Mitch and I (who, to the best of my knowledge have not become PeggyMitch to any small children yet) are traveling this week with SueBob. Although she hates to hear it as much as I love to say it, Sue is my oldest sister, having kicked off the tribe of five baby-boom generation Lafreniere children. She and I are separated by 18 years; I'm pretty sure we represent the two spectrums of the baby boom, 1945 to 1964. Obviously, we didn't grow up in the same house, neither literally nor figuratively. Our life experiences occurred in vastly different times, yet, as adult siblings we have become good friends. Interesting how people can live in completely different decades, places, cultures, and yet discover shared life experiences.
And so, being good friends as well as relatives to SueBob, we have packed Mitch's new Buick Enclave with suitcases, tote bags, and an electric cooler and hit the road to the Finger Lakes region of New York. We were in the car for eleven and a half hours yesterday. I'm just going to let that statement sit for a moment.
Granted, we made several stops from Central Maine before arriving at our final destination. I am a firm believer that to call a vacation a road trip, you must stop at a Cracker Barrel. Luckily for my obsession, there is one about two hours from home in Tewksbury, Massachusetts, allowing me to baptize this trip with French toast and maple syrup. Here's what I love about Cracker Barrel: it's obvious purpose is to cater to people who travel via RVs. Haven't you always wondered who is in those oblong houses on wheels on the highway? Go to a Cracker Barrel and you'll get a glimpse of this rare breed outside of their cages. There's an analogy here about feeding time at the zoo, one of those things they sell as an add-on to your ticket as part of a behind the scenes experience, but I hesitate to use it. I don't want the reader to think I consider people in RVs animals. It's just that I am completely intrigued by the lifestyle.
Somewhere about two hours later there was another stop at an indescript gas station-food mart-coffee house-sandwich shop (definitely not the kind spelled shoppe). Let's be honest. It's a public restroom. I believe the owners of these places offer a variety of services in an attempt to be able to have polite conversation about their business. "Yes, we own a variety store and sell muffins made by Louise in her own kitchen." Once you've taken a road trip you understand that sort of statement translates to, "we own a place where people literally run in asking where the bathroom is." Again, I am not judging these business owners. They hold a heroic spot in my heart, and I want you to recognize the place of honor they should hold in our overall society. Without them, there would be cars pulled alongside the road everywhere in this country, people relieving themselves barely beyond the edge of the trees. It's like a scene out of a post-apocalyptic movie. No public restrooms. Chaos ensues.
Once we have made it to the edge of the promised land, aka about three-quarters of the way to our final destination, we stop for lunch. With the magic of Google maps, we uncover a town that offers a lunch spot called The Waterfront Grille, seating with views of the Erie Canal. Good food, certainly unobstructed views. The Erie Canal, however, is not exactly a pretty waterway. We realize we can now avoid the highway and follow a scenic byway, Route 20, the rest of the way. Apparently scenic byway is defined as a roller coaster affect of roads climbing to great heights before sliding through cornfields, twisting around curves with cows on one side, sheep on the other.
I'm starting to think the reader must be wondering how much longer I can drag out the details of this road trip. It's all part of my technique; I want you to feel the length of the journey. Now, imagine this. We are back in the Enclave, the men believing we are on our final stretch. But no, gentle reader, it cannot be that simple. Sue wants an apple. She doesn't want to buy one at a roadside stand, she wants to pick one at an orchard.
Since we are traveling way over the speed limit (do I need to specify that my husband is driving?),we blow by one, then a second, orchard. He offers to turn around, but in her well-practiced matyr voice, Sue insists that it's fine, we can stop at the next one. She has barely acquiesced when on the horizon, like an effervescent mirage, rises the Disneyland of apple orchards, Beak & Skiff Apple Orchard. Warm cider donuts, encrusted with the perfect amount of sugar. Hot apple fritters, dusted with powdered sugar. A shoppe (this one deserves the shoppe spelling) with kitchen gadgets one buys and never uses. An apple barn where you can taste the different varieties of apples....clearly for rookie apple people. We know we want macs, and there is not a bad apple in the bin. But the visit is not over. Holding the highest peak on the hillside apple extravaganza is the tasting room and pub. New Yorkers don't mess with plain old apple cider, they turn the volume up and process it as alcohol here. Hard cider, which we sampled in every of the five varieties, was begging to be purchased as a set of three bottles. Vodka and gin, processed from apples - genius. Overall, this unplanned stop turns out to be the highlight of our day. And that, my reader companion, is really what a road trip is all about.
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