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.