From Chicago to the Hukilau festival in Florida and back...
(full version - the short version went out via email in September 2004)
All text and images are © copyright 2004 by James Teitelbaum
Unauthorized use is stictly prohibited.
v 1.5
Ah, the Mobile Exploration Lab.
My trusty and not too rusty 1994 Nissan Sentra.
| I bought it in
1996 with 34,000 miles on it, and have since added
another 112,000 and counting. Paid it off in less than three years. The Lab has been on the Chicago-Los Angeles-San
Francisco-Chicago run twice, has been to Toronto three or four times,
to Montreal, to Florida twice, on the Chicago-Nashville-Cave City
circuit twice, to Milwaukee a handful of times, to Cleveland at least a
dozen or fifteen times (via Columbus some of those trips), to Denver,
and to the Washington DC / Baltimore area. All in all, The Lab has been a fairly reliable and trustworthy car. It has broken down a bit here and there - a laundry list of repairs include an alternator in 2004, exhaust work every year since 1999, a new starter in 2001, tires in 2003, and the replacement of two windows busted during bouts of theft and vandalism. The hubcaps were stolen in 1998 - who the hell steals the plastic, factory installed, generic hubcaps off of a Nissan? - and the replacements disappeared the following year... one at a time over the course of a few months. Living in Chicago, it is impossible to rely on street parking and not have the vague and corrupt parking laws result in tickets and, eventually, the Boot. The Mobile Exploration Lab has worn two Boots, and a third is imminent. It was towed while I was in divorce court a couple of millennia ago. It was pouring rain when I walked to the impound lot to get it out of hock. My friend Janine got me very loaded that night! The passenger side front door only opens from the outside - I have to lower the window so passengers can reach outside and open the door. The heater only works on "high", and the driver's side seat is stuck in the all-the-way-back position (which, of course, is fine for someone of my height - but no one else can drive the car!). The air conditioner sprung a coolant leak during a hot summer road trip in 2001, so it's open windows for the Mobile Exploration Lab all summer long. Hubcapless, and covered with the dings and dents that city driving inevitably inflicts, and with the driver's seat permanently molded into the shape of my torso, the Lab doesn't look too great, but it's been reliable, efficient, and cheap to operate for eight years. Until now. |
|
The past six months have been the months in which I have begun to question the reliability of the car, to hesitate in taking it on lengthy trips. The emergency brake stopped working last month, so now I can't park on hills. I've just discovered a small oil leak - not worth fixing at this point, although I genuinely feel bad about leaving droplets of oil here and there as I drive. No more oil changes are needed - I just throw in a fresh quart every few weeks - the dirty old oil has all leaked out. Very bad, I know. Also, even after having my alternator replaced, the car is stalling from time to time. I also have a bad fuel injector, so the Mobile Exploration Lab is only running on three cylinders... sometimes. The exhaust work done most recently was shoddy, but it was cheap, and designed to last no longer than the rest of the car's life - a few months, a year at best.
The Mobile Exploration Lab has been a good car, but it's time has passed. It needs to be retired.
One last trip - a great one - needed to happen, the final voyage of the mighty Mobile Exploration Lab.
So:
I went down to Ft. Lauderdale, Florida to enjoy the annual Hukilau festival, thinking that after three hurricanes down there, it would be safe - there couldn't possibly be a fourth. The fact that I am flat broke and that my car is falling apart made it clear that this road trip was a must.
I packed light. I wanted to be able to carry everything I had with me in the event the car ended up being abandoned at the side of some back road in Tennessee. The case of Tiki Road Trip books I brought for the festival was a bit heavy, but other than that, my burden was just a backpack, a box of cassette tapes (yeah! old skool!) and a moderately-full duffel bag. Manageable, if only just.
Sunday, September 19, 2004
On the way down to Florida, I stopped in Cleveland to see my dad and my mom, who has taken ill. This was also my first visit to their new pad.
It was strange staying in the new house (they were in the old one for 32+ years), but this was far from the strangest or most unexpected place I ended up sleeping over the next two weeks. It felt alien, as though I was in a stranger's house, but with my parents old furniture there, it was also somehow familiar.
My dad had bought a fifty-some inch flatscreen high-definition television as a housewarming present to himself. And a new grill. We watched X-Men 2 (mom rolled her eyes: "He'll watch anything broadcast in hi-def!"), then they went to bed and I watched the Chris Issak Show before going to bed myself. Issak was kind of funny. I don't watch much television (I don't even have cable) so I had only seen Isaak's show once before. It's moderately entertaining, but I probably wouldn't think so if I didn't already like his music, or the fact that he played a hipster secret agent in a David Lynch movie.
Monday September 20, 2004
After brunch with the parents at Jack's, their favorite deli, I went to see my grandmother and her sister. I got into a big political debate with them. It is really strange - and very interesting - how this coming election has polarized people, and made just about everyone extremely passionate about political issues. It seems like everyone I know has become hyperconcerned about the state of things, and willing to voice their opinions to anyone who will listen. Perhaps this sort of interest and involvement with the workings of our society is a good thing. Maybe if it lasts, we'll see some change for the better in the future. Apathy - that's this nation's biggest problem (along with education, the environment, health care, and getting the hell out of Iraq). Everyone wants someone else to fix things. No one wants to be proactive or admit that positive change will require a little self-sacrifice on everyone's part. At least, at this very second in time, we have a little less of that than normal.
(an incredibly long digression concerning some childhood memories was deleted.)
I had dinner with the parents and my sister Amy, and then my sister Debbie came over to say hi. I met my friend Rose and her pal Mary (I wasn't in town long enough to call any of my other old pals. Next time...), and we went to half-price night at the Cedar-Lee, the local indie/arts cinema. Saw an indie thriller called Criminal. It is a remake of an Argentinian flick from a few years ago. Entertaining, but not astounding. Maggie Gylenhall is underused in it. I liked John C. Reilly as a supporting player in Magnolia, but I wasn't sure if he could carry a picture on his own. He was decent. There's a plot twist in the last 90 seconds of the film that made me want to see the film again just to see if the twist is feasible and makes sense. One of those.
Tuesday September 21, 2004
Picked up some dry cleaning and then drove south on I-271 to Ohio Route 8 to I-77 through Akron, Canton, Gnadenhutten, and the rest of Ohio.
Around Canton-ish, I made my first tape recorder entry of the trip beginning at 142,831 miles (add 450 undocumented miles to this trip for the Chicago to Cleveland run and Cleveland to Canton-ish). Listening to In Dubious Battle by John Steinbeck on audio book. Steinbeck is the man. What a scribe. The guy could write about a bunch of people picking apples and make it interesting. Oh wait, that's what In Dubious Battle is about.
Into West Virginia (at 142,909), I saw box turtles on the side of the road, some dead. The Ohio river was a dirty greenish-brown shit color. Otherwise, the day was a gorgeous one for driving through the Appalachians.
As is my fancy, I took the interstate part of the way, but selected some likely old US highways to explore as much as possible.
143,005: I pulled into Tamarac, West Virginia. Set among the green Appalacian hills nowhere near a city of any appreciable size, Tamarac is a modern ring-shaped building, with an outdoor courtyard in the center. Walking the center of the interior of the ring, there are local artists and craftsmen displaying their work on the left side, and shops and food on the right. West Virginian carvings, delicacies, musical instruments, and historical literature can be found at Tamarac. Branching off from the ring o' crafty crafts is the Dickirson fine arts gallery, a conference center, and a theater. I couldn't find any art of particular interest. Just about all of it was derivative and amateurish. Some of the things falling more under the 'crafts' title than the banner of fine art were competently made, but not particularly interesting. But, I think it is wonderful that in the middle of the Appalachians, in the middle of nowhere, someone had the vision to build a modern and new (and free) center for the arts. I hope that it gets enough traffic from the coffee stand and food court to keep it open. I hope that they attract some better artists so that the place feels more like the arts center they aspire to be, and less like the mall it appears to be now.
143,077:
Flat-top mountain, elevation 3252 feet.143,704: East River Mountain tunnel. Into Virginia.
143,123: Big Walker Mountain Tunnel. Nice deco-looking facade on the tunnel. Must have been built in the 1920s or 1930s. Leaving Jefferson National Forest.
143,130: Leaving I-77 for I-81 (briefly) which will take us to I-181 (briefly) which will take us to US25, which goes through both Asheville, NC, and Augusta, GA.
I thought that if I could make it far enough into North Carolina, I might see my friends Jim and Sue Donato, in Susquehanna, near Asheville.
In the meantime...
Bristol, Tennessee: Birth of Country Music museum, downtown antiques district, and cave tours.
Didn't stop. Next time.
143,272: Sam's Gap - elevation 3760. North Carolina state line. Now we're headed back down the other side of the mountains. Headed downhill in neutral gear, no feet on any pedals... at 71 miles per hour.
143,282: Passing the towns of Marshall and Mars Hill. Is there a connection? Some eighteenth century linguistic anomaly? A debated claim over land, perhaps settled at shotgun-point?
Near Asheville, North Carolina, I was driving along, and suddenly, without warning, the dashboard lights of the Mobile Exploration Lab blinked off and didn't come back on. Now, in the darkness of rural North Carolina, I couldn't see my speed, gas, or tape deck controls. Ah well... could be worse... one more little thing going wrong with The Lab.
143,301: US Highway 25 goes right though downtown Asheville. Antiques stores, micro-breweries, art galleries, a tea house, and even a fine arts theater showing Zatochi and Before Sunrise. There must be a college near here. Too bad it's nine-something PM. It is too late to enjoy this nice little town, and too late to drop in on the Donatos. The hour isn't that late, but they had some house and car damage from the recent hurricanes, so I didn't want to impose on them when they had repairs and things to deal with.
143,356: South Carolina. No dash lights. Speed unknown.
143,451: Just did 394 miles on one tank of gas. That is spectacular mileage. I am usually happy to get 300 in the city and 330 or so in the highway. The Mobile Exploration Lab may be falling apart, but it is going out in style.
Having passed up my friends in North Carolina, I decided to try to make it as far as Augusta, Georgia. I thought I might visit my pal Brad at his new bar, Hale Tiki (HA-lay, meaning "house of"). Maybe he'd be able to recommend a cheap place to stay. I usually go to bed about 2:00 AM, but on road trips, I like to be off of the road by midnight or earlier for the sake of making sure I have secured lodgings. The later it gets, the harder it can be to find a good place to stay. But having passed Donato-ville, it seemed a shame to miss out on my friends in Augusta too. So I pressed on.
I entered Augusta at about 1:20 AM, and gave up on my mission. I pulled over at a motel, asked for a room, got out my cash... and then balked at the high price for a crappy motel in a crappy neighborhood. I could do better. Sad that I had missed both the Donatos and Brad and his new venture, I headed less than a mile deeper into Augusta. Then I passed an exit with a very familiar name...
My assumption was that the bars in Georgia closed at 2:00 AM, like in most places. I thought that being a rather conservative place, Georgia's pubs might even close earlier. But I wanted to see what Brad's place looked like, so I did the 1:45 AM drive-by. Turns out that they were still open when I got there, and that the taverns in Georgia are open until 3:00 AM. In a reversal of nawthurn sensibilities, where (at least in Chicago) the bars are open an extra hour on Saturday nights, I was told that in Georgia, they close and hour early on Saturdays... since that late hour of Saturday night is actually Sunday - the Lord's day. But they're open until the relatively late hour of 3:00 AM on weekdays. Great!
Since I hadn't announced my intent to show up, Brad was quite surprised to see me. He gave me the grand tour of the joint. Our mutual friends Al, Ben, Tim, Dave, and Jerry helped design the place. They did a great job. I was very impressed.
It was late, so there weren't many people around. Aside from Brad and his cheerful and competent bartender, I passed the time with an off-duty waitress and her boyfriend, and a lovely southern belle who is some type of radiation engineer, and who has become a Hale Tiki regular. Brad called up his gal (who I had met the previous summer) at home and made sure it was OK to put me up for the night.
Good deal.
So glad I didn't stay in that crappy motel...
And Brad's cat didn't even trigger my allergies!
Wednesday, September 22, 2004
Brad,
his gal, and I had brunch at the Blue Sky cafe in the morning, and I
was treated to an architectural and historical tour of downtown
Augusta. Brad is also involved in local politics, so he had to
get moving: he was due to be on the radio.I wandered around Augusta a little more on my own, and then drove south in the stifling heat, just in time to hear my pal on the radio, mentioning that there was "a celebrity author in town, Tiki Road Trip author James Teitelbaum.....".
I always laugh when people think of me as a celebrity.
I'm just a guy, see?
But if playing up to that sort of nonsense sells Tiki Road Trip books or Left Orbit Temple CDs, well, then so be it!
Believe the hype.
And thanks for the on-air props, the bed, and the cocktails, Mr. Brad!
Southern Heat.
I took off my shirt (when in Rome!), slathered a ton of sun block on my tattoos, and drove south into Florida, shirtless and sweaty...
143,746: US25 to I-16 to I-95.
Florida visitor's center - welcome to the sunshine state.
14-foot taxidermy alligator, free OJ, and it is raining.
143,800: pulling off of I-95 onto unknown road to St. Augustine Beach, where I will grab the A1A for 60 miles to Daytona Beach, and then stop for the night.
Driving
down the Atlantic coast of Florida, I was morbidly fascinated with all
of the evidence of destruction left behind by the trio of hurricanes
that had blown through the state over the past months. Beautiful
mid-century motels lay in ruin, completely demolished, while the
buildings next door were completely untouched. Big piles of
rubble dotted the landscape, the fruit of the labor of clean up crews
preparing some buildings for repair, and others - the ones damaged
beyond repair - for demolition.Don't get the idea that the whole state was blown completely apart, however. I only noticed that perhaps one building in ten had any damage at all, and many of these were damaged only slightly. But a person is used to seeing very, very few injured buildings at all while traveling (save for in Detroit and the South Side of Chicago, that is), so even seeing the one building in 25 (or so) that had truly severe damage made things seem quite grim for residents of the Sunshine State. More obvious damage came in the form of downed trees and lots of bent and twisted road signs.
I was glad that the hurricanes were over, and reasoned that at the very least the locals would be glad for whatever tourist dollars our Hukilau festival would be leaving in their local economy.
Tiki Road Trip contains listings for two hotels in Daytona, the Aku Tiki Inn, and the Hawaiian Inn, which are practically next door to each other. Too bad for me, they are both $80 and up per night... even off of tourist season... even on a Tuesday... even after three hurricanes...
I found the Daytona Beach Motel for $29.
I may have been the only person in the place. The room was okay, I've been in far worse, but there were two big roaches in the tub. I sent them spinning down the drain and to that magical place where all things in sinks, tubs, and toilets go, that place called: away.
It was windy outside, and since it was off of tourist season... on a Tuesday... after three hurricanes... there weren't many people around. I went to the larger hotel next door, where the trashy middle aged biker chick behind the bar served me a burger cooked up by her boyfriend / son. A guy from FEMA (Federal Emergency Management Agency) was at the bar, yelling at the television about some injustice or other, something related to his job. A middle aged couple came in, the sort who refuse to age gracefully. She had platinum blonde hair and her years of tanning gave her the skin of a lizard. Too much makeup. He was sporting way too much gold for a white guy. But they seemed to be in love, cozy with each other and happy, so who am I to judge them?
Fuck it, this is who I am: I'm the guy who's travelogue you are reading.
I reserve the right, within this travelogue, which I am writing for free - and not for any web site, magazine, or book, other than my own - to be an asshole if I want to. I'll play nice when writing for pay.
I didn't like this place, or the people in it.
These people were asshole white trash. Fuck 'em.
Across the street was the Congo River mini golf course. It was open. I wasn't going to play mini golf by myself. I went into their arcade to look for pinball. Three machines, all turned off. I was bored. They had a pond full of live alligators. Young ones, each three feet long or so. I counted thirteen of them, on their wooden platform, or chillin' in the water.
I crossed the street to my motel, walked through the courtyard, and out the back way to the beach. No one was there. I walked along the beach with my maglite, looking for shells, or anything else of interest. The Atlantic was spewing waves and foam relentlessly onto the beach. There were clouds in the sky, but stars poked through them. I didn't know whether to look at the sea or the stars. So I looked at the sand, and found a few small shells, and a lot of trash.
Thursday, September 23, 2004
I interviewed some people at the Aku Tiki and the Hawaiian Inn for a future edition of Tiki Road Trip. The guy who owns the Hawaiian is really nice. He showed me around, and gave me some history about the place. I had breakfast at the Traders, the coffee shop adjacent to the Aku Tiki. The television was saying that there might be another hurricane after all. Maybe.
I have driven 414 miles on one tank of gas. That might be an all time record for this car. Given it's current state of disrepair, this is a miracle.
Stopped in a bookstore across the street from a honey
museum (skipped
it), and a Salvation Army, where I scored yet another LP copy
of Quiet Village
by Martin Denny, and a record by Santo and Johnny. The woman at
the cash register
was freaking out over the Santo and Johnny platter, raving about what a
great record it is. I've never heard of them, but it seemed
interesting, and a bargain at a twenty five cents.I drove along the A1A and US1 as much as possible, before ceding defeat against the clock and getting onto I-95 for the homestretch into Fort Lauderdale. Wouldn't you know it - a traffic jam. And then another.
Made it to Fort Lauderdale a bit later than expected. The plan was to find a motel, grab a much needed shower, and get down to Thursday night's Hukilau event as soon as possible - I was running late now.
I found the two hotels that were hosting the weekend's festivities (the Bahia Mar and Bahia Cabana, which are virtually next to each other, separated only by a small marina). I couldn't afford to stay in either hotel, so the plan was to find a cheap motel as near to the Bahia twins as possible. I drove 1/2 block around the corner from the Bahia Cabana and immediately spotted a lovely little mid-century motel, in perfect condition, charming and cozy-looking. And only $48 (after tax) per night. Perfect!
Who needs to pay $100 or more to be 1/2 block closer to the action all weekend: I found a beautiful little classic place at a fraction of the cost. So many interesting looking old mid-century motels are actually dumps - but not this one. Someone had been taking good care of it for the past 60 years. The vintage woman who took my money was in the process of making a pie as she handed me my key. Room ten, in the corner. The room was cool, clean, and well-preserved mid-century modern all the way. Good deal.
The front door had a big window cut into it. The window was protected with frosted Venetian glass slats. A tiny baby gecko was sunning itself on one of the slats. It was barely an inch long. Inside, I could look through the glass and see the gecko's little heart through it's skin. No time for herpetology though... I had to jam over to the Hukilau!
World's fastest shower.
Clothes.
Key?
Yes.
Let's go!
Destination: marina at Bahia Mar.
1/2 block walk... and who do I bump into?
My old pals from Chicago, the Duke Carters and their new baby.
Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi.
Well... I was supposed to help performer Johnny Knox load his sound equipment onto the Tikki (sic) Beach cruise ship for the floating festivities... but that wasn't destined to happen.
Gone, daddy, gone.
The dual traffic jams had made me late and the boat full of my pals had set sail.
Well, now at least I had some time to relax.
| I sat down at the
bar by the marina by the Bahia Mar hotel and looked
at the
food menu. I had three hours to kill until the boat came
back.
Then, I was to help Johnny Knox load his gear off of the boat and set
it up poolside so he could play again. I decided to wait to eat,
and to go back to my room to destressify and relax. I watched a
Johnny Cash documentary on TV, and then went back to the Bahia
Mar. I found five or six guys I knew a little bit having food so I joined them. I know these guys mostly from the internet: PolynesianPop, SugarCaddyDaddy, JungleTrader. The problem with making friends on-line is that everyone has two names, a real name and a screen identity. So, finally putting faces to people I have communicated with on-line is hard enough, but of course all of these people have two names to remember. Most of the people I was sitting with were people I have met several times now, so I just about have it all down: Danny, Frank, Vic... etc. We watched the Tikki Beach cruise back into the marina, hit a post on the dock, and lower the boarding ramp. After the boat was empty, I found Mr. Knox and helped him set up for his poolside set. Before he started playing, I was discovered by my friends Alice, Bruce, and Christie (aka MissFormica, MrSmiley, and Tikikiliki, respectively), the latter being one of the two people organizing the Hukilau weekend. They suggested I join them for a quick run over to the amazing Mai Kai restaurant, site of the upcoming Saturday festivities. Bruce had rented a round little white compact car that had already been dubbed 'The Egg'. Arriving at the Mai Kai, Christie, Bruce, and I savored Alice's freak out - she'd never seen the this holy land for Tiki geeks before. What a treat it was to observe the reactions of someone who'd never experienced the Mai Kai, but who is the sort of person who needed to have seen it long ago... Kern, a manager at the Mai Kai, alleviated rumors that a fourth hurricane might hit Florida that weekend by joking(?) that if people needed a place to stay on Saturday night, the Mai Kai would host a big slumber party! This was just the tip of the iceberg of their outstanding hospitality over the weekend. Back at the Bahia Mar, Knox had finished his set. Our dear pals Al and Shelley, who had reserved the penthouse suite at the Bahia Mar, were entertaining, as always. Their suite had a hot tub on the deck, mirrored ceiling above the bed, jacuzzi in the bedroom, and sunken kitchen with bar. Many more friends were afoot: Vern from DC, Michelle from LA (via Seattle), Al and Ben and Ben's gal and Frank and Danny and Denny and Tina and many more from LA, Dave from Georgia, Tim from Tennessee (co-organizer with Christie), Dave from Milwaukee, Bruce from San Francisco, Alice and Christopher and Brittanie from Houston, Al and Shelley from San Diego, and legions more. |
|
Fun was had.
Friday, September 24, 2004
I got talked into stage managing the event on Friday, but I didn't mind. It gave me a sense of purpose, a justification for coming to the show, and working kept me from getting drunk (I've been trying to do less of that). Even though I was working on Friday, I still managed to catch up with a lot of people.
I spent Friday afternoon in the ballroom coordinating the sound company (Bill McKenna) and the five bands who were scheduled to play that night. A bazaar was set up in the ballroom during the day, so we couldn't make much noise or do proper sound checks, but everything worked out OK. The bands were all nice guys and fairly cooperative. There were a few snags here and there, but nothing I couldn't handle. Stage managing is much easier then mixing sound - no gear to lift! I was glad to let Bill handle the mix - that's what he was hired for. Two sisters from Miami, Liz and Barb, had offered to help out. Seems that they work as stage hands for gigs in Miami regularly. They did a great job, they were real pros, and they stayed until the bitter end, pushing road cases into the freight elevator at the very end of the night.
I had time enough to wander around the bazaar during the afternoon and talk to many of the vendors, some of whom I knew already. There were some guys there selling moai-shaped soap(!), so I talked to them for a long time about my upcoming Easter Island trip, my upcoming book about the island (Big Stone Head), and about the island in general. The fella who owns Drift Clothing was there too, and he hooked me up with a t-shirt with a moai on it. I talked to Billy Mure and his lady friend for a bit. Billy is 89 years old, and was the featured performer for the night. He signed some CDs for me. The Creepy Tiki guys from Miami were there too; they'd been in the booth next to mine when I was signing books at the 2003 Hukilau.
Ukulele performer and general personality-at-large King Kukulele conducted an interview with me for a documentary being shot by a couple of guys from Munich, Germany (Christian and Mogambo). King Kukulele is a pretty entertaining guy and also a really nice person when he's not on stage. We were joking around, and the interview got silly pretty quick - we ended up talking about how crappy a casting decision it was for the producers of the upcoming Johnny Cash biopic to have hired Joaquin Phoenix to play the man in black. I hope Mogambo can salvage a few usable sound bytes from what I gave him.
A lot of people seemed enthusiastic about the ideas I have developed for Big Stone Head. I had submitted proposals to a few publishers a few weeks before leaving Chicago, so hopefully I will have a deal in place soon.
I went to go get some food, but was distracted by running into more friends, and by matters of the coming evening that needed attending. I went to my room to unwind for a little, and didn't end up eating. My mascot the gecko was back on the window after having spent Thursday night elsewhere. I got a disturbing phone call just as I was leaving the room. The impossible was due to happen: the news channels had been reporting that a fourth hurricane (Jeanne) was about to hit Florida. My motel was being evacuated the next morning at 8:00 AM due to the potential hurricane. I remembered Kern, the Mai Kai manager, joking that we could all camp out there, and wondered how serious he was, after all...
I decided not to let news about the weather bother me. I would deal with it in the morning, find a new motel, and that would be that. I had a show to run!
The show was a success. The sound was good enough, and all five bands (Polynesian Proud, Big Pineapple, Billy Mure, Vodkanauts, and I Belli Di Waikiki, from Italy) made a real effort to keep to the challenging schedule. Their performances were universally excellent. I Belli Di Waikiki had a problem with their bass breaking, but that was the only major problem of the night. People had a great time.
There was a sense of doom in the air, however. Coming as they did from parts of the country not used to hurricanes, people were uncertain about their plans, their safety, their hotel situations. Fortunately, Ft. Lauderdale is at the southern end of the state, just above Miami, and the weather was going to strike a bit north of there. There was never any real danger. That didn't matter - Friday night's energy was definitely dampened somewhat.
This didn't stop Al and Shelley from throwing another after party in the penthouse, however.
A
few people were glued to the weather channel on television, but most of
us just had a good time. The party was definitely more lively
than the one on Thursday. I hadn't eaten all day, so the
booze mixed up by my pal Pablus went right through my empty stomach and
straight to my skull. Pablus and I organized a blind taste test
of four different brands of an obscure liqueur called Falernum (a key
ingredient in several vintage drink recipes). One bottle of
Falernum is hard to find. Four different brands in one place,
some of them out of production and quite rare, was a sight none of us
had ever seen before. Nine people each sampled a taste of each of
the four brands. Our results corroborated surprisingly.
There was almost no dissent of opinion on which was best. Pablus
mixed up some Pain Killers and some Test Pilots (a la his 1947 recipe)
as Michelle and Alice danced (clothed) on the kitchen countertop...I ended up on the beach helping someone locate a lost cell phone, as the storm clouds moved in, and the wind kicked up ominously.
Saturday, September 25, 2004
All of the hotels on the coast kicked their guests out during a mandatory evacuation on Saturday morning. Some people had fled the state on Friday night, but some decided to stay for Saturday night's festivities. People who lived in northeast Florida had to go home and board up their homes. People with kids grabbed flights home before they got canceled. The news was showing that Ft. Lauderdale would only be grazed by the very edge of the storm, but people were still taking precautions against the worst.
| I had been told that
the motel was being evacuated at 8:00 AM, but when
the knock on the door came at 10:00, I was pleasantly surprised that I
had achieved four hours of sleep instead of only two. The maid
insisted that I leave as soon as possible. I did, but even in the short time it took me to clear out, she had apparently fled, leaving her maintenance cart sitting outside on the sidewalk in front of my room. She was nowhere to be seen. My little gecko friend had evacuated as well. I had nowhere to go. I had a vague idea of where the evac zone ended, so I decided to head there and find a room just over the border, if possible. If not? Well, was Kern for real when he proposed a Mai Kai sleep-over? I was about to drop my key through the slot in the (abandoned) office door, when I noticed an aluminum mailbox nailed to the outside wall of the office. I put the key in there. I doubted that anyone would be back before Sunday or Monday. Now, in a worst-case scenario, I could come back here, retrieve the key, and illegally squat in Room 10. My friends Alice, Brittanie, and Christopher (who had all come from Houston for the festival) were being driven around by a local friend of Christopher's, who was preparing to flee to Tampa. This Tampa-bound friend had agreed to help them find a hotel first. I had arranged with them that if they found a room they'd call me, and if I found one I'd call them, and either way, we'd share it. The sky was cloudy and grey, it was windy, and a few sprinkles of rain fell. So far, it had been no worse than a typical rainy autumn day in the Midwest. But there was pandemonium anyway. Most of the stores and restaurants were closed, most of the gas stations were out of gas. The few stations that had some gas left were the sites of long lines of cars, the likes of which I haven't seen since the late 1970s energy crisis. Teams of workers were boarding up windows all along the A1A coastal highway. I expected lots of traffic, but there was almost none. People had fled, and the roads were clear. No one was driving anywhere frivolous, so that helped to ease the traffic a great deal as well. The evacuation zone included everything east of I-95. Between the west side of I-95 and the edge of the Everglades are a few dozen miles of Dade county. I drove all around Dade and the adjacent counties to the north and south looking for a hotel. I was turned down again and again by hotels that were filled to capacity by locals who had fled their homes, and by other stranded tourists. Alice, Brittanie, and Christopher called to say they had a room. They told me where it was. Relieved, I headed in their direction. I spotted a Target store that was open. I stopped in to find chaos, as people ran around madly, trying to stock up on everything imaginable. Announcements came over speakers indicating that the store was closing imminently (it was about 1:00 PM). I was starving, not having eaten in over 24 hours! I bought a warm rotisserie chicken from their deli department, and some wheat thins, hummous, Powerade, and lots of water. As I sat in the car stuffing my face, the Houston contingent called. Their hotel deal fell through, and there was an even worse situation... Their 'friend', the one driving them around, decided to give up, and unceremoniously dumped them off at a restaurant. They were stranded. I put my meal aside, and resumed poking into every hotel I came across. They were all booked up solid with evacuated locals and stranded tourists. Eventually, I found a vacancy for $125. The hotel was not at all bad, but not worth anything near $125. Under the circumstances, I could not even consider balking. At least it would be split four ways. I later considered myself lucky, after hearing horror stories from other attendees of the festival about the disgusting lodgings they were forced to endure. One couple slept on the concrete floor of a county shelter. I collected my pals and their luggage at the (excellent) sushi restaurant they were camped out at, and we made for the room, six miles away. |
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The rain was picking up, but the weather was still nothing extreme.
We all took a much-needed nap, having all spent our mornings driving around in the rain looking for lodgings, after being booted from our respective motels at 8:00 AM.
After that, there was nothing for it except to get dressed up and go have a good time!
Only about 20% of the audience (about 125 people) showed up at the venue for Saturday night, but there was a real and true sense of bonding in the air. It felt as if we were a team of survivors, determined to defeat the hurricane by completely denying its existence and having as good a time as possible.
I was reminded of the social clubs in England who would hold black-tie balls during the Blitzkrieg, defying the Nazis to spoil their good time. Party at Ground Zero.
Coming up with a list of memorable moments occurring during that night is far too long a task for even me to attempt.
I had an excellent seat near the stage, sitting with Michelle (it was her 30th birthday), Christoper, Brittanie, Alice, Bruce, Tina, Christie, Al and Shelley, and a couple from California who were about to open their third drive-in movie theater.
King Kukulele was the MC and he had us in stitches all night. What an entertaining fella he is. A little girl named Christina appeared on stage a few times, interacting with the King. She's a little charmer, even at about 5 years old. She had the crowd eating out of her little hand. She is going to be famous some day. The Mai Kai show was spectacular as always, and the quality and enthusiasm of the show was not even slightly diminished by the storm outside and the smaller-than-expected crowd. I ended up getting pulled on stage to dance with the performers, although I resisted. Christie had set it up, so I had to be a sport. I guess it wasn't so bad dancing with Amber, the Mai Kai dancer who resembles the actress Jennifer Connelly. The Mai Kai even did some new numbers in the show that they choreographed just for the Hukilau. Amazing.
An elderly woman was brought on stage to do a dance to the classic song Lovely Hula Hands, and it was indeed very lovely. Supposedly, the song had been written specifically for her many decades ago. It was beautiful and touching.
Carvers Bamboo Ben (the grandson of the revered carver Eli Hedley) and Keigs (the husband of the grand-daughter of revered carver William Westenhaver) came up on stage with Mai Kai manager Kern to present an award to Tim and Christie.
Christie then auctioned off a Mystery Drink. Normally priced at $25, the Mystery Drink is delivered to your table at the sound of a gong by a hula girl who does a little dance as she presents the drink, and then vanishes into the depths of the restaurant until called for by the next Mystery Drink order. For the auction, the drink would be delivered by King Kukulele, on stage, with benefits going towards Hukilau production costs. I found Kern tapping my shoulder, and before I had a chance to react, I was on stage again, banging a gong dramatically at each new auction bid. The gal who had been sitting across from me at dinner (the one who is opening a chain of drive-in theaters) won the auction, and I continued banging the gong in a series of rising crescendos as King Kukulele did a hilarious parody of the traditional Mystery Drink delivery. Then I picked up a drum stick and beat on one of the band's drums as King K did another song.
Back in my seat, I finally got to finish my dinner...
As the night wore on, the remaining survivors collected in the Mai Kai's Molokai Bar.
Entertainment in the bar was provided by a guy (not part of our group) who was absolutely shitfaced drunk. He was dating one of the servers, who was getting really mad at his behavior. He had just been released from prison (after 28 months) for possession of cocaine. He was alternately amusing and annoying people, but mostly annoying.
As the night drew to a close about 11:00 PM, the owner of the Mai Kai (Mrs. Thornton) and her son invited about a dozen of us to the son's private residence for an after-party. It was like getting invited to the Vatican!
Four carloads of us caravaned through the storm (storm? What storm?) to his nearby house, where our group and some of his own friends and relations, plus some Mai Kai employees - about thirty of us in all - defied nature until about 2:00 AM. Someone put Elvis Presley's Aloha From Hawaii DVD on, and a few people danced around the living room to Elvis cranked up on the widescreen television. Our host had brought all of the fixins for Rum Barrels from the Mai Kai, and we drank down the storm.
Frankly, the storm wasn't all that impressive. It was a bit windy, a little rainy. I have been through dozens of far, far, far worse spring and autumn thunderstorms here in Chicago or in my hometown of Cleveland. Several per year in fact. Granted, hurricane Jeanne and her three predecessors did do considerable damage to other parts of Florida and surrounding states. But Jeanne kept her distance from Ft. Lauderdale, knowing that she wasn't going to spoil our good time, no matter what.
I sat under an awning on a patio by a pool some time after 1:00 AM with some friends from Georgia and Germany, from Houston and Los Angeles, and watched the wind whip the palm trees around a little. A small amount of rain sprayed itself into our realm now and again, but we were far from soaked.
Not even inconvenienced.
By Sunday, the weather was just fine.
Brunch was held at the Egg N' You diner on US1. This diner has nothing particularly interesting about it, save for a few photos of old movie stars on the walls. I guess this puts it one quarter of a notch above any other typical diner. For no apparent reason, this has become the traditional breakfast spot for Hukilau attendees in 2003 and 2004. The small handful of antique stores in the neighborhood had surely been picked over by the time I made it to their vicinity.
I dropped some people off at the airport. I was pleasantly alone again after a long and strange weekend with a few dozen friends who I don't see nearly enough of. In the warm Florida sunshine, after the big false-alarm that was Jeanne's visit to Fort Lauderdale, I was only now facing a real problem...
The hurricane, the actual hurricane, the dangerous hurricane, the hurricane that had barely grazed Ft. Lauderdale, was wrecking things farther north up the state. Causing real damage and real harm. Killing people and destroying homes.
And it was between me and Chicago.
My only route home was to go right through it.
So I did the only thing possible:
I
extended my vacation, driving south into the Florida Keys, enjoying
terrific weather and a beautiful drive.My uncle has a condo on Key West, so I camped out there, and had the place all to myself for two days.
The drive down was uneventful, save for some guy honking at me to tell me my tail lights had gone out. Damn. That's two lights gone in a row. Hope the Mobile Exploration Lab's whole electrical system isn't dying. Yet.
I made it to the condo by 8:00 PM. Got a little lost finding the condo once I was on Key West. No big deal. After going through Uncle Alan's checklist (turning on the water, the air conditioner, etc) I took a much needed shower, and then made it to the Green Parrot. The Parrot is the oldest bar on Key West, and also the closest to my Uncle's place. It was phenomenally dull, or maybe after my exciting weekend, it just seemed that way.
Monday, September 27, 2004
I
got some exercise riding my dad's bicycle all over the island. I
made it to the southernmost point in the USA (150 miles from Miami, 90
miles from Cuba). I found a permanently closed up and gutted
ex-piano bar called the
Hukilau(!) which I explored. I found that the back entrance was
not sealed up, and I was able to walk around inside the place. It
was a little creepy and spooky. There was evidence that people
had been squatting in the back rooms and in the former offices.
Lots of
little lizards darted around the debris on the patio.I liked the fact that so many people drive scooters and bikes here. There are scooter rental places everywhere. From classic Veaspas and Lambrettas, right up to more modern scoots, it's Scooterville, USA. Also, the bicycles are not racing bikes or dirt bikes, but vintage looking road bikes for the most part. Three-speeds!
On the corner of Simonton and Union is an old pharmacy, all original mid-century. The building isn't that cool on the outside, but they still have a curved lunch counter and soda fountain inside, still in business. Half of the place is like a diner, the other half is a drugstore. Very old-school. There are a few mid-century modern motels in the vicinity too. However, there isn't much of this sort of thing here; most people visiting the keys will end up on Duval St.
After my bike ride, I cleaned up and then checked out the scene on Duval St. Among the Hard Rock cafes and T-shirt shops, I found myself in a tourist zone exactly like the ones in one hundred other cities I have been to. A quest for authentic local hangouts was fruitless (I was later told where they are... too late). I biked slowly up the pier, watching the street performers compete for tips. A couple dancing with flaming poi were amateurish compared to some of the better fire knife dancing I have seen. One crusty old guy had his sick-looking dog walking a tightrope, and another guy was juggling shoe boxes. Nearby kids were thrilled. I wandered past shell shops and conch fritter stands, glanced at the wares of jewelry vendors, and watched some boats come in to port against the sunset.
At
dinner, I found myself the only customer in a restaurant, until a girl
walked in and sat a few tables over. It would have been awkward
for us not to strike up a conversation. Marilyn had been on
vacation with her boyfriend, who had been called back to Tampa by his
construction job. Busy times for those guys. Since their
hotel and other things were prepaid, she decided to stay for the
week. We exchanged dull pleasantries before paying our respective
bills and departing on our bikes in opposite directions along Duval St.I ended up nursing a beer at a sidewalk cafe, watching the trickle of tourists and refugees wander past. I was close to shooting myself in the head out of sheer boredom when four other escapees from Ft. Lauderdale - Denny (King Kukulele), Danny the carver, and the two German videographers (Christian and Mogambo) - showed up and saved me. I was never so happy to see four aloha shirts come wandering up the street.
We had some food and some laughs, and palavered over the weekend we had just been through. We all agreed that it would go down in history not as a fiasco, but rather as a legendary experience that those who fled would regret having missed.
The owners of this particular watering hole were pleased to see us because they were hard-up for customers, and also because they were thinking of doing a Tiki motif with the place. Right in front of them they had a Tiki carver, a Tiki musician, a Tiki author, and a pair of Tiki documentarians. Suffice to say, we gave them a little advice. They were terribly excited to meet us, and grilled us with questions for a while. After we derailed our conversation to give them business advice for half an hour, the bastids didn't even comp us a drink.
When I finally retired back to the condo, I was surprised to find that it was after 1:00 AM.
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
I hit the road, determined to make the long trip back to Chicago by Thursday night, but to do so without rushing.
The drive north through the Keys was leisurely. I stopped at a huge tourist trap store called Shell World that had nothing of interest to offer. A few thrift store stops netted me some more record albums. I took some notes on taverns and eateries for possible future travel guides. Someone else told me my tail lights were out. Gotta do something about this.
Mileage notes resume...
144,463: Entering an endangered species area.
The Key Deer live here.
I didn't see any... but this is not to be taken as proof that they're endangered.
As an 'advanced level road tripper', I have become interested in US41 lately. This amazing road begins in Miami, passes through the Everglades, and then snakes it's way north, through Atlanta, Nashville, and Chicago. It finally peters out at the very northern tip of Michigan (in Marquette), on the edge of Lake Superior, and just over the lake from Ontario, Canada.
Driving the old US highways is infinitely more interesting than taking these newfangled Interstates. Sure it is slower, but what's the point of taking a road trip if you're not going to see anything? I wanted to take US41 as much as possible on the trip home, only jumping on the Interstate when I need to make some time.
144,570: Passing Coral Castle, a well-known tourist attraction right at the southern end of Miami (on US1 just south of 280th St.). It is getting late, and I want to get through the Everglades before sunset, so I will skip it. US41 begins right about here.
The Everglades is a big swamp that covers most of southern Florida. Miami and some of the other towns on the Atlantic coast are just about the only part of the glans of Florida that aren't infested with alligators and the other warm fuzzy things that inhabit the expansive Everglades. Two roads bisect the 'glades: I-75 (called "Alligator Alley" across that particular 150-mile stretch), and US41. I drove I-75 across the Everglades last year, so for the sake of both variety and my new fascination with US41, I took US41.
Whipping
along the single-lane highway as the sun began to set, the trees took
on a golden hue, and the colors of everything wild became
exaggerated. I passed a few Indian trading posts (this part of
the Everglades is a Mikasuki reservation), and plenty of businesses
offering rides in those boats with big propeller fans on the
back. There's not much else out there - just nature, and lots of
it. I was fascinated with a dead alligator on the side of the
road, a live one in a canal next to the road, and lots of mysterious
ripples created in the water by animals submerging as I drove
past. 144,652: Panther crossing next four miles.
Just as the sun dipped below the horizon, I made it to the gulf coast and turned north.
Leaving the Everglades and moving up the west coast of Florida, I found that although hurricane Jeanne had passed, I hadn't anticipated the aftermath of her destruction, and it's effect on my journey.
I found that the hurricane may have been gone, but it was not forgotten.
As had been the case five days earlier, during Ft. Lauderdale's cautionary preparations, I found that in this part of the state, a part of the state that had been badly damaged several times over, there was little comfort to be found for the tourist. Hotels were full of those who had lost their homes, gas stations had their pumps covered with plastic bags to show that they were empty, and big piles of debris lay in front of buildings - the beginnings of clean-up efforts. One tractor-sales lot (positioned unfortunately next to a dip in the road) was almost completely submerged. Spray painted messages on the planks protecting windows were attempts to ward off the weather: "Ivan Go Home", "Go Away Jeanne", and simply... "Fuck You". The same general sentiments had been visible on all manner of boarded up windows all week, at all of my various destinations.
Stopping near Zephyr Hills at a quarter to midnight, I found that there was no room at the inn.
Lucky to get gas and becoming nervous about the possibility of lodgings, I left US41 just north of Venice, and got onto I-95 just north of mile marker 197. I ate some crappy food from Waffle House in the car. This was all I could get.
By the time I made Ocala - a destination recommended by a lady at the gas station - it was quite late.
I found a room at the Wildwood Inn that cost me three times more than what the management might have charged under normal circumstances. I knew what sort of place this was before I even entered the room: there had been a condom dispenser in the lobby. I wondered, in a vague and theoretical sort of way, if the whores were charging extra as well. There were cigarette burns in the sheets, the place was stinky, and the carpet was damp and mildewy. Trucks were revving their engines at the truck stop next door all night. I was lucky to get this room.
Wednesday, September 29, 2004
144,943 miles.
I paid extra for gas and made for Atlanta via bits of I-75 and bits of US 41.
145,031:
Smiley's Antique Mall was closed; but I explored one with a gigantic
plaster Indian out front, and a giant pink elephant with it's trunk
wrapped around a martini glass. A third antique mall was down a
short dirt road, next door to a trailer. Debris was strewn around
the yard, under the biggest and oldest weeping willow tree I have ever
seen. The tree was beautiful; the rest of the place looked like a
hurricane had... errr... sorry, never mind.145,092: Entering Georgia on US 41.
During the afternoon, I had toyed with the idea of calling Christie, who lives in Atlanta. She had been one of the organizers of the Hukilau, so I was sure that she'd be exhausted. Given all the stress of planning a four-day festival, anyone would have been whipped tired afterwards. But she (and her partner Tim) could not have forseen all of the extra stress incurred by the hurricane. They did their heroic best to accommodate all of their guests, and I don't think that anyone had a single gripe about the way they handled things under the circumstances. I figured I'd call her and invite her for a drink at Trader Vic's, but I fully expected that she'd decline, wanting some rest and recovery.
She didn't!
In fact, she seemed glad for the invitation.
We agreed to meet, but I had an hour or two to kill.
| 145,332: I pulled into a gas station, where I tanked up, shaved in the bathroom (I hadn't originally planned on socializing today!), and repaired the blown fuse that had been making my tail lights and in-dash light malfunction. Odd that the same fuse would connect those two disparate parts of the car's electrical system. I was happy it was just a fuse, and felt like a schmo for not having bothered to fix it four or five days earlier. Both problems solved! I met Christie and a pal of hers at Trader Vic's. We had a drink, and then went for Mexican food. While I was waiting for them to arrive at Trader Vic's, I passed the time with a girl named Lorrie who owns a Merle Norman store in some rural town in Georgia, and an annoying burned-out woman who smoked too much and talked on her cell phone WAY too much, and a guy who was a friend of Lorrie's, but who she hadn't seen in seven years. They all left to go to a dance club just as me and Christie and her pal left for dinner. After dinner, I was dropped back at the Hilton, home of Trader Vic's. I planned to get on the road, drive an hour north, and find a cheap motel. I decided first to see if there was anything interesting going on at Trader Vic's. Sorry, I can't stay away from that place! I ended up chatting with two heavily tattooed lesbians who bought a copy of my book from me. They were really nice. Lorrie and her two friends came back from the club. The five of them made for varied and interesting conversation, but I really had to get going. I was making to leave when some rich Yuppie guy strode in, and asked in a loud and obnoxious voice: "Okay, who's drinking with me?". All present parties rolled their eyes and avoided the guy, until he (Greg) started buying rounds for the house (after loudly announcing that he'd made $6.4 million last year). Now, anyone who knows Trader Vic's knows that the drinks there are delicious, expensive, and potent. This guy initially came off like a dope, but he ended up buying four rounds (at least!) for the seven of us at the bar... so I guess the friendship of lesbians, small town cosmetics store owners, cell-abusers, and road trip journalists can all be bought for the price of a Mai Tai or three. At one point, the bartender (Joel) told the guy that his bill was over $250, and the guy didn't care - he ordered another round. Then he (Greg, not Joel!) started reading his poetry to us. Vogon. I was getting worried - it was getting late, and my ability to drive was becoming impaired. Okay, it was way past being impaired. So much for not drinking so much. When I mentioned that I had to find a room (but couldn't afford the Hilton), our benefactor magnanimously announced that he had four rooms (although he was traveling alone), and I could have one. I think he was trying to impress Lorrie - who wasn't unattractive - with his generosity and/or wealth. Needing a place to stay, and not at all feeling as though I was putting any burden on The Six (point four) Million Dollar Man, I accepted a key card from him. |
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He walked me up to the room, saying "order whatever you want" (from room service, I presumed) as he turned to walk down the hall. I went to bed, grateful for my good fortune, and for the generosity of rich strangers. I noted the irony of the opulent surroundings and luxury I had just been handed for free, as compared to the overpriced rathole I had slept in the previous night, and had paid dearly for. I called a friend in Chicago to share the story of my good fortune. Then I opened the mini bar (I noticed that the lock was broken) and got some water. The next morning I took my benefactor up on his offer of room service, and got a delicious smoked salmon breakfast.
Thursday September 30, 2004
145,357:
I made the long drive from Atlanta to Chicago, stopping a few times in antique malls and thrift stores, and to occasionally photograph any mid-century weirdness I came across.
The temperature had dropped drastically over night; this whole trip had been quite warm - through hurricanes or otherwise - but all of a sudden it became very cool and cloudy.
145,547: Here is a store with 2000 clocks, sixty miles south of Nashville. Skipping it.
Stopped into J and G Pizza and Steak House. I'd been craving a good pizza for a few days now. J and G had a nice vintage sign outside, so it seemed as good a place as any to stop. My only criteria when picking places to eat on the road is to avoid corporate chains at all costs: I patronize independently owned, local places only. Just as long as they look like clean places, and reasonably priced. You have no idea how much it irked me to have succumbed to eating at Waffle House a few nights back.
J and G Pizza was doing a good business for mid-afternoon, well after lunch time. Their pizza was on the good side of decent. Inside, the place was quite interesting, looking as though it had been erected in the late 1960s/early 1970s Conquistador style, but had been partially renovated in the middle 1980s or later. Dark wood, iron, red accents here and there, those plastic chunky globby lamps, big round iron chandeliers, and red leather booths... all mixed carelessly with some decidedly newer things. Further contrasts abounded: a cute, friendly teenage girl took my money while a crabby old bulldog lady took my order. Two women dining near where I waited seemed to be both hillbilly and Yuppie. You have to love Tennessee.
145,593: Driving by the Omni Hut on US41.
Just ate, and they're not open yet anyway.
Hi Polly!
145,644: Near the infamous Sad Sam's fireworks.
I headed four miles out of the way to follow signs to an 'authentic 1930s soda fountain'.
Thomas Drugs, 7802 Highway 25, a bit east of I-65 in Cross Plains, Tennessee.
Open 8:00 to 6:00 every day except 8:00 to noon on Saturday, and closed Sunday.
Here is a deco-era soda fountain within a drugstore, not entirely unlike the one I encountered 1000 miles away in Key West. The soda fountain here is black and chrome, with red leather stools and original fountain fixtures. It seemed right to order a shake (on top of the pizza - that junk food craving - that's what a hangover will do to a guy), so I did. Chocolate shake, made with vanilla ice cream, milk, and chocolate syrup made by a teenage gal who might have been the taller, geekier little sister of my old and seldom seen friend Cheryl Horner.
I got some great pics of it, grey stone bathed in pink and orange in the setting sun.
145,739: North on 31W, through Cave City, Kentucky, soon to get on I-65 and haul ass into the home stretch. 412 miles on the previous tank of gas. The Mobile Exploration Lab is kicking ass on it's final voyage.
145,930: Indianapolis.
146,136: 1:05 AM.
397.6 miles since the latest fuel stop.
Home.
Total miles: 3305 since Canton, Ohio, plus about 450 for the Chicago-Cleveland-Canton leg of the trip. Roughly 3755 miles, or about 313 miles average per day.
Of eleven nights on the road, paid for hotel rooms on five nights (one of which was split four ways) and crashed with friends, relatives, or mysterious rich benefactors for six nights. Average lodging cost: about $21 per night.
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