"12,000" km

17,6999 km was what my odometer showed in the lineup at Niagara Falls. Now I'm back, safe and sound, after (very) approximately 12,000 km on the road.

Thanks for all your page views and comments, loyal readers. It meant a lot and made me feel less isolated out there on the cold prairie.

(Expect one last wrap-up post to conclude these Road Trip 2012 notes.)

Philly phun

I made it all the way up to Phila yesterday, meeting up with my sister and some Js in the afternoon.

This already feels like a different trip. Or not even a trip. A return, rather. But that's ok. I knew I would have to return to real life one day.

But not quite yet.

First I got to eat some stellar pizza (Santucci's?). Then I had a delicious water ice with custard (strawberry and vanilla). And for my final meal, I had a hoagy from Cosmi's: roasted pork, provolone, broccoli raab, and long hots Awesome.

I saved half of my hoagy for dinner, except I accidentally took a leftover sandwich one of the Js left behind.

And you know what? That strange and mysterious pizza steak with whiz?

Divine. (No pics.)

Suicide Bridge Restauant in Hurlock, MD

Opens at 11 am, which is the only reason I chose it. (It's hard to find crab cakes before noon.)

That said, it was the second best crab cake I've had. All lump, no filler.

But I should have just gone to Faidley's.

The old double back

is not something I'm particularly good at. In fact, in real life, I usually go out of my way to avoid having to do any doubling back, even when it means choosing (for example) transit options that will not necessarily serve me well.

So it is relatively rare that I will turn around on the highway to double back to check out something I've missed (an asparagus stand, a garage sale, a seafood shack, just say), but today I did just that, and am I ever glad I did. 


I mean come on. Did I have a choice?

So my little double back brought me to the Metompkin Seafood Restaurat, another in the highway drop-in/pick-up genre.

Now, I am not one to be easily swayed by the "charm" of an establishment, but I warn you. This place is irresistable. That said, my meal was both delicious and ridiculously affordable.

 I could get used to this whole soft crab thing.

 

The Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel

May be a marvel of modern engineering, but I totally kicked its ass.

All 20 miles toll plaza to toll plaza, or all
17.6 miles shore to shore (however you want to count it), including both 1-mile underground portions.

I just had some local littleneck clams for lunch. Time for a walk by the shore.

Take that, CBBT.

Breakfast in Washington

Though the interwebs will tell you it opens at noon, a packed parking lot and lots of workin' men (and a few women) milling about, some playing checkers, suggest you'll be able to get a breakfast biscuit at King Chicken.

As indeed you will.

It's a funny looking biscuit that looks more like a bun, but it'll do. Sadly, the cheese is not "hoop cheese" (I don't think), but again, it'll do. Especially when coupled with a mini sweet potato pie.

I, for one, won't complain.

(It's strictly a take-out operation. Be prepared to eat in your car.)

Thaaaaaaat's how you say it?

I kept telling my lovely travel companion that I had heard good things about a restaurant called Chick-fil-A. And there are two points I need to clarify here.

1) It is not the fried chicken I thought. What it is is the home of the home of the first-ever chicken sandwich. I stopped in today after the car fiasco, and was stalled in my tracks. I thought I could get a biscuit, but it was too late in the day. So I had their version of chicken tenders. While the sauces were strictly forgettable, the chicken itself was good, as was the slaw. And the lemonade was delicious (fresh squeezed).

2) More importantly, I kept calling the joint "CHICK Fill Ah" and my lovely travel companion kept misremembering it as "CHICKA Flicka." It is neither. It is the much more pronounceable (and sensical) "Chick Fil AY."

Got it.

North Carolina just won't let me go

Thing is, I was headed out of town this morning. Before I left, I decided to stoll the streets of Beaufort and try to spot some wild horses (or dolphins) across (or in) the river. But I was waylaid by a guy who claims to be the harbor master. The self-proclaimed harbor master (he was barefoot, which seemed odd, but he was also extremely anti-establishment, so that fits, and in any case, he was a hoot, so he's going to remain harbor master to me) proceeded to regale me with tales of Beaufort (voted the "coolest small town in America") and the sea and pirates and maritime life in general.

He took me to the Maritime Museum and convinced me to wend my way through the Outer Banks, so I went to my car to grab my maps so we could plan my route.

My car. Which wouldn't start.

After a failed jump from a non-functional jump box, I put in a call to AAA and tried to grab a sandwich before they came. But the restaurant was hopping and I didn't think I'd be able to get fed before the AAA guy came so I offered a hurried apology and ducked out, to be hailed by Matt (the manager? owner?) who shouted after me, "Hey, Triple A, I'll give you a jump."

He brought me to my car, we pulled out the jumper cables, and I turned the key in the ignition.

Nothing.

So I bid Matt goodbye and went down to the dock to harass a woman and her daughter who were fishing off the hotel's pier. I offered them some dried figs (which were not a hit) and explained my sad tale. Destiny (the daugher) and I shared some candies and we all sat around, fishing, not fishing, and considering. Janet (the fisherwoman) grabbed her cell, saying, "My brother's a mechanic. I'll get him to come over.

I was kind of conflicted. It all seemed so random. But the random has played a key role in this trip. (Another point in favour of this unconventional approach was that AAA lady A (in Missouri) told me that it might take 2 hours for a tow, and added that there were no AAA-approved facilities within 100 miles (which is the towing distance I'm entitled to with my Plus membership, so I was going to wind up someplace random anyway).)

After the AAA guy came and went (nothing he could do, might be the alternator, might be the starter, couldn't really say), Earvin showed up.

Earvin is a lifesaver. He has a trunk full of tools and is one of those knowledgeable, intuitive, fearless mechanics who, even better, wants you to understand, as well as you can, what is going on and why.

After a number of unsuccessful (and scary) considerations (the engine wasn't getting fuel, the ignition wasn't connecting, etc.), and after a near-death experience (I have always parked in gear (I drive a manual), and once Earvin managed to sort of "hot wire" things, the car jumped off the jack and practically mowed him down) (I plan to park in neutral from now on), he came to the conclusion that all I needed was a starter button and a fuse. (I had blown the big 30-amp fuse you can find in the fuse box in the engine block. Sad part? I had bought a box of fuses to be "prepared" for this trip, but I had only considered the small fuses you find on the side of the steering column. This was not one of those.)

So Earvin priced the parts I needed, Destiny got a ride home from her grandma, and Janet and I sat around chatting until Earvin got back.

(The poor hotel owners really were concerned that we were lowering the tone of the hotel this whole time, which we were, I suppose, but a dead car is a dead car. Whaddya want from me? That said, they were patient, and the son made sure we didn't feel we were being run off, offering coffee, the use of the rest rooms, etc.)

So my reliable mechanic whipped things into shape in no time. I have a new way to start my car. We all hugged and snapped this charming pic. I was sad to have to say goodbye.

North Carolina, despite fierce competition you are still my favourite state.

See how tough my car looks now?

Yeah. That's a starter button. It's an amazing jerry-rigged system wired through the door. I think it'll get me home. Despite my initial half-hearted desire to drive my car into the ground and sell it to a scrap yard en route, we've reached a certain détente. No, that's not strong enough. I've come to a place of great affection for her.

I told her I loved her for the first time back in the mountains of New Mexico. I don't want to have to abandon her now.

See that?

I got troubles.

And it ain't my battery.

Somehow,

These don't manage to convey quite how soothing this is.

Where I'm at

Beaufort, Something Carolina.

Yes, I know I just left Beaufort, Something Else Carolina. But after my detour to find lunch in Lexington, Something Carolina, at Lexington Style Trimmings (during which time I should probably mention that I had the honour to ask directions of a woman who called me baby who was driving a 1995 electric blue Plymouth Neon), I fell in love with my waitress. She convinced me to make my way to the Inner Banks. There is an island with wild horses that is kind of alluring, but mostly I just wanted to be in a place with the same name as a place I fell in love with that sounds like another place entirely.

See here: This is the Beaufort in South Carolina: ˈbjuːfərt (BEW-fərt)

This is the Beaufort I'm at (in North Carolina): boʊfərt (BOH | fərt)

I don't remember if she convinced me of this before or after my second plate of hushpuppies (which she didn't charge me for), but it was before she sent me away with sweet tea for the road.

I did a stupid amount of driving today. 700 (mostly unnecessary) km, but it was lovely. I am in NC, after all.

(Also, I somehow had breakfast in Lexington, Something Carolina, and then had lunch in Lexington, Something Else Carolina, but following the highway signage was really confusing. I had to pull off the highway to regroup more times today than I ever have in my life.) (In my whole life!)

Two Beauforts, two Lexingtons, two Carolinas. I'll make my way to a new place name tomorrow.

Home sweet home, or, you can never go home again?

For a while there, I was considering not coming to Lexington Style Trimmings. But then I saw the error of my ways.

While its entirely reasonable to skip a meal at a favourite restaurant in a city there's a likelihood you'll be back to soon enough, it is (or should be) inconceivable to pass up a chance to eat at a restaurant that you love that happens to be 1,200 km from your house.

That said, the BBQ itself was strictly mediocre. Is it because I have OD'd on BBQ lo these many weeks? I don't think so. Is it because I forgot to order it outside brown? No (and more on that later). Is it because chopped pork BBQ is no longer my thing? Go wash your mouth out with soap. Is it because it was Tuesday and Trimmings is closed on Monday? Maybe. My order didn't seem that outside and brown, which was maybe the problem. Who can say. But one thing I know: Their hushpuppies are absofuckinglutely to die for. How absofuckinglutely to die for? Even though I couldn't finish my tray of BBQ, my waitress slipped me an extra six puppies (since I had basically inhaled my first six) and it was all I could do not to inhale those six. (I ate three and saved three for a late-night snack - I am about to eat them now.)

Just to clarify though: I truly believe this must have been an off day. See here and don't see the other half-finished post I never did get back to that describes the scientific side-by-side comparison of Lexington Style Trimmings and Lexington Style No. 1 for more information.

(Also, FYI, I just had the cold, stale, vaguely soggy hushpuppies from this afternoon, and they were AMAZING. They are a sweetish version of the pups, made with finely chopped (or perhaps crushed?) onions and god knows what else.) (I will replicate them in my own kitchen. I swear to you.)

These boots were made for walking

out of four or five restaurants and three different hotels today. It was that kind of day. I would have loved to stay at the last motel I tried to get a room at (the decidedly down-at-heels Delta Motel), because no matter how sketchy and falling down it was, it was clean and the staff were terrific. And it was also $35 a night.

But for $35 (plus a $10 deposit) you don't get much. You certainly don't get wifi. So I headed down to the Quality Inn (which has served me well thus far). Otherwise, I wouldn't be able to post this picture of a dilapidated farm structure located on a main drag running through West Columbia. Partly because I wouldn't have wifi, but mostly just 'cause I wouldn't have seen it. Things do tend to work out.

Every day can't be Easter Sunday in Beaufort

Today was a bit of a bust. I kept sort of halfheartedly leaving Beaufort, but kept sort of winding up back there. I kept sort of halfheartedly trying to get lunch, but kept sort of leaving before I got fed.

But I did manage to get some mid-afternoon fried shrimp at a gorgeous fresh seafood market and kitchen (just off the highway - better than a rest stop!).

Even better (because of how very vegetable-free my diet has been lately) (with the exception of lots and lots of delicious cole slaw) (yes, I absolutely count colwslaw), I happened across an improbable vegan restaurant on what seems like the wrong side of the tracks (if the right side of the river) in the so-clean-and-pretty-it-must-be-a-capital-city Columbia S.C. No urban hipster joint this (except it probably is their hangout). Just no pictures of the altar, please.

I got me a delicious raw kale salad with the unorthodox but appreciated addition of gourmet crackers, plus a lemon ginger something drink that I made short work of.

For my international audience

(Of one.)

Except on a closer read, I see that this does not say what I thought it did. Just stick an extra "i" in there.

Motel Easters

When I was 5 or so, my family took an extended road trip around the US much like this one, even down to the season.

I was gravely concerned that the Easter Bunny wouldn't be able to find us, so I waited until everybody was asleep and oh so quietly propped open the door to the parking lot.

It worked. The Bunny found us.

I did not repeat the gesture this weekend and whaddya know? No Easter chocolates.

Not such a hot idea

Leaving your keys in the car door for "just a second."

Sometimes you leave them there for 30 miles of the Natchez Trace.

Just dumb luck they didn't fall out.

Befuddled

The falling and rising tides

Don't hurt either, especially after all that desert landscape.

Though I have to say, a road trip that involves both comes highly recommended.