Greetings From Wilkes-Barre
... it's nondescriptastic! It's also pronounced "Wilkes Berry". Which sounds kinda like the breakfast cereal which assassinated Abraham Lincoln (see also: Aaron Burr-an Flakes, Lee Harvey Oswald or Possibly Castro or Perhaps the Illuminati or Maybe the CIA Crispies).
I am illin' and chillin' in tha W.B.'s municipal crib as a result of the most boring whim ever. On a scale of spontaneity ranging from "Mexican gender reassignment surgery" all the way down to "Mountain Fresh fabric softener instead of tried-and-true Spring Breeze", my sojourn hits bottom with a resounding clunk. But it's okay. I've got trail mix, HBO and free wifi. My hotel room is snuggly warm and not nearly as crappy as Super Discount Hotel Chain's usual offerings (this one time? In South Carolina? The entire carpet was damp and the room smelled suspiciously like a poorly-maintained pet store). The bath products are tiny and organic. The sheets are clean, crisp and unsullied by granola bar crumbs.
I didn't really intend to wind up here. However, yesterday evening, I was feeling rather somber. "Aaaaaagh fuck I can't do this any more nooooo," is how I believe I phrased it. I had just handed J.Q. off to the baby-daddy, along with a full status report (milestones, bad: vomited down mama's cleavage. Milestones, good: has 226-word vocabulary. Coupled with his all-abiding love of his tricycle and disregard for authority, J.Q. is fully qualified to be a Hell's Angel). I was young, free of responsibility and in the creamy center of a major metropolitan area.
I also had no plans save "work on novel" and "attempt to chisel vomit out of household linens". I found the prospect... unappealing.
I am illin' and chillin' in tha W.B.'s municipal crib as a result of the most boring whim ever. On a scale of spontaneity ranging from "Mexican gender reassignment surgery" all the way down to "Mountain Fresh fabric softener instead of tried-and-true Spring Breeze", my sojourn hits bottom with a resounding clunk. But it's okay. I've got trail mix, HBO and free wifi. My hotel room is snuggly warm and not nearly as crappy as Super Discount Hotel Chain's usual offerings (this one time? In South Carolina? The entire carpet was damp and the room smelled suspiciously like a poorly-maintained pet store). The bath products are tiny and organic. The sheets are clean, crisp and unsullied by granola bar crumbs.
I didn't really intend to wind up here. However, yesterday evening, I was feeling rather somber. "Aaaaaagh fuck I can't do this any more nooooo," is how I believe I phrased it. I had just handed J.Q. off to the baby-daddy, along with a full status report (milestones, bad: vomited down mama's cleavage. Milestones, good: has 226-word vocabulary. Coupled with his all-abiding love of his tricycle and disregard for authority, J.Q. is fully qualified to be a Hell's Angel). I was young, free of responsibility and in the creamy center of a major metropolitan area.
I also had no plans save "work on novel" and "attempt to chisel vomit out of household linens". I found the prospect... unappealing.
"Nooooo gaaaaaaawd I am going to die of boringness aaaaaaaagh," as I succinctly put it.
So I packed a change of clothes. I grabbed my hiking boots... I wasn't sure where I was going, but I liked the idea that it might require hiking boots. I stopped at Local Retail Behemoth Not Known For Fucking Labor Laws Up The Ass. A road atlas, some electrical tape for my antenna (between that and the ossified fast food ground into the carpet, the DecrepiCivic has been awarded official "hoopty" status) and some trail mix were procured. I wasn't sure where I was going, but shit, more or less every destination would require trail mix. Well, except for Chocolate Chip, Raisin and Pepita Depot, and GOOD CHRIST, wasn't the point of this excursion to make my life slightly MORE interesting?
I spent many happy hours hurtling down the highway. I drove through snow, hail and the mysterious "wintry mix". I saw mountains and truck stops and tiny little airports. I explored local radio stations and wriggled my seat-bound ass to an utterly incongruous rural techno station. I hit the trail mix like a ravenous squirrel.
So here I am. Wilkes-Barre! Alternate town motto: "I Was Tired and It Was There". A few more hours of Kerouac-ing it up and slathering myself in tiny bath products (which contain sunflower seed oil? Shit, I'm gonna turn INTO trail mix), then I hit the road again. Further north? East, to the Delaware Water Gap (I have no idea what it is, but I intend to let its keepers know that a good motto might be "It's Gap-tacular!")? West, to... I don't know, I think mostly pine trees? Don't know. Don't care. Northeastern PA is my oyster, and I fully intend to crack this bitch open.
posted by thumbscre.ws at
1/28/2007
5 Comments:
emil anonymously said: I vote for the Delaware Water Gap. A million years ago when we were there it was gorgeous in the winter. Also check out Stroudsburg.
I highly recommend the Pennsylvania Grand Canyon, Wellsboro, PA. You're just about 4 hours away, and the canyon can provide hiking boot like experiences or not, whichever you prefer. And stop at the Wellsboro Diner, that's my Grandmother-in-law's place.
Och, I miss the east coast sometimes.
I can't believe you're in Wilkes-Barre. What an armpit. I grew up in an even worse armpit about 30 minutes away.
What to do in WB? Not much. The people watching at the mall is hilarious and sad at the same time. I think Crystal Caves and the Crayola Factory aren't too awful far away. Jim Thorpe is relatively close - it's both haunted and historic. Or you could do as the locals do: sit in a bar and wonder how the hell you ended up there.
I second the vote for the Grand Canyon of PA -- it's not the Grand Canyon, mind you, but it's lovely, and it's really only about 3 hours away (or less). The snow there this week will make it especially beautiful, though it means they may not be running the horseback tours that they often have.
I also second the Wellsboro Diner recommendation -- it's in an old trolly car at the light in Wellsboro, and it's marvelous. I envy the original poster her family connection -- the owner is a real sweetheart.
If you need more good eats, Grammas' Kitchen (more than one Gramma, so the apostrophe is in the right place) in Mansfield is on your way to Wellsboro -- as you come into town on Route 6 hang a left on Main Street in Mansfield. Gramma's Kitchen is on your left about 2 miles down, just before you get to the traffic light near the Walmart (ick). They have the best cinnamon swirl french toast ever served, and they have wonderful cookies and muffins fresh out of the oven every morning.
Plus you have friendly readers out that way who would be happy to offer more travel and tourism advice than you need! (tdoerkse at mnsfld.edu)
Teri - You were my lit studies professor, probably about 3 years ago. Straaaange.
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