New York
We stayed somewhere west of Montreal (maybe Cornwall, Ontario), but I wrote just that at the end of yesterday’s post.
Tim Hortons was in Morrisburg, Canada, and I have to say that I am more impressed with Strader Auto next door as they were the clue to find out where we were on the map on this day. Congrats to them for still being in business; as far as Tim Hortons goes, there’s no rhyme or reason they are as popular and ubiquitous as they are. Had we been able to find poutine for breakfast, we might still have tried Tim Hortons, but we’d have known to spit it out, opting for potatoes, cheese, and gravy instead.
When I think bucolic living, this would do it for me right here, but then in 60 days, when the bitter cold of the region’s winter kicks in, I’d likely not continue holding fast to that idea.
Passed the Prescott Rotary Lighthouse which was an ice cream shop in Prescott, Ontario, Canada. Did we stop for ice cream? I have no idea but from the angle of the sun, I’d guess it was still too early for that, and in any case, we have some ideas for that when we get into Buffalo.
We crossed into New York at the Thousand Islands Bridge Authority at Alexandria Bay and still had 240 miles to go before reaching the city in which I was born.
Pizza from Bocce Club on Bailey Avenue in the Amherst neighborhood of Buffalo is a mandatory stop, not just to satisfy our hunger but to allow us to carry with us some much-needed, awesome cold pizza on our flight home tonight.
This is Fowler’s Chocolate. I think I shared a photo of the place back in the year 2000 when we visited here while Caroline and I were on our first cross-country trip, and while I may proclaim not to enjoy nostalgia, that’s just lips flapping when it serves me to sharpen my edge-lord persona. Bocce Club, Ted’s Hotdogs, Anderson’s Custard, and Fowler’s with their orange chocolate are pleasures from my childhood I can’t ignore.
We had one more stop to make this afternoon, and it was quite possibly a mistake. Our great aunt and uncle, who used to live near Santa Barbara, California, in the town of Goleta, skipped back to the place of their birth, Buffalo, New York. Not only that, they bought a house across the street from where my father grew up and where my aunt Lillian was still living. They didn’t so much move as they escaped due to a part of their past catching up with them that brought my aunt shame and anger because of so many unresolved issues. Once back here in Buffalo, it was obvious that my uncle’s health took a severe turn for the worse, as he was a shell of the man he used to be. Now, we were left with the tragic image of a couple half-broken and seeming to be quite unhappy in the last stages of life. Woody passed the following year, December 16th, 2012, at the age of 88.