Texas is so large that it takes two to three days to cross. On one of our cross-country jaunts with our son we veered off the interstate to lunch at the rumored BEST BBQ in Texas, Snow’s BBQ in Lexington. We have purposely sought out the best rated BBQ in various towns, but Snow’s BBQ was been the first to live up to their reputation. Located on a small country lane at the end of the street, appropriately next to the live cattle auction, the line for this BBQ hotspot starts first thing in the morning and lasts until all food is sold out. We luckily slipped in line on a slower winter day in early February, 2020, before Coronavirus COVID-19 and social distancing became the norm; and before we boarded the Pariah Ship at the epicenter of the pandemic outbreak.
While we chowed down on brisket and sides, NETFLIX was on site filming a segment for their Chef’s Table BBQ show. Check out Dan chatting with the Pit-master herself, Tootsie.
Dan with 83-yo Pit Master Tootsie of Snow’s BBQ in Lexington, TX
While waiting to hear final word from an agent who expressed interest in shopping my book, Pariah Ship, I’ve published a short article in The Santa Monica Daily Press and a longer article in the travel magazine, Go Nomad about our Asian “Dream” Cruise Turned Coronavirus Nightmare. Below are the first few chapters, I’ve submitted to the agent with recommended changes from beta reads. Thank you to Mike Berg, Elane Sena-Brown, Marybeth Macaluso, and Diane Margolin for all your input.
Other than our own personal names (Lori, Dan, and Matthew), all other names in the book have been changed to protect their identity.
“To practice death is to practice freedom. A man who has learned how to die has unlearned how to be a slave.”
Chapter 1
February 14, 2020, Valentine’s Day
Kuala Lumpur International Airport, Malaysia
Ding, Ding, Ding. Three bells. I freeze in place. That was the call when the cruise ship’s captain had an announcement. Two bells were Jordan, the cruise director. Except for this time, my husband Dan and I are off the ship and on a Malaysia Airlines flight to Kuala Lumpur. The highs and lows of the past dozen days at sea are behind us now. Or, so we think.
The cabin steward announces over the intercom, “Please secure your tray tables and bring your seats into an upright position. According to Malaysia Airlines regulations, we will begin spraying the cabin. You may cover your face.”
“What?” I already had the navy-blue airline blanket draped over my head and body to block out the light. I knew we had a seven-hour layover in Malaysia followed by a sixteen-hour flight back to LAX via Korea, and I was trying to rest as much as I could. I’m already sleep-deprived from the uncertainties and excitement over the last several days of our voyage on the Holland America ms Westerdam.
You can cover your face? I think to myself. Simultaneously, I hear a huge volume of aerosol deployed into the cabin. I peek out from under the blanket and I’m immediately clouded by the gray mist filling the plane. A cabin steward, donning an emerald green jacket, white shirt, and matching green floral tie is walking down the middle of the aisle releasing the contents of two big cans, one in each hand. It tastes like a mixture of pesticide and Lysol.
What the…? Is that because of us? I throw a look over my shoulder to my husband, Dan who is seated in the aisle seat behind me. The plane is designed with three seats on one side of the aisle and three on the other side. I’m at a window seat one row in front of him. “Is that because of us?” My voice is muffled through my black surgical mask.
“I don’t know,” he muffles back. “Keep your head covered.” I whip the blanket back over my head until we land, and all the fumigation is no longer hanging in the air.
This begins a buzz in the cabin with everyone speculating about the spraying. The seventy-something woman across the aisle and up a couple of seats begins coughing heavily again. This must have irritated her lungs. Her left-hand whips to her mouth, hack, hack, hack – a common scene displayed by many passengers over the past two weeks on the Westerdam. Someone on this flight has to be infected with the virus. We’re going to be quarantined. I think to myself.
Dan and I had been saying this for days while circling the ship, “I cannot believe no one on this ship has the Coronavirus. Not with all these, hackers;” although, the ship’s medical staff reassured us almost daily that the Westerdam was virus free. I’m not referring to a mild phlegmy cough some people get after eating yogurt or drinking milk; this is a deep, wet, and continuous cough. The scenario was the same. Hand flies to mouth, they cough wetness into their hand, rub their nose, and subsequently proceed to either push the elevator buttons up to the Lido Buffet or walk right by the hand sanitizer and pick up a set of communal tongs to dish up their meal.
This septuagenarian takes it one step further, though. As she stands to prepare to exit the plane, she pulls out of her pocket an N95 respirator mask, places it over her nose and mouth, careful not to mess her perfectly coiffed bleached up-do, and proceeds to walk off the plane, touching the top of every seat on the left side on her way out. I cringe when I watch others file into the lane behind her grabbing a hold of each seat top for support.
Really. Now she puts on the mask. After she contaminated everyone around her with whatever infection she has, and now she decides to wear a mask. Unfreakin’ believable. I want to yell at her. I’ve wanted to rebuke everyone on the ship for the past two weeks, but instead Dan and I kept a distance from all the coughers, isolating ourselves to our own cabin, or Walking Deck 3 with outdoor lounge chairs and fresh flowing air.
Hands in pocket, mask in place, Dan and I start to file out of the plane, being careful not to pick up more contagion than we already have. The faint aerosol still stings my eyes. The information card left at our cabin by Holland America stated our flight that evening was on Delta to ICN, then on to LAX after a seven-hour layover in South Korea. All flight arrangements had been made at this time by Holland America at their expense.
Damn right at their expense! I spent six hours the time before on tortoise-paced Internet trying to book flights out of Thailand, which of course, I had to cancel with huge penalties because Thailand refused to let the ship dock. I tried to purchase travel insurance, but after being kicked off the site several times in a row and my credit card being rejected for unusual activity, I just gave up. That is of course only one of the several flights we had booked and cancelled because all Asian ports had denied us entry.
I can still remember how we learned that our extra day of travel into Thailand was a frustrating waste of time. While lapping Deck 3, I got a message from one of our neighborhood friends, who just so happened to be in Southeast Asia during the same travel dates as ours. Their land tour experience; though, was completely different from our fourteen days lost at sea. Dan showed me pictures they posted on Facebook of everyone in their group grinning from ear to ear while riding elephants at camps in Myanmar or visiting the Killing Fields in Cambodia, and all having a great time.
The message was a snippet from a news article with the text, “Sorry to be the bearer of bad news. I waited until I saw it posted.”
“Do you have a link to the full article?” I texted him back. I wanted to read the words myself. I briefly scanned the article, and sure enough, the rejection was right there in black and white. Yet, we hadn’t heard any broadcast from our ship’s captain.
The article printed in The Phuket News said, “Laem Chabang: Thailand will not allow a cruise ship from Japan to let passengers disembark at the Laem Chabang port, Public Health Minister Anutin Charniviral said today (Feb 11). Mr. Anutin posted a short Facebook message directing local authorities not to allow the Westerdam ship to dock in Thailand.”
Facebook? Seriously? I screamed in my head. That’s how he made the announcement. Until that point, we hadn’t been aware of any denial from Thailand. We could feel the ship was still moving forward, the sound of the engines whirring below decks, so hopefulness and time were still on our side.
Our neighbors, the Steins, sent us a follow-up message with a map attached, “We are close,” they wrote. “I am by the arrow in Phnom Penh.”
I shared the information with Dan. There had been evidence that land was close by, even though we hadn’t glimpsed shore during our daily deck walks. We hadn’t seen any land in nine days, but I started to spy sea birds flying near us and colorful fishing junks. I knew land couldn’t be that far away.
Dan quipped, “I think I can swim to that boat.” He pointed to one of the multicolor fishing junks about a football field away from us.
I wrote a return text to our neighbors, laughing, at my inane idea when I shared it with Dan. “Charter a boat and come pick us up. We’ll meet you at port side at 7 pm. No, make it 8. They’re serving Salmon Chowder at dinner.” We were still extremely optimistic at that time; that this cruise to nowhere would end in Thailand, and all would be fine.
Within moments of this exchange, a large steel-gray Thai Navy Destroyer with bulky fixed canons on its deck sped to our side, halting our path, while we heard our engines cut off. For the rest of the afternoon and evening, our ship sat in the same position, either being guarded or escorted by the Thai military, and we awaited word from our ship’s captain. At 5:30 pm, while sipping our complimentary wine, the engines jerked to a start and the ship made a one-hundred-eighty-degree turn. The captain always made his announcement a few minutes after the complimentary wine was flowing. If it was an open bar, we knew the news for that day was going to be exceptionally bad. That night, the update was that Thailand, the fifth Asian country we had pleaded with to allow us to dock and disembark, had refused us permission. The next option was Sihanoukville, Cambodia.
The “Pariah Ship” was the title of one of the latest articles about the Holland America ms Westerdam stating the facts that several countries had denied our ship permission to dock and disembark all 2,257 passengers and crew because of the paranoia that our ship, like the Diamond Princess before us, must have cases of the silent and deadly novel Coronavirus. The Diamond Princess was placed in quarantine off the coast of Japan after several passengers came down with flu-like symptoms and later tested positive for the virus.
Later that night I teased the other passengers that we had the “cheese touch,” which is a reference from the middle-school aged book, Diary of a Wimpy Kid. In the book, any student who touched the old moldy piece of cheese found on the blacktop of the play yard was ostracized from the rest of the class, similar to “the cooties.” But of course, this reference was lost on our fellow passengers who were the average age of 75.
Our reality today, sitting in a mobile gas chamber, is more sobering. No one is joking. A female airline attendant dressed in an emerald green and fuchsia tropical gown stops our group of passengers mid-aisle, closes the curtain, and makes us wait on the plane while the first half exits and clears the gangway, another odd procedure I note to myself. The woman who was seated in the aisle seat next to me in a black and white floral top announces to others around her, “I have the number of the U.S. Embassy in Cambodia. So, we can call if there is any problem with our connecting flights.”
I’m now on alert. The meeting earlier this morning on the Ship with the U.S. Embassy officials from Cambodia said we shouldn’t have any problems making it to our flights. But now I’m thinking they anticipated such problems, otherwise, why have meetings and generate letters, to begin with. They provided us the following letter with our travel package:
Information for Embassy Personnel to Assist Travelers off of the Westerdam
February 14, 2020
Dear Embassy Official:
We would like to help alleviate any potential issues that may arise during the homeward travels of the guests and crew off of the Westerdam.
Please be aware that it has been confirmed by an independent laboratory that there are no cases of either confirmed or suspected of Coronavirus onboard the Holland America Line’s ms Westerdam.
Samples taken on February 13th by the Cambodian Health Authorities and reviewed by the local US Centers for Disease Control and Prevention office in Phnom Penh, tested NEGATIVE for COVID-19.
No additional precautions are required for any transiting passengers who meet all applicable IATA health standards established for travel in and through all operating airports worldwide. No passenger has visited or transited through Mainland China in the last 14 days which was confirmed by a thorough passport review of all guests on Westerdam.
We appreciate the interest in preventing the spread of COVID-19 but any further discrimination toward our guests based on unfounded concerns is inappropriate and may be illegal.
We hope that the Embassy representing the travelers will make every effort to ensure a seamless trip home for the visitors…
Mam Bunheng
Minister of Health, Cambodia
In addition to the letter from the Minister of Health they also gave us a signed and stamped medical form from the Department of Health, Sihanouk Province, Kingdom of Cambodia dated 14th of February 2020, of our current forehead temperature reading of 36.4 degrees C.
Armed with our letters, we felt confident that the Valentine’s Day journey home, while long with our seven-hour layover, would be seamless. There now appears to be a hitch in our giddy-up. Good news swiftly quashed by bad news has been the ongoing theme since day one of our twenty-eight-day trip.
Valentine’s Day has always held a special meaning for us as a couple. Dan and I were introduced by my college roommate back on January 30, 1986, during my first year of college. I was eighteen and Dan was twenty. Two weeks later, on Valentine’s Day, Dan gave me a heart pendant and declared his love for me. I was skeptical of his quick declaration of love but matched his feelings a short time later. He swept me off my feet and perched me high on a pedestal, revering me with such adoration, that I was initially wary of teetering so high above the ground. But instead of jumping off, I reached down and grabbed hold of his hand and pulled him up with me. We have shared that spot for our entire 31-year marriage.
Over the past three decades of our lives together, we have circumvented all the typical issues most couples face and even some more challenging ones that no couple should ever have to endure. The strength of our love through respect of one another is one pillar of our relationship, but our friendship is an equal second. Dan and I are best friends.
We have successfully navigated many life transitions over the years, and when our one and only son, Matthew, was packing to return to his college apartment, preparing to start his second semester of university, I felt anxious but confident we would master this transition, too. The plan was to drive across the country with Matthew and his car, so he had transportation while attending university back east. I had underestimated the hole he would leave in my heart and our home from his absence. Since he had been home during winter break, all felt complete again. My thinking was a trip would busy my days to help with the feelings of loss once we left our son behind at school, and Dan and I returned home.
Matthew will no longer be the buffer or center of our attention. Once again, we will be a single couple, alone with each other. We are finding ourselves slipping into old roles, reminiscent of our early days of marriage while fighting to keep our own autonomy. Being my own person with a separate profession and interests was important to me from the beginning of our marriage. I observed my mother living in the shadow of my stepfather’s career as the homemaker and stay-at-home mother. She never broke out of that role, always serving others’ needs before her own.
Added to that, Dan retired as a police captain from the Santa Monica Police Department on his fiftieth birthday, and he keeps egging me on to pull the plug and follow him down the retirement path. I’m a registered dietitian nutritionist and certified personal trainer, and for close to twenty years, I served the rich and famous in the westside area of Los Angeles, which includes Santa Monica, Malibu, Pacific Palisades, and Beverly Hills. But I’m not ready to give up all my professional responsibilities as yet. I would still like to teach a science class or two at our local college and write. I believe I have accrued such a vast wealth of knowledge and experience over the decades, that it feels wasteful not to pass on my information at least to the next generation.
I remember this past January, thirty-four years after our initial introduction, sitting on the couch, scrolling through the internet. “I’m bored,” I said to Dan, but boredom wasn’t the correct term for what I was feeling. I’m scared, was really what I was thinking. What if, now that our son is gone, and we are alone once again, we don’t see each other as the young couple we once were, fearlessly grabbing hold of life like the mane on a couple of wild horses and galloping side by side, jumping hurdles strewn on our path. I understand our relationship will be different from what we had twenty years previously, but I miss that couple, and I’d like to try to recapture the newness and excitement we had in the spring and summer seasons of our marriage. I want to live like we are starting out again, not ending up.
“I thought you had an idea for a new writing project; or how about your Ancestry.com research, any new leads on that?” He offered suggestions to me the way I used to for our son when he complained that he was bored.
Yes, I’ve also been researching Dan’s family history and my own paternal heritage for the past couple of years using Ancestry.com. With my research results and email connections, we’ve even been able to meet some long-lost relatives over the past few months who have answered many questions and curiosities we have both had about our family ancestry. My family research, especially about my mother’s childhood and my mysterious bio father’s family helps to fill in the blanks about where I came from and might help to illuminate where I’m headed.
I have found; though, in the past that a journey, removing myself from my familiar environment, helped me to see my current life with a renewed perspective. We didn’t need a vacation or trip, but an adventure. One that would shake us from our usual routine and allow us to settle into our new inspired roles in the autumn years our life, to reconnect as husband and wife and as friends and confidants. Perhaps we could learn a new hobby or interest to carry with us into the years to come. I was excited about the idea of grabbing hold of those manes once again and riding off to new mysterious lands with my man by my side.
Sprawled out on the couch with my laptop balanced on my legs, I scrolled through the travel deals available on Costco.com. A cruise called to me. We haven’t done a cruise in a while. They tend to be hit or miss with us. Our first one was a disaster. We took a family cruise to Alaska back in 2004, and I caught the Norovirus. Not many people knew about the Norovirus back then, including me. When I reported my symptoms to the medical team onboard the ship, they quarantined me to my room for three days, which was almost half the cruise. I missed out on shore excursions and on-ship activities for those three days. The cruise line gave each of us a $500 credit toward a future cruise purchase, except the experience put such a bad taste in my mouth, we never used them.
The next cruise we took was in 2014, the summer of Dan’s retirement. It was a trip around the Mediterranean Sea, including Spain, France, and Italy, followed by a two-week land tour. What a wonderful cruise we had. Ships were savvier now we noticed. They had installed Purell hand-sanitizers at every entrance to the food venues. If everyone thoroughly washed their hands and used the available sanitizers, the Norovirus wouldn’t have any host to make sick.
The cruise I was eyeing was a twenty-eight-day trip, starting in Hong Kong and ending in Shanghai. The stops included the Philippines, Japan, South Korea, and China. On our bucket list, the Great Wall of China is one of our top three. When we dreamed of exploring certain foreign countries and visiting specific natural and man-made wonders before we died, we agreed that a cruise or a group tour was the best way. We didn’t want to drive in a country where we couldn’t speak the language or be able to read the road signs.
The price of this cruise made it hard to pass up at fifty percent off the original fare, including many extra perks because the ship was set to sail on February 1, 2020. That meant we had less than a month to get our shots and buy our visas, but Dan was on board. “Let’s do it,” he said. And with the final stroke of a key, I fated our future to more than a trip or vacation, but a relationship-changing journey. One that has left us standing today, Valentine’s Day 2020, on a Malaysia Airlines flight wondering why we are being delayed from disembarking.
The attendant pulls the curtain aside, and we are all ultimately allowed to unload the plane. We walk past an infrared scanning camera. I smile when the white glow appears across our foreheads and continue through the waiting room with the main airport in sight. I’m familiar with this type of camera. On the one and only day Asia allowed us to disembark the ship, February 4th in Taiwan, everyone had to pass by the infrared camera to check for a fever – one of the telltale signs and symptoms of the Coronavirus.
As all 145 of us from the Malaysia Airlines flight from Cambodia are herded into the vast room, our smile quickly turns once we realize there is no exit. Panic sets in with about half the passengers converging around the entrance of the room, protesting the detainment. The coughers are mixed in the middle of them all. Dan and I knew deep down this was coming. The Malaysian Airline staff, wearing gloves and masks, instruct us over the speaker in broken English that we must stay in this room until the authorities provide more instruction.
Many of you know that Dan and I were one of the unfortunate Americans who were trapped on one of the two ill-fated Asian cruises last month. Our ship, the ms Westerdam of Holland America, was denied disembarkation of our virus-free passengers from five separate Asian countries, and we were abandoned at sea by our own country for two weeks. After Dan and I were finally allowed to set foot on land in Cambodia and then subsequently flown to Malaysia, we were detained at the airport for three days with two other couples. During those three days, we were chased by authorities, blacklisted by all airlines and hotels, and finally informed that we were possibly infected with the coronavirus from an airline passenger and we needed to be tested and cleared by the Minster of Health before we would be allowed to leave the airport. With the help of the US Embassy team in Malaysia and a negative test result, we were finally allowed to leave the airport and fly home.
14-day Asian Cruise to Nowhere
For three weeks, Dan and I self-quarantined back at home, then flew back to Maryland to check on our son, who’s alone at University of Maryland. Like most schools around the country, his university has gone solely online. We stocked his shelves with enough food and toiletries to last him a few weeks and then hit the road in our touring van that we had stored in Maryland and began FreeWheeling south.
The first five days we’ve been practicing our social-isolation with solo-walking tours of Charleston, SC and Savannah, GA, biking, or practicing our Carolina swing as two-some’s on low-country golf courses and Hilton Head.
Top Left, Charleston, SC-Even with virus risk, many still interacting closely with each other.
We have settled for a few days along the Emerald Coast of Northwest Florida at a State Park on the powder-white sands of Santa Rosa Beach. We’ve opted to steer clear of hotels, resorts, or restaurants, and enjoy the comforts of our tiny house on wheels. Here, we will rest and I will finish writing my story of our Asian cruise disaster before we continue west toward the Mississippi River Road, starting in New Orleans.
Dan and I took full advantage of the 70-degree dryer desert weather and golfed a few times between our daily excursions in and around Santa Fe, Taos and Albuquerque, New Mexico. Tracing the Rio Grande River north to Taos we dry camped (boondocked) on BLM land along the Rio Grande Gorge, enjoying both sunset and sunrise the next morning.
Taos, NM: Earthship Biotecture green self-sustaining homes; Breakfast at Rio Grande Gorge
Starting at the Taos Pueblo, the continuously inhabited adobe home of the ancestral Puebloans of the area for more than one thousand years, we took the Enchanted Circle Trail around the high country of New Mexico; now sporting it’s fall sweater of Ponderosa pines, mottled with yellow and orange quaking Aspen leaves.
Taos Pueblo and High Country in New Mexico
The Bandelier National Monument was another day trip and hike for us about an hour south of Taos. Here we hiked along ancient adobe ruins and climbed several stories on wooden ladders into one thousand year-old cliff dwellings of an abandoned ancient Pueblo.
Bandelier National Monument
The next day we continued south along the Turquoise Trail, a popular southwest artsy locale scouted for many movies, and into our RV Spot for the last weekend of the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta. We arrived just in time for our birds-eye view of the the evening Special Shapes Glowdeo-balloons tethered to the field. The next two days alternated special balloon activities at sunrise and sunset, allowing for field festivities and music during the hours in between. We participated and observed it all, with the one regrettable miss-a balloon ride ourselves during the mass ascension. Oh well, I guess we now have an excuse to come back again another year.
Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta 2019
At the conclusion of the Balloon fiesta, Dan and I follow the I-40 West to Sedona, Arizona with a short detour through the Petrified National Park. The Petrified Forest in the Park looks like an abandoned logging camp littered with felled redwood trees, but with closer inspection the bark is solid rock and the interior has crystalized into hazes of grey and browns. In Sedona we golfed at the beautiful Oakcreek Country Club and dined at the award-winning restaurant Mariposa, both with some of the best red rock views in town. It was at Mariposa, as we gazed out the picture windows, Dan spotted an old colleague and friend, Bill Brucker and his wife, Patricia, dining nearby.
Top Right: Petrified Forest NP; Oakcreek Golf Club; Mariposa with Bill Brucker & Patricia
On the last day of our trip, I sit in the large overlook room of the Grand Canyon Lodge on the North Rim of the national park. My sunset view, the various shades of red and ochre striations of this giant chasm created from over six million years of water erosion, is unfathomable. Not just the display of water’s power, but the idea of how minuscule our time spent on this planet is-just a blip on earth’s timeline.
Grand Canyon Lodge North Rim: Hikes at sunset and sunrise
This trip has concluded with all that we had wished from the beginning: exploring the spectacular natural beauty within our countries’ national parks; meeting interesting people from various regions, including family members old and newly connected from Ancestry.com, and long-time friends; sampling the local specialties; and recounting America’s history at preserved sites. Would we do it again? The answer is not only, YES, but we are already discussing a two-month trip of the south for next spring.
In our attempt to outrun the unseasonable heat and humidity of the area, Dan and I didn’t dally during our stops on the way to the Albuquerque Balloon Fiesta. Between Memphis and picking up the Mother Road, Route 66, in Oklahoma, Dan and I spent the day in Arkansas. Little Rock Central High School is the historic site of the of Little Rock Nine who were thrown into the spotlight during the violent protests against racial integration and their attendance to the once all Caucasian school. Across the street from the currently active high school is a visitor center and museum with ranger led walks recounting the moving personal experiences of these nine high school students who were refused entrance to the school by those trying to protect their segregated southern ways.
The stirring morning spurred conversation for the remainder of the drive into Oachita National Forest where we took in the waters, sampling the hot springs in the famous resort town of the same name. Now a National Park, the main street in Hot Springs, Arkansas is lined with period bath houses and spas that have been renovated for more modern use, but supplied by the same tapped springs for the past 150 years.
Little Rock Central High School and Little Rock Nine National Historic Site; Hot Springs, Arkansas
Shortly after leaving the dense forest of Arkansas via scenic byway 71, green prairies lined with yellow and blue wild flowers swelled between the croppings of trees into wider open plaines and red earth, and by the time we reach the National Cowboy and Western Heritage Museum in Oklahoma City, we were driving through more rolling grasses than forest. From native pottery to silver spurs, we observed all that represents the wild west at this high-quality museum.
Western Heritage Museum, Oklahoma City, Route 66; Bucking Bronco
Several miles outside Oklahoma City we picked up Historic Route 66, which loops through towns off the I-40 through Oklahoma and Texas. During a quick stop at the kitschy National Route 66 Museum, I was reminded of John Steinbeck’s tragic novel, The Grapes of Wrath, about a family of Oakies traveling the Mother Road from the Dust Bowl in hopes of a better life in California. So, of course, I found an audio drama on Spotify, which acted out the book for the remainder of our two-hour drive to Texas.
By the time we reached the Texas border, all hardwood trees were replaced with blonde grasses, sage brush, and an occasional evergreen. The stop for this day was Amarillo. After a quick trip to Cadillac Ranch and running a few errands, Dan had a hankering for a Texas steak and baked potato. We gave The Big Texan Steak Ranch, home of the free 72 oz. steak, a try. Mastro’s or The Palm it’s not. Confirmed by several reviews, we knew going in that this restaurant was a touristy themed one, and it didn’t disappoint. The over-the-top décor and atmosphere entertained our senses while we split a darn good steak, potato, and side salad all served in a cast iron skillet.
Cadillac Ranch and The Big Texan Steak Ranch along Route 66 Amarillo, Texas
The next day we crossed into the desert of New Mexico and drove north to the town of Santa Fe, where Historic Route 66 meets the El Camino Real trail. With a mix of Spanish, Mexican, and Native American influences this Southwest city embraces the architecture, art, and food to create what they call a City Different. All the buildings in the town proper by code are of adobe color and style and blend seamlessly into the surrounding clay earth. Only New York City has more art galleries, and several restaurants in The Plaza are James Beard Award winners, specializing in New Mexican cuisine, highlighting red and green chilies. We ended our first day in New Mexico sampling the culinary talents of one of these restaurants, The Shed, where we both ordered New Mexican dishes smothered in Christmas chilies (half red, half green) and a house margarita.
Top Left to right: Golfing in Tucumcari, NM, along Route 66; Dan making flour tortillas; The Shed Restaurant; Hopi Woman Gallery; Red Chilies hung outside every door entry; El Rancho De Las Golondrinas-a living history museum of early Spanish/Mexican life along the El Camino Real
“…nothing so liberalizes a man and expands the kindly
instinct that nature put in him as travel and contact with many kinds of
people.” Mark Twian
Continuing our journey through the Music Capital of USA, Tennessee, our path out of the rocky top mountains of the Great Smokies led us to the awesome condo of our friend and Dan’s previous work colleague, Annmarie, on Church St. in Downtown Nashville. Unfortunately, our schedules conflicted and Annmarie had to go out of town, but waiting for us at her condo was Jay Trisler, who has been walking across America for Gods and Cops. He had been resting at her place in Nashville for a few days, enjoying the variety of music on and around Broadway, so he knew some of the key clubs to take Dan and me when we arrived.
Walking from our hotel to the trolley tour, which was going to circle through the city to our final destination for the evening, we happened upon a que of people. We learned the line was for Hattie B’s Hot Chicken, a specialty spicy fried chicken of Nashville. Since it was almost lunchtime, Dan and I decided to join the masses and give it a try. Passing on “shut the cluck up” spice level, we enjoyed the second and third heat levels of this Nashville favorite. Lip smacking good is how I would describe the second best fried chicken I’ve sampled on this 3-month journey.
Top Right: Dan and Jay at Annmarie’s condo, Nashville; Broadway; view of downtown Nashville; Hattie B’s hot chicken
With full bellies and half the downtown toured via trolley, we met up with Jay and planted ourselves on the second floor of Bourbon Street Blues Boogie in Printers Alley to listen to the musical talents of the Stacy Mitchart Band. I could feel the vibrations deep in my soul as he thrummed with lightening speed on the strings of his guitar that evening.
The next two days continued our country music enjoyment in Music City with an eight-act evening show at the legendary Grand Ole Opry, followed by a full day of honky tonk hopping on Broadway, where I sat like a fly on the wall listening to good music and old war stories told by Dan, Jay, and two other friends (Ira and Henry) who came down for a visit.
Honky Tonk Hopping with Jay, Ira, Henry, and Dan on Broadway
Between our stays in Nashville (or “Nashvegas” some call it) and Memphis, Dan and I drove south to Birmingham, Alabama for a quick visit with three of our nieces and nephews and their spouses and children. After catching them up on all the family happenings and confirming or clarifying old family history, we broke bread together over dinner and literaly drove off into the sunset.
Front left clockwise around table: Isaac (20 mos.); Kyler; Evelyn (4 y.o.); Quentin; Brittany; Justin; Dan, me, Felicia
The final two days in Tennessee with unseasonably hot, humid 90+ temps, we finished our musical journey in Memphis-the heart of blues, soul, and rock and roll along the Mississippi River. The three Kings: M.L.K., B.B., and Elvis rule the streets and recent history. Our fist stop in Memphis was the Lorraine Hotel, now the National Civil Rights Museum since the assassination of Dr. Martin Luther King in 1968.
Beale Street and Elvis dominated the rest of our time. First, we had to try Memphis-style BBQ and a lunch of meat and two sides-both a huge disappointment. In my opinion, Dan makes better BBQ and greens. Then we moved on to Graceland to tour the home, cars, and airplanes of Elvis Presley, whose life and death still evokes strong emotions from his fans. While touring Graceland, we witnessed more than one person weeping by his grave. As sunset closes on our day and I write this blog, I reflect on the musical diversity in Tennessee from Appalachian Blue Grass to Rock and Roll. We’ve had a great two weeks, but tomorrow we must continue West.
Top Left: Graceland; Rum Boogie Cafe; sunset over Mississippi in West Memphis; B.B. King
We lost the brilliant fall foliage back in Pennsilvania, replaced with a wall of green, thick and wild forest. The Skyline Drive in the Shenandoah National Park and the Blue Ridge Parkway in its own national park wind along the backbone of the rippled, densely forested Blue Ridge Mountains of the Appalacians. Unlike many other national parks we’ve visited that are on a loop system, these roads have access and exit points along each major town. This allowed us the peaceful sanity of a country drive southwest while dipping off the mountain to the tourist sights below, as well as take full advantage of the hiking trails, activities, and campgrounds within the parks.
On our first day along the Skyline Drive we did just that, exited the national park to visit Monticello, the retirement home and plantation of Thomas Jefferson in Charottesvile, Virginia. With 95% of the home’s original materials and structure, this well-preserved home is a living history museum of his architecture and engineering genious. If we hadn’t already taken a stenuous hike earlier in the day, we would have opted to park at the base of the property and follow the walking trail to the home. Since it was the lunch hour, we decided to partake in the Southern-style home cooking at Michie’s Tavern, also a preserved historical building, located on the same grounds. After our hearty meal, which was so nutrient-dense it held us until the next morning, we took in the sights and tours at Monticello. We opted for the slave tour-an unbiased accounting of the life and hardships of some of the hundreds of people owned by this author of the Declaration of Independence, who wrote that all men are created equal. Our visit to Monticello happened to land on the Fall Harvest Festival day, which allowed for music and other festivities in addition to the house, garden, and special tours.
Monticello
The Blue Ridge Parkway has more visitor activites and sights within the park. With a couple stops along the long drive focusing on the musical affinity of the Appilacian people, we opted after our morning hike to stop at Mabry Mill for an afternoon picnic and Blue Grass concert accompanied by flatfooters dancing clog style to the toe-tapping country music. The multi-generational band jammed on various string instruments, from the mandoline to the fiddle, and sang with the iconic twang of this music.
Our highlight through the Blue Ridge Mountains was the visit down to the Biltmore estate, grounds, and winery in Ashville, North Carolina. We toured the grand home of George and Edith Vanderbelt, styled after European Chataues George toured for inspiration and design ideas. In the Biltmore, our American version of Dowton Abbey, it’s easy to imagine scenes of daily life played out in various rooms like we all watch weekly on our favourite PBS show. After a special Roof-top tour and walk of the gardens, we drove on property to Antler Village and the winery and farm area with the sunflowers bowing their heads to the evening sun.
Biltmore Estate and Winery
The addition of more evergreen coniferous trees in the Great Smokies National Park adds a new layer to the 50 shades of green we’ve been soaked in for the past few days. Back on tour with our Gypsy Guide for the area, we traverse the park, taking in all the recommended overlooks and hikes, even a short stint on the Appilacian Trail. The AT is one of the longest continuous footpaths in the world, spanning 2,150 miles and through 14 states. Marked with a white paint brush on trees, hikers average seven months to complete this rigorous trek. Dan and I are content with long day hikes, but we have two friends who are currently on their own pilgrimage and/or walkabout. One is in Spain walking the Camino de Santiago, and another, whom we are going to meet up with in Nashville, is in his fourth month walking across America for Gods and Cops.
The crowds are low in the Park this week because the colors haven’t changed, yet, but the water levels in all rivers and streams are low, too. This offers only thin ribbons of water instead of rushing falls at the end of most of our hikes, except, for our last hike during our stay to Abrams Falls. At the two mile mark we shared the path for a short time with a black bear, rooting for ripe persimmons. We gave him/her pleanty of space and only passed once she/he disappeared back into the woods. Our perseverance on this trail paid off with a peaceful lunch spot under a cascading fall and plunge pool, rimmed with large boulders. Our last loop tour through the GSNP was to Cades Cove. A lovely valley circled by the Great Smokies and rich in Appilacian folk history.
We left the North Atlantic coast of Maine and our 10,000th mile shortly after sunrise, and on Highway 2 cut through the rural part of the state. Golden yellow and fiery red tipped trees, pumpkin patches specked with orange orbs, and dryer, crisp air all hint that fall is on its way. We settled our first night away from the sea in the White Mountains of New Hampshire along the Saco River.
The next morning, we began the Kancamagus Scenic Byway, traveling west across the national forest and listening to an audio tour of local lore provided by the whitemountains.com website. In two short hours, the Vermont border appeared, and we were on the Vermont Scenic Byway 100, traveling north. It became clear pretty quickly that our timing for this drive was right on. We are late enough in the year to glimpse the New England autumn bloom, but early enough in the season to avoid the crowds. Our first stop on this popular drive with Leaf Peepers-tourists like us who visit during autumn to see the changing of the colors-is Ben and Jerry’s Ice Cream tour in Waterbury. Just up the road from B&Js is the cider house, Cold Hallow, where they make and sell everything made from apples, including apple cider donuts. After a quick visit to the all-season resort town and final residence of the Swiss von Trap family, Stowe, Vermont, we checked into our Harvest Host farm, picked some blueberries from their adjacent bushes, and later dined in Burlington along Lake Champlain with sunset views over the Adirondack Mountains in neighboring New York.
Lower center: Sam Mazza’s pick your own blueberries and Harvest Host; Sunset over Lake Champlain and Adirondack Mountains
Continuing on the Vermont Scenic Byway, we turned south the next morning and enjoyed breakfast with our fresh picked blueberries along the Mad River under one of the 100 covered bridges in the state. With one quaint, artistic town and ski resort after another we traveled along the spine of the Green Mountains, sampling apple everything, maple syrup in sugar shacks, and artisan cheese from country stores all amid the smoldering fall foliage. Just as quickly as our drive through New Hampshire, we leave the Green Mountains and its fiddlers elbow curves and arrive in Bennington, Vermont for a twilight game of golf on the back nine in the Berkshire hills.
Top Right: breakfast by Mad River and covered bridge; falls; lunch at Weston Priory Benedictine Monks; Vermont Country Store; golf in Berkshires
Our final day before entering the Skyline Trail in Shenandoah National Park, we spent golfing at Foxchase golf club, outside Lancaster, Pennsylvania, our Harvest Host and last chance for golf for several days, and the Hershey Story Museum and Chocolate Lab. A real sweet treat, the museum is of high quality and recounts the beginnings of this entrepreneur, his apprenticeship with a candy maker, the string of failures before his success as one of the wealthiest chocolatiers in America, and how he gave away all his fortune for the next generation. Following our tour around the interactive exhibits, Dan and I had just enough time to share a chocolate tasting from around the world, before our time in the Chocolate Lab. The one-hour hands-on chocolate lab, reminiscent of my old grad school days in the food science lab, experimenting with artificial sweeteners, was a flavorful way to end our visit. We were given the opportunity to make our own chocolate bars, and while they were cooling we were given a class all about this wondrous bean and the multitude of uses from soap to candies.
The Hampton’s traffic tends to be heavy during peak times, even in the off-season, so we decided to leave Long Island early before the Sunday traffic returns to New York. Connecticut is our first stop along the New England coast. My paternal Aunt Madeline and Uncle Lou, who I haven’t seen in over 50 years, live in Danbury. In the winding hills and heavily tree-lined neighborhood, my Aunt stood on her door step and pulled me into a tight embrace, as if to squeeze out of me all that she has missed from my life in the last half century. Surrounded by antique furniture my great-grandmother brought over from the “old” country and dozens of framed photos of my paternal relatives, we sat and talked for hours, catching up, only to break for a traditional Lebanese lunch, and then an evening visit to meet my cousin Brian, where we sat and talked and laughed for a few more hours. Too soon, the day came to a close and it was time for Dan and me to leave with so many unanswered questions and family stories still needed to be heard. Dan and I feel so fortunate to have experienced such open hospitality during this trip from distant relatives, offering slices of family history with a side of new memories. Thank you, my Connecticut family, for the warm welcome.
Top: Cousin Brian, Aunt Madeline, Uncle Lou; wedding day photo of my paternal grandparents, aunt, and bio dad; Aunt Madeline and me
We awoke the next morning by the alpacas on Bishop’s Orchard and Farm in Guilford, Connecticut. I spoke with one of the farm hands, who was collecting fresh eggs, and he gave me a half dozen to take with us on the road, but they had to be shelved because fresh seafood in Newport, Rhode Island was on the menu for the day. The summer “cottages” of the wealthy during the Gilded Age of the late 1800s on Bellevue Avenue put Downton Abbey to shame. Many of these mansions are open for visits, but Dan and I opted for our own walking tour along the Cliff Walk-a 3.5-mile path with the rocky Atlantic Ocean on one side and views through the iron fences of the grand grounds and homes on the other. An app is available to listen to commentary of each home site. Still the summer playground of the uber rich and famous, Newport provides ample opportunity for the extravagant outdoor sport hobbies of the wealthy.
Clockwise right: Harvest Host Farm; Mystic, CT (made famous by the 80’s movie of the same name); The Wall Walk in Newport, Rhode Island, Start of one week of all seafood; summer “cottage” in Newport
We continued on highway 1 and 1A, which we picked up along the seaport in Mystic, Connecticut and followed along the coast into Cape Cod with its gray-weathered shingle beach cottages and hydrangea filled gardens. After a day of tooling around the Cape, we ferried over to Martha’s Vineyard and spent a few days lazing around the Island. Dan and I slipped into island time with ease, spending our days exploring the end of the road in each direction of the island. On one rainy day, we left our campground in Vineyard Haven for Menemsha Beach-a small tucked away fishing village and beach area. The Menemsha Fish Market has a hot or cold lobster roll special with your choice of clam chowder or lobster bisque and parking at the end of the road, overlooking the Vineyard Sound. Along the calmer waters of Vineyard Haven Harbor, kite surfers take flight when jumping white caps, and the gentle tinkling of sea shells call for a closer look of their iridescent colors with each wash of the current. Our last day on the Vineyard was spent golfing at a seaside course.
Chill’n on Martha’s Vineyard
Our trip to Maine wouldn’t be complete without a day lobstering, so on our first day in Portland, we did just that. On the Lucky Catch lobster boat, we cruised the harbor, learning all about the lobstering industry, checked the lobster traps for legal-sized catch and threw the rest back. At the end of the 90-minute tour of seal rock, a civil-war fort, and lighthouse, Dan and I picked two of the catch and walked them over to the adjacent dock restaurant who cooked them and served them with sides for a nominal fee.
Clockwise: Dave & Candice (our ship and dinner mates); working the lobster boat in Portland, Maine; BYOL and they cook it!
Taking highway 1 the next day along the Atlantic coast, we passed one quaint fishing port after another with small B&Bs, cobblestone streets, unique shops, tap rooms and lobster shacks which are as ubiquitous as Starbucks in Los Angeles. Acadia National Park on Desert Island near Bar Harbor is our last stop in the North Atlantic. On our first day we traversed the 27-mile scenic loop, stopping to walk the Ocean Path at Sand Beach. Rimmed with black flecked pink granite, the rugged coast walk afforded us views through the pines of small bird-clad islands as if drifting away from the mainland and lobster buoys dotting the bay. We ended the circle on the first day with dinner in Bar Harbor. An early wakeup call was on the agenda for the second morning to drive to the top of Cadillac Mountain, the tallest peak on the North Atlantic above Belize. We wanted to be one of the first people in the USA to see the sun rise. After finishing the driving tour around Acadia NP, we turned West to begin our journey home.
The Tuesday after Labor Day, Dan and I packed up the Van, said our farewells to Matthew, and trekked Northward. The traffic was heavy around the Baltimore area. To avoid the morning rush, we decided to make a wider sweep toward the densely populated Amish community of Lancaster, Pennsylvania. The detour rewarded us with glimpses of a-day-in-the-life of those who lead a traditional Amish or Mennonite lifestyle. Like most scenic byways we’ve driven across the States, the area is filled with alternating corn and soybean farms and red barns. The differences, here, are in the details. The homes are manicured to perfection, gardens tended by young women wearing traditional long dress and bonnets, clotheslines are filled with black suits and billowing white sheets, double-team horses pull the farm equipment while the beard-clad men hand harvest the corn at speeds comparable to its diesel-powdered competitors. All transportation on roads is either by horse and buggy, foot, or scooters, and not the Lyft or Uber brand electric scooters found littering most city streets now days. We lunched at Kitchen Kettle Village and stocked up on locally-made specialties, then continued on to New York City.
Surprisingly, we found a RV park along the waterfront in Jersey City, with an easy walk to the Path light rail and Liberty Harbor Ferry to Downtown New York City. The Overpriced parking lot was our fourth RV park in eight weeks. Within 20 minutes of checking in, we hopped on the ferry and were at the 9/11 Memorial. The remainder of the day was spent touring the clean and sophisticated Downtown area. A mix of modern and carefully preserved period buildings, the eclectic architecture of Manhattan creates a cohesive look unique to such cities as London, Paris, and NYC. The sun closed on our whirl-wind day and was replaced with a milky-way of building lights while we dined at a seafood restaurant along the Hudson River.
Top Left: Liberty Island Ferry Dock, Jersey City; 9/11 Memorial, Empire State Bldg., Time Square, Colgate Clock and Jersey City Skyline
On day two, Dan and I took a larger bite of the Big Apple and continued our hop-on-hop off tour of Manhattan, including Uptown, Harlem, and the Bronx. At timed intervals, pedestrians flooded from the subway exits, streaming down the sidewalks, bike paths, and streets, while cars inched along, blaring their horns at the masses blocking their path. Sirens wailed, jack hammers thrummed, and trains clacked along the metal tracks; these are a few examples of audio sensory overload we experienced throughout the day. Looking for a respite from the flashing lights, crowds, and city din, a walk around Central Park was needed. A few steps in and all fell away, replaced with green and the sound of children’s laughter. After a short stroll and lunch at Tavern on the Green, we were reenergized and hit the streets once again. We rounded out our second day, with a harbor cruise around Lady Liberty and traversing the streets of Little Italy and China Town, sampling the local delicacies.
Our last day was spent in Brooklyn and Queens, specifically Astoria. After spending the morning touring around Brooklyn, Dan and I took the subway to the end of the line in Astoria to meet his cousin Linda and her husband Chuck, who selflessly drove down from Vermont just to meet us and tour us around the old hometown of her and Dan’s grandparents. For it was approximately 120 years ago that Dan’s great-grandfather came to Astoria from Salle, Italy for the promise of a better life. Retracing the steps his grandfather took to church, local shops, Astoria Park, and his childhood home was like a walking family history tour. We ended the lovely afternoon with a delicious Italian dinner at a local eatery. Thank you, Linda and Chuck, for your time and family knowledge. We recognize and appreciate your efforts.
Top Right: Brooklyn tour, Chuck, Linda, Dan, and me in Astoria, the first Italian Methodist Church started by Dan’s great grandparents, the City at night (9/11 Memorial lights)
Exhausted from hours of touring, a couple days of relaxation at the beach was much needed, so we did as most New Yorkers do and escaped to the Hamptons. An oceanfront campground in Mantauk provided the peace and quiet for our rejuvenation. Winds whipped at the waves, spouting sea mist high in the sky; grasses bent, clutching the sand dunes; and our van swayed, rocking us into a peaceful sleep. Fresh seafood and salt air did the trick. Tomorrow we follow along the New England coast to Acadia National Park.
Freewheeling 