Day Four

Day 4

Got up at perhaps 8 am.  Immediately we were in a bit of a pickle.  Breakfast was served at 9 am.  You will recall that the previous evening Ann had told Mitch that we would not make it to breakfast because we had to get on the road early—as in before 9 am.  At this point I am pretty familiar with the time required for my spouse to perform her basic beautification functions in the morning.  I know how long it takes me to shower.  This would require serial processing as there was only one bathroom.  Ann would also have to repack her stuff from the dresser and closet (the careful reader will recall that I never actually unpack on vacation—just throw all the crap in a convenient pile in the corner which can be stuffed back in quickly upon departure).  Doing the math in my head I calculated that we could just barely make it if Ann jumped out of bed immediately and sprinted for the bathroom.  She was not moving.

Our saving grace was that the dining room was not visible from the front stairs.  While the stairs creaked a bit, with any luck the lodgers would be blabbing about their Finger Lakes adventures and ignore the squeaking floorboards as we loaded the car.  I bravely ignored the hernia and slipped disk from carrying Ann's steamer trunk downstairs and got the car pointed out the driveway.  Ann scooted in behind me and we made a clean getaway.  9:15.  We felt the kind of elation that Bonnie and Clyde must have felt after robbing a bank and escaping after a shootout with the local cops. 

We had a beautiful drive home and arrived in Gates Mills at around 2pm.  Ann was very clear that she was still on vacation until Tuesday morning so she went to a yoga class.  Ann is a very advanced yoga person (yogi?  Maybe you have to be an old Indian guy to be a yogi?).  She stands on her head, twists herself into impossible positions, balances on her pinky finger, etc.  She can be a little difficult if she misses too many days of yoga so I encouraged her to go.  I went to the office as a defensive move.  Too many days out of the office and my partners begin slipping their outbox items into my inbox.

We reconvened for dinner at Saras in Gates Mills and toasted to a successful anniversary trip. 

Having sent out the blog to all of you for the last few days I am conscious of the fact that our silly adventures are probably a lot more interesting and humorous to us than they are to you.  From our perspective, our lives are very interesting and noteworthy while yours is somewhat less so.  It is possible these feelings are reciprocated and I have now been added to your spam filter.  The good news is that, in the words of LeBron James following his meltdown in the playoffs, “You can now go back to your sordid little lives while we will continue to be [Ann and Johnny Moo]”. 

With any luck, you'll hear from us again next year!

Day Three

Day Three

We got up fairly late again, this time perhaps more due to the Little Venice nightlife than the hard week at work.  Took a shower and headed downstairs to face the inevitable.  It was like groundhogs day—same couples, F***ing Mitch in yet another Jimmy Buffett shirt and socks, and piles of baked glop on the table.  The main course was a sickeningly sweet, enormous wad of dough and sugar with the required drizzle of unnaturally colored sauce on top.  Drizzle must be de rigeur for B&B breakfasts.  It is decorative and looks sophisticated.  I choked down as much as I could while the other couples chatted about their respective tourist trails (wine, chocolate, art, etc.) and the hijinks that had ensued out by the firepit the prior evening.  Ann and I smiled politely and once again left as soon as it was polite to do so.

Ann came up with a great out-of-the-box idea which would solve many of our negative feelings about the B&B.  She said why not just have a B.  As in Bed.  No second B.  No staring at strangers at breakfast.  No need to interact with the weird innkeeper.  Just give me my key and point me to the B.  It's a win-win—Mitch's wife doesn't have to get up at the crack of dawn to make the gooey mess, Mitch has more time to ponder which Jimmy Buffett shirt to sport that day, and the guests get a free pass and can go to the coffee shop down the street for a muffin and a cup of joe.  The woman is brilliant.

Today's adventure was to be Watkins Glen, home of the famous raceway.  Our goal, however, was not the raceway but the famous Watkins Glen gorge where there was reportedly a spectacular several mile hike in a state park.  When we got to the park it was clear that this was a popular hike—there was a line of cars going into the parking lot. 

Our fellow hikers represented a broad cross section of the American public—by which I mean they had spent most of the last decade on the couch eating donuts and watching Oprah.  Although this was a popular tourist attraction, it was still a pretty long hike and I had a bad feeling about some of the other tourists and their ability walk that far.  This concern was reinforced by their footwear, which ranged from rubber sandals to Gucci loafers.  Turns out there was a shuttle bus that took most of them to the top of the gorge so that they could walk down and use gravity to their advantage.

However, we knew something they didn't—walking down a slippery gorge is a lot harder than walking up, as we had discovered at Buttermilk Falls.  Anyway, we gave up on being our brother’s keeper and walked up the gorge trail.  It was one of the most visually interesting places I had ever been, with deep crevices, overhangs, waterfalls and rapids.  As predicted, much of the general public was having a rough go of it.  We saw teenagers with lattes in their hands sliding around on flip flops like they were ice skating.  Old ladies with looks of terror on their faces being led down the gorge by their irresponsible middle aged children (perhaps with an eye towards accelerating the inheritance).  Overweight people asking if they were there yet.  A guy trying to take pictures with an iPad.  We think most of these people went down the gorge thinking it was a ride—like Disneyland.  Oy vey.

After the hike we decided to book out of the crowded town and either drive to Ithaca or find someplace for lunch in the country.  As it turned out we found an old-school diner on the way and had a cheeseburger (me) and a grilled cheese (Ann).  Asked directions to Treman Park, another place with a nice hike, and drove 10 minutes up the road to the park. 

Treman Park (named for the Treman who was also the supposed namesake of Trumansburg) had another of the area's incredible gorges and we hiked up a very high rim trail with great views.  At one point we came to a very steep, long set of stone stairs going up a cliff.  Ann did not like the stairs and let me know about it by squeezing the blood out of my arm.  If I ever need a tourniquet I am in business—I just need to lead Ann to the top of a cliff and tell her we have to climb down.

On the way down I suggested we go cross country and told Ann that by my calculation we had to walk straight for 45 minutes (I figured about a mile and a half at a walking pace in the woods) then go left down the valley and we would find our car.  She did not like this plan.  At all.  In fact she looked like a shying horse with rolling eyes that does not want to be dragged into the stall.  It may be that she did not have confidence in my orienteering skills, which is hard to believe.  Anyway, I humored her and we went back down the way we had come. 

At the bottom of the park we came to a camping area.  This was not like the camping I did with my dad as a kid.  We used to go backpacking, carrying all of our gear on our backs including fishing rods that allowed us to avoid malnutrition during a week in the woods.  These people had a different approach.  They drove in with RVs, campers, coolers, grills, beer kegs, you name it.  The majority of the adults we saw were drinking beer and showed signs of having started doing so before noon.  Dirty little urchins were ganging up on the smallest little urchin and chasing him with sticks.  A toothless woman was stirring a pot of something over a fire while drinking a long neck.  Ann has never liked the idea of camping and this was definitely not the way to get her converted.

That night we went back into Trumansburg.  Ann, to my surprise, had made reservations at a restaurant in Trumansburg.  I would not have suspected that any restaurant in Trumansburg would require reservations.  However, this was an implausible three star restaurant named the Hazlenut Kitchen run by two chefs from the east coast who decided to open a place of their own in a small progressive town in upstate New York.  They landed in Trumansburg.  This was also the first time it had occurred to me that Trumansburg was progressive (although the macciato our first morning should have been a clue). 

Now that I think of it, I don't really know what they mean by progressive.  I'm pretty sure they mean there are lots of democrats in the neighborhood.  Progressive would definitely imply that you can get a good cup of coffee such as the macciato.  It also probably means that many residents are overeducated and underemployed, perhaps using their abundant free time at the plaza outside Starbucks to protest against greed.  Ironically, greedy insensitive conservatives also like progressive areas—not to live in, but as a place to get good coffee, go to art galleries and dine at three star restaurants.

As an aside, on the way to the restaurant, Ann called the B&B to tell them we would not be having breakfast the following morning (we just didn't think we could face it).  I heard her get F***ing Mitch on the phone and explain to him that we had to get on the road back to Cleveland early in the morning.  Apparently there was a long silence at the other end of the phone.  Ann reported that Mitch was speechless and that this had clearly never happened before in the history of their little inn.  As I said, we are really bad at B&B.

Dinner was very good.  We passed on the nightcap at the Little Venice—after all it was Sunday night and we were also concerned that we might begin to get a bad reputation around town as a couple of bar rats.  After all, we had developed a social position in the community and had to be careful about perceptions.  However, Ann challenged me to a game of pool so we wandered down to the Rongovian Embassy and played a game.  I totally owned her.  Back to the B&B, sneak up to room, bed.

Day 2.5

Day 2-1/2

You will recall that yesterday's blog finished half way through day 2 as we had waded through the local protesters on our way to lunch.  Lunch was at a local bistro and we ate at the bar where a college football game was on TV.  Had a nice cheeseburger and Ann had a salad.  We learned from the bartender that Cornell was playing Harvard and the game was underway.  We decided to go up and watch the second half.  We were struck by the steep hills going up from Ithaca proper to the Cornell campus.  Probably contributes to a healthy separation of townies and college kids.

Ann and I are both accustomed to college football at Big Ten schools—she at Ohio State and me at Michigan.  She is quick to remind anyone who will listen that she actually graduated from her Big Ten school while I did not.  Whatever.  Anyway, Ivy League football is a very different proposition.

I've been to a few Ivy League games in the past.  A game at Yale where a surprising number of old crusty Elis were actually wearing their coonskin coats and yelling “boola, boola” or whatever arcane (read: stupid) cheer they use there.  A game at Columbia vs. Brown where I witnessed one of Columbia's defensive linemen go behind the bleachers during the game and smoke a cigarette (Columbia at that point had not won a college football game in two years).  And now Cornell vs. Harvard.  To date the Ivy League had impressed me more with the bizarre off-field antics than the athleticism on the field.

We drove to the parking garage adjacent to the stadium hoping against hope (based on our Big Ten experience) that there might be an empty spot.  To our surprise, half the lot was empty.  And there was no charge for parking.  We then had the challenge of getting a ticket at halftime for what we were sure was one of Cornell's big games of the season (Harvard is traditionally at or near the top of the Ivys).  We walked about ten paces from our parking spot to the stadium and asked an usher where we could get tickets.  He cheerfully handed us two free tickets and showed us in.  This was clearly not the Big Ten.

The crowd might have been a little bigger than you would see at a Thursday afternoon practice at St. Ignatius high school on Cleveland's west side.  But not by much.  We were on the Harvard side and, as the game progressed, it became clear that the majority of the fans in our section were friends and family of the players (there is something different about the way a fan says “come on Billy!” and the way a mother says it).  The football was actually pretty good.  Cornell played well and could have won the game but for some mistakes, but Harvard prevailed in the end.  We left, walked the ten yards to our car and drove away—no traffic jam, no mosh pit of tailgaters—nothing. 

We had the remainder of the afternoon to goof around and were faced with a dilemma: back to the B&B to read books and nap or more hiking?  Ultimately we decided that the downside of running the gauntlet at the B&B (the gauntlet being Mitch and the Wine Trail gang) outweighed the attractions of the nap.  We pressed on for a hike at Buttermilk falls, another of the area’s famous gorges.

Here I made a miscalculation.  Buttermilk falls had a gorge trail (i.e., in the gorge itself) and a rim trail (well above the gorge).  I decided it would be better to go up the rim trail and down the gorge trail on the theory that the gorge might have more extreme elevations at spots and that it would be easier to be going downhill.  I was right about the former and wrong about the latter. 

After a nice hike up the rim trail, we returned down the gorge and discovered that the trail was carved out of shale and was generally wet and slippery from the water that was seeping everywhere out of the shale.  Ann who, as I mentioned earlier, has some mild perception issues, immediately came to the conclusion that we were going to lose our footing and fall hundreds of feet (in her mind—it was actually about 12 feet) into the rushing torrent below (actually a burbling brook) leaving her mother childless (other than her other five children) and Daisy an orphan.  The hike was spectacular.  (Editor’s note: We totally could have died.  Totally.)

At this point the need for a nap was strong enough that we had no choice but to go back to the B&B and accept the consequences.  We pulled into the driveway slowly, got out of the car carefully and skulked furtively up to the front porch.  Punched in the code in the front door and made a quick move upstairs, arriving at our room unmolested.  We heaved a sigh of relief at our good fortune and went to our naps dreaming happy thoughts of raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens and Mitch slipping at the edge of the gorge while telling a stupid joke and disappearing into the dark abyss. 

That evening I asked Ann what she wanted to do for dinner.  She answered her ususal, “Oh, whatever you want to do is fine.”  It has taken me most of the last year to learn but I now know this is a trap.  It is like playing 20 questions.  I make a suggestion and then watch for subtle facial expressions to learn whether it was the right answer.  If not, I move on to the next option.  Eventually if I don't come to the right answer on my own she might offer up hints—“it might be nice to consider...” (fill in correct answer).  I have been known to screw up even at this point which of course makes me an insensitive, unfeeling bastard, ultimately requiring forgiveness and understanding.  Fortunately Ann is good at forgiveness and understanding.  However, this whole kabuki dance strikes me as inefficient.

(Editor’s note: We had actually found a lovely place during our lunch trip to Ithaca.  I had ‘yelped’ it and we decided early on to go there.  However, I will not confuse our dear readers with the facts.  A non-emotional wife making rational decisions doesn’t make good copy.)

(Author’s note: The editor should get her own blog if she’s so smart)

This evening the right answer was a place in Ithaca called Mercato Bar and Kitchen.  It was an elegant little place near the same pedestrian walkway we visited earlier (protesters had apparently retired to Starbucks to continue planning the downfall of the capitalist system). The restaurant was run by an established chef from Ithaca who had gotten tired of working for other people so he started his own place and hired his entire family to work there.  The place was small and he could monitor everything from his perch in the open kitchen in the middle of the restaurant.   The food was good and sophisticated but simple.  I think Ann felt she had been treated like a lady.

We headed back to Trumansburg but it was still early for a Saturday night so we went back to the Little Venice and ran into our best friend the bartender from the night before.  This time, however, he was on our side of the bar.  He introduced us to all the cool kids in Trumansburg and we ordered a beer.  Turns out the drinks were free since one of the couples we had been introduced to had just gotten married.  What the wedding couple was doing in the Little Venice was a good question but we did not look a gift horse in the mouth and enjoyed our free drinks and the company.  Headed back to the B&B and scoped out the property before making our move.  Some guests again out by the firepit in back so we pretended not to see them and made a bee-line for the front door.  Sprinted upstairs, locked the door and went to bed.

Day Two

Day 2

Woke up at 8:30, which for me is close to a world record.  Usually I'm up around 7 am on weekends.  The bed was comfortable, it was quiet and I had absolutely nothing I had to do.  However, my feeling of well being did not last long.  Upon our arrival on Friday, F***ing Mitch had told us that breakfast was served at 9:00 am.  There is something about a B&B breakfast that gives me the willies.  A bunch of strangers sitting around a table awkwardly looking at each other while they are served obscene quantities of high carbohydrate, gooey baked stuff and coffee that has flavors in it.  Bad flavors like cinnamon and mocha-mint.  They don't seem to realize that coffee is a flavor.  There's no way to improve on it.  A feeling of dread set in and when I looked over at Ann I could tell she felt it too.

A half hour later we went downstairs to face the music, or in this case the green chili egg “poof” with sweet glaze.  The other lodgers were sitting around the table staring eagerly at the kitchen door like dogs with their tongues hanging out, waiting for Mitch to appear with the morning's 2,500 calories (not counting the pecan rolls).  I chatted with several of them, wondering what their plans were for the day.  They all seemed to be focused on trails of one sort or another.  No, not trails where you actually hike.  There was a “Wine Trail” of local vineyards where you could do tastings and eat stuff.  There was a “Chocolate Trail” of local artisanal confectioners.  There was an “Art Trail” of local artists' studios, though I imagine these had to also serve high calorie goodies to keep the tourists happy.

Shortly Mitch appeared in the doorway in his usual glory—rumpled Jimmy Buffett shirt (untucked with the first three buttons open), 1970s vintage Levis and the omnipresent white socks with no shoes.  Ann believes his hair was blow dried, which suggested Mitch actually cared about his appearance which in turn suggested that his bizzarre getup was intentional.  Our perceptions of ourselves are not always accurate.  I suspect that the Mitch that lived in Mitch’s mind was young, a class clown, edgy and maybe even a ladies man.  Clearly the blow dried hair and Key West shirt were a look that was frozen in time from an earlier, happier era. 

Mitch was carrying the aforementioned green chili egg “poofs” with pink glaze drizzled on them.  I fought back an involuntary gag reflex and focused on the mounds of baked stuff in the center of the table to try to settle my stomach.  Ann, who is normally very friendly, was surprisingly withdrawn throughout breakfast as she tried to choke down a few bites of the egg stuff.  Everybody else agreed loudly that it was a wonderful breakfast and some were asking for the recipe as Ann and I made a quick exit stage left.

As we got ready to go out for the day, we could hear the rest of the guests laughing and having a great time for the next half hour.  That's when we realized we were really bad at B&B.  We didn't think Mitch's jokes were funny, we didn't gather 'round the campfire to bond with our housemates, we arrived just in time for breakfast and left as soon as we could politely escape, we didn't ask for recipes and we had no interest in the Chocolate Trail. 

At 10 am or so we left for Taughannook State Park, right down the road, to hike a beautiful gorge.  We stopped in town at the local coffee shop for a real cup of coffee that I hoped would wash away the taste of the horrible flavored brew at the B&B.  My brother had recently told me that he liked a macchiato coffee, which is basically an Italian espresso with a little bit of milk foam on top.  It sounded both sophisticated and, well, macho, so I ordered one.  It put hair on my chest but succeeded in the dual goals of getting me appropriately caffeinated and washing away the cinnamon coffee taste.  I think I scare Ann a little bit when I'm fully caffeinated, which is fun.

When we got to Taughannock State Park an old park ranger showed us where to park and then started spewing a bunch of irrelevant stories about a Loch Ness monster in Lake Cayuga and rock ledges coming loose and smooshing scores of tourists, who died slow agonizing deaths.  He did this at ear-splitting volume (he must have been deaf).   Silly as the stories were, these were not good ideas to plant in Ann's head since she believes most outings with me have a good chance of resulting in death or dismemberment.  She has perception issues. 

The ranger also did his best to disprove myths he thought we might be told about Indian tribes living on these grounds as “a bunch of crapola”.   These and other truths were shouted at us enthusiastically amidst a torrent of spit.  Ann tends to immediately fall in love with such colorful characters, despite the obvious hygiene issues.  So, naturally, I got a picture of the two of them. This so pleased him that he lurched into an even louder torrent of more bizarre and unrelated facts.   It took a while, but eventually we made our escape.

We hiked up the south rim of the gorge and walked back on the north rim trail.  There was a spectacular waterfall at the top of the gorge that fell hundreds of feet.  Lake Cayuga was at the bottom of the trail and at the end of the hike we walked around the little park and marina by the lake and watched a few boats put in. 

We then drove into Ithaca for lunch and found a cute little restaurant on a pedestrian mall in the center of town.  On our way to the restaurant we met Ithaca's version of the Occupy Wall Street protests.  It was a forlorn looking group of earnest people, all of whom seemed older than 50.  They carried signs saying “Frack Wall Street!”  This was apparently to show both solidarity with their brothers in the Wall Street protests and to take a pot shot at the local gas companies who are trying to frack all of upstate New York to get at the natural gas in the shale below.

Fracking is a technique whereby a company drills a hole very deep in the ground, sets off an incredible explosion at the bottom of the hole and blows sand into the resulting fractures in the underground rock, thereby letting the natural gas escape up the well.  The only problem with fracking is that it reportedly sometimes fractures delicate aquifers and inadvertently pollutes an area's drinking water for all time.  There have been cases reported of gas coming out of faucets and igniting inside people's houses.  The gas industry claims fracking is safe but there is significant resistance from many residents of New York and Pennsylvania where much of the drilling is taking place—hence “Frack Wall Street” (a confused message, but it has a certain ring to it).  I have no idea who is right but I know (a) I like cheap gas, and (b) they better not do any fracking in my back yard.

As an aside about the Occupy Wall Street protests, I mentioned to a friend the other day that the whole thing seemed stupid to me.  I said that protesting against Wall Streeters was like protesting against cockroaches.  Just as cockroaches are attracted to open cereal boxes and crumbs on the floor, Wall Streeters are attracted to easy money.  There is no point in blaming them for being cockroaches (or Wall Streeters).  They can’t help it.

Ben Stein spoke at a conference I attended recently and he had a similar take.  He said that when our generation protested we wanted something—for example, civil rights or an end to the Vietnam war.  The Occupy Wall Street protests claim to be protesting against greed.  Ben Stein said protesting against greed is like protesting against breathing.  It is an essential part of our human nature, without which we would wander around aimlessly doing meaningless things like, well, occupying Wall Street.

Day One

Day One

We were scheduled to leave for our weekend on Friday morning.  I had been out of town Wednesday and Thursday.  I had to get up at 4am on Wednesday to catch a plane to New York and didn't get back until nearly midnight Thursday.  I had to go into the office Friday morning to deal with some things that had gone undone in my absence.  By the time I got home it was after noon.  I could tell Ann was a little impatient at that point so I packed a few things quickly and jumped in the car.  Ann, like all women, is sensitive about her husband exhibiting the right priorities.  As in—Ann is the top priority.  Fortunately she is smart enough to also connect the dots and realize that by going to work Johnny Moo gets money that can be used for the top priority.  Anyway, no harm done.

One very sad development was that Daisy was not going to be joining us on our road trip.  Apparently the bed and breakfast did not welcome pets—another strike against them before we had even crossed their threshold.  Ann had to perform some love therapy on the dog before our departure but we got off around 1pm.

The weather was beautiful on our drive east.  The land slowly changed from the flat cornfields of Ohio to the rolling hills of Western New York State on the Appalachian Plateau.  We took the Southern Tier highway across New York, notably passing Lake Chautauqua shortly after entering the state.  We were struck by both the beauty of the country and the obvious poverty. 

I have read that the poverty in upstate New York is in part attributable to government policies that may work in New York City—where the bulk of the population lives—but that are counterproductive elsewhere in the state.  Having been a director of a company that did a lot of business in and with New York State, I know that the state has a reputation for high taxes, a nightmare workmens compensation scheme, onerous business liability laws, political corruption and rampant unionization.  Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, it's a great place to do business.

However, economic stagnation has a silver lining.  The lack of development contributes to the preservation of things that we value: the natural environment, older buildings, communities and ways of life.  I have often thought that Cleveland has some of this mixed blessing—although we don't have the economic opportunities of faster growing areas, we have fewer traffic jams, less expensive (but still great) restaurants, beautiful countryside and easier access to sports, entertainment and culture.  As long as you have a good job, it's a great place to live.  Unfortunately, there are fewer and fewer good jobs.

So while the upstate New Yorkers struggled with poverty, we enjoyed the scenic beauty and charm of their area.  I should note that these thoughts are my own—Ann is very compassionate and if she thought that our pleasure was at the expense of the economic well being of the Upstaters, she would not have been able to enjoy it.  Shhhhhh.

On the road we listened to Mumford & Sons, Ray Lamontagne, the Decemberists and a mix CD from our friends Nora and Joe.  Ray Lamontagne is a flavor-of-the-month singer/songwriter that may have staying power—the guy is clearly talented.  He also is super sensitive and soulful, which, I postulated to Ann, would make him ultra dreamy to women.  I asked Ann what she thought his move would be with women he met on tour.   She thought a moment and said that he would definitely go with the “I'm no good for you, I'm damaged goods, I feel too deeply” move, which she said would work every time.  I protested that I am damaged goods and feel really deeply.  She looked at me sceptically and said, “of course you are, dear” and went back to gazing at the scenery.  

After a beautiful 5 hour drive we arrived at our destination, Trumansburg, New York.  Trumansburg was, oddly, named after a gentleman named Treman, the spelling of whose name was undoubtedly garbled like that of Moses Cleaveland, the founder of Cleveland.

I was trying to maintain a good attitude about the Bed and Breakfast.  However, the edifice in front of my eyes had all the signs—Victorian architecture, built in 1829, lace curtains visible through the windows, and a number of cars in the parking lot that added to the feeling of unease—a Subaru, a Prius and a Volvo.  I walked up to the front door with the suitcases (Ann's of Jackie Onassis proportions) and was met there by our innkeeper, Mitch.  Or, as he would come to be known, F***ing Mitch.

Mitch, Mitch, Mitch.  How to describe Mitch?  He was tall, unkempt and at that awkward age where everything was gray but not gray enough to be dignified.  Just gray enough to seem over the hill without having absorbed any wisdom.  Mitch sported a faded Jimmy Buffett-syle shirt, nondescript khakis and white socks (no shoes).  The clothes would have benefited from an iron.  Mitch wore the unmistakable smirk of a guy who liked to hear his own impish jokes.  I steeled myself.

Mitch grabbed my small overnight suitcase, leaving me with Ann's steamer trunk and welcomed us in.  The place was right out of central casting.  Lace curtains, tablecloths with fringes, fireplace, lace doilies, Americana paintings, cozy parlor and the dreaded one-big-table dining room.  Mitch showed us around with a series of one liners that had certainly been used hundreds of times before—you could almost hear the badadabump after each one. 

In due course we arrived at our room upstairs.  It was surprisingly nice.  Big screen TV, big walk-in shower, a thermostat and a gas fireplace.  Ann immediately unpacked, carefully arranged her things in the dresser and closets and her toiletries in the bathroom.  I threw my crap on the couch and turned on the big screen to watch ESPN’s take on the weekend football matchups.

We went into the little town of Trumansburg for dinner.  Ann's co-worker Justin had scoped out the town on an earlier vacation and recommended a restaurant/bar called the Rongovian Embassy.  The owner of the Rongovian Embassy reportedly was posted in Nicaragua in the 80s with a US government agency.  At one point when he asked which way to go to get to his destination, his superior told him to avoid a particular road that went to “Wrong-ovia”.  Hence, the Rongovian Embassy. 

The Rongovian was sparsely populated when we arrived at around 8:30 pm but the waitress breathlessly told us to get our order in quickly because she would be seating an 8-top, which apparently would overwhelm the kitchen.  We did as we were told, figuring the kitchen staff consisted of some guy who had a date at 9:00.  Had a beer and listened to a 50-something blues singer who played hard core Mississippi roots music.  No, he was not a blind black man—he was a white, roundish, balding CPA from Rochester (he still had his tie on) who, unlike the cook in back, apparently could not find a date on Friday night. 

We ate our burritos (very good) and drank our beer and then decided to go out for a pub crawl in Trumansburg.  There was no secret where the pub crawl would take us.  There were only two other bars in town—the Ron-Don (hard to guess the owner's first names) and the Little Venice.  We struck out across the street for the Ron-Don where one of the league championship series games was on.  I think it was one of the Detroit Texas games.

We were rooting for Detroit and Milwaukee, our Midwestern brothers, and against Texas and St. Louis.  Texas is just too full of itself and St. Louis seems distant and nondescript.  Detroit and Milwaukee are downtrodden, dysfunctional union towns with a lot of character and not a lot to cheer about.  As Clevelanders, we were sympathetic.

However, we didn't care enough to watch more than one or two innings and went off in search of more action down the street at the oddly-named Little Venice.  The Little Venice was a little more active with a bunch of people at the bar and a serious looking but gregarious bartender who became our best friend in Trumansburg.  Sadly I have forgotten his name.  Ann chatted up a few other locals and we decided we were fitting in pretty well with the fast crowd in Trumansburg. 

After a beer at the Little Venice we rolled home, tiptoed upstairs to avoid the proprietor and the other lodgers (some of whom were bonding at the firepit in the back yard).  I did a faceplant and was unconscious immediately.

Introduction

Anniversary Blog

Just when you thought it was safe to go back on the internet—the blog is back!  Those of you that suffered through the Honeymoon Blog have had a year of rest and, with any luck, have built up the stamina for another installment.

Ann had been dropping little hints for some time that it would be nice to go away on our anniversary.  She had a romantic idea that we could go on another road trip with the Crapmobile and the dog and relive some of the fun of our honeymoon.  I was a little dense about picking up on the hints.  Then she stopped hinting and started making reservations.

We were both pretty busy and couldn't take a long vacation but thought we could get away for a long weekend.  We looked into Mackinac Island in northern Michigan but decided the drive would be too long for a weekend trip.  Then Ann decided to investigate the Finger Lakes in upstate New York where one of her co-workers had been on vacation recently.  I told her my favorite was Middle Finger Lake.  She seemed persuaded for a moment but then gave me a look of disappointment.  Apparently my sense of humor is a little less cute than it was a year ago.

I had only been in this area a couple of times previously—once working on an acquisition for a client and once visiting my brother at Cornell University where he went to school at the time.  I had no strong memories of the area other than a sense that it was rural, hilly and probably extremely cold in the winter (I recall working hard to get the acquisition done before winter set in).

The Finger Lakes are near Rochester New York and were formed about 2 million years ago by glaciers that settled into river valleys and carved out 11 long deep lakes that look like—you guessed it—fingers.    

Ann announced a few weeks ago that she had found a cute little bed and breakfast near the largest of the Finger Lakes, Cayuga.  Those words—“cute little bed and breakfast”—send a chill deep into the soul of any man, and I was no exception.  I immediately had visions of a drafty old Victorian mansion with an earnest, unkempt proprietor couple.  I had visions of other guests searching for meaningful social interactions in an environment where there was no polite escape. 

These places don't have living rooms, they have “parlors”.  They don't have restaurants, they have “dining salons”.  Dining salons with large dining room tables where you are supposed to have breakfast with other lodgers, some of whom may still be in their jammies.  There are “throws” everywhere (a “throw” is something you wrap around yourself to stave off hypothermia in a drafty old Victorian mansion), grandfather clocks that don't work, beds designed for the vertically challenged, creaky floors, thin walls, and no TVs.

The owners of places like this make the common mistake of going on vacation, having a nice time and then coming to the flawed conclusion that they can turn vacation into a lifestyle.  The people who end up in this trap—ski instructors, country club managers, river rafting guides, resort employees—soon discover that bowing and scraping to a constant stream of high-maintenance jackasses with a genius for not understanding anything they are told, is actually not anything like a vacation.  It is the opposite of vacation.  Often these disillusioned souls then take out their frustrations on actual vacationers.

Honeymoon blog readers will recall my theory that women generally apply the “frog in the pot” principle to their  relationship with the men in their lives.  Their goal, of course, is to strip us of any shred of manhood or dignity in order to attain complete and total domination.  They put the happy little frog in the pot and slowly turn up the heat until the frog, never aware of what is going on, is completely cooked.  I think that when a man is going off for a long weekend at a bed and breakfast, you can put a fork in him.  He's done.  Well done.