Northward, Part IV

We decide to watch a movie!

Except that our hotel doesn't offer Pay-Per-View, and there are no Blockbusters in town. So we try to find a Redbox. We don't know where the nearest location is, and the website keeps erroring on my phone.

"Most McDonald's have Redbox rentals, right?" I suggest. "So let's just find a McDonald's."

It seems easy enough. Google Maps tells us the closest one is 2.8 miles away.

On the way, we stop at a local grocery store. At the checkout, we try to confirm the McDonald's location.

"Oh no," the clerk cackles. "The closest McDonald's is 110 miles away."

We get back into the car. "Maybe she's right," the DNB says.

"Come on, who are you going to believe? Her or Google?" I reply. "She barely had any teeth!"

I apparently believe that people with bad teeth have no sense of their surrounding. So we set out, into the darkness and a driving rain.

We drive on and on, much father than 2.8 miles. None of the streets seem to match our directions. Somehow, we wind up back where we started.

"Just call," I suggest. "Ask an employee how to get there."

The DNB dials, and asks for directions from our location.

"Oh, phhhhhhhhhhhhhtt, that's gonna be a trip," says the teenager who answers. I watch the DNB as he listens. His eyes suddenly widen.

As it turns out, Google is dutifully leading us toward a McDonald's 5 HOURS NORTH. And the people who work there have never heard of Redbox.

Northward, Part III

We return to the hotel after our not-at-all-like-Olive-Garden dinner. I am excited, because our very small budget beds are Sleep Numbers.

The DNB inflates one bed all the way. Mine is malfunctioning and remains at a steady 55. The DNB deflates his.

"Hey, jump on here with me, I need your weight," he directs, as if my weight is substantial. "I'm trying to deflate this thing all the way down to zero."

"What if this one only goes to eleven?" I ask, hopping on.

We both think heavy thoughts until our butts touch the frame of the bed. It is then that we both realize that a Sleep Number bed is nothing more than a glorified air mattress.

"We missed our shot!" the DNB exclaims. "We could've made millions off of this dumb idea!"

"Totally. The guy who started the company was all, 'Hide the pump and put it on a frame. We'll be rich!'"

We lie in the bed frame and think wistfully of missed opportunities.

Northward, Part II

We leave the hotel bar with relief, and walk to the lobby to catch the hotel shuttle to the pier.

"Where you folks headed?" the driver asks. We give him the name of a highly recommended Italian restaurant. "Never been there myself."

He picks us up a few hours later and asks how the food was.

"Excellent," we rave. It was truly delicious.

"As good as The Olive Garden?" our driver asks.

We pause. "Yes," I tell him. "Maybe even better."

Northward, Part I

We visit Duluth!

I've again found an excellent deal on a hotel, and the clerk, again, feels the need to remind us.

"Do we have a king sized bed?" I ask when we check in.

"Um, no," says the clerk before continuing, unnecessarily. "You paid, let's see, less than ONE THIRD of the going rate. So, no. You'll have two full sized beds."

He hands us a BOGO drink coupon for the hotel bar.

We decide to use it because, as the clerk pointed out, we're "budget" customers.

The bar is in the basement of the hotel. An older lady with dyed hair and an oversized button down serves the drinks. She has a cigarette behind one ear. The DNB orders a Blue Moon, and she serves it to him without an orange slice.

"Well that's an odd request," she comments when the DNB asks for one. We glance at each other.

The place feels like somebody's basement.

A local a few seats down gets animated discussing what a good deal Old Country Buffet is.

The Low Washer Fluid Reminder

My car is spot-on reminding me whenever the washer fluid is low.

In fact, LEST I FORGET, it dings to remind me every 5-10 minutes. On a 4-hour excursion along the Great River Road, I find the frequent dinging minorly annoying. To the DNB, on the other hand, it has the potential to ruin his very existence.

I've always kind of loved the reminder. Those crazy Germans, that looks nothing like a washer fluid reminder. It's more like Spouting Whales Ahead! And who could be annoyed by Spouting Whales?

"I feel like I filled my washer fluid not too long ago," I tell the DNB. "I hope there's not something wrong."

"I'm sure it's fine," he tells me, distracted, for the moment, from the dinging.

"Maybe I just wash my windshield a lot," I suggest. "Oh! Or maybe the fluid has been evaporating because it's been so hot!"

I'm incredibly pleased with my explanation. And then I notice the tell-tale smile on the DNB's face. It's the smile that says something patronizing is about to come out of my mouth.

"You're so cute," he replies, true to form. He pats my leg.

"What?" I demand. "What's wrong with that theory?"

"Does your gasoline just evaporate out of your tank?" he questions.

"Well obviously not," I reply. "There's a cap on it to keep it in." Duh.

The DNB is not convinced, although he knows I'm the smart one. "Kind of like there's a cap on your washer fluid tank?"

"Baby," I say slowly, like I'm talking to a child. "There are holes at the top for the fluid to come out. That's how it's evaporating."

"I think I'm just going to let this one go," he says jovially, patting my leg again.

A Photo Journal of Our Drive Along Wisconsin's Great River Road

Our first stop was at a Visitor's Center, where a bridal party followed us around as we tried to take scenic photos. So in a passive-aggressive move funny only to us, we started taking pictures of them. We were unable, unfortunately, to capture the FUR COLLAR on the bride's gown. I am so very sorry.

I sent the DNB into the men's room with the camera only because he could more easily pee with it around his neck. I should've known it would set him up with this delightful shot.

Trees with these seed pods were everywhere. Maybe they have different flora in Wisconsin because despite spending 10-20 years in 4-H, the DNB was unable to identify it. If he had, it would have made the Best Better.

We took this picture at one of 12,000 Scenic Overlooks we passed. The Great River Road runs parallel to the Mississippi River for 250 miles, but we only managed to drive about 30 miles of it because we had to stop at every single overlook. As if we'd miss a great view if we skipped one.

When we passed this barn, the DNB got all inexplicably nostalgic. "They just don't make 'em like that anymore," he said wistfully.

Because I was raised by my parents, it's impossible for me to take any sort of trip without including an educational element. Yeah, that was a winning philosophy on our honeymoon. So we drove 10 miles out of our way to visit the birthplace of Laura Ingalls Wilder. After carefully examining all the historic documents at the site, I felt like I could finally enjoy the day.

The real birthplace is gone, of course, but this cabin is a replica of the one the Ingalls family lived in. As we drove up to it, I announced, "The Laura Ingalls Wilder Reproduction House!" The DNB found this phrasing hilarious. "Get it? Reproduction? Like procreating?"

As we drove through lots of small, unfamiliar towns, we began to feel uneasy and alone. That's why we were so relieved to see that Dave and His Moustache wanted to be our Metro-Lake Pepin Connection. 877-YO-PETERS, my man.

From the heights of the bluffs to the banks of the Mississippi, the Great River Road offers spectacular views. It was the perfect day. Also, if you own this boat, call me.

Play Me a Memory

I visit Chicago!

I feel like a small town girl when I'm there: a city where Stoli is the "house" vodka and parking costs $23 an hour. I'm with a friend, and we celebrate my last evening in town with a trip to a piano bar.

When we arrive, it's still early, and we're two of ten female patrons shouting song selections to our dueling pianists. "A song about divorce!" "Sing something about how men are fucking losers!" But as the evening passes, the place fills up, and oddly enough, with men. My friend, who is newly single, is optimistic, even though a bar (albeit piano in nature) is not where respectable folk go to meet people. A bar is where respectable folk go to hump in dark corners and blame it on the alcohol.

One of the pianists looks at a song request. Shaking his head, he mutters, "Considering how many men are in the audience, this is weird."

My friend raises her eyebrows. "Considering how many men are in the audience, my bar tab is way too high," she says.

We clink shot glasses and toss back our whiskey. The pianists begin a rousing version of "My Humps."

And Learn How to Cook

I am relieved that the gangsters do appear to be present. This must be my Megabus!

It's crowded, and one of them is forced to sit by an older gentleman. The older gentleman politely begins a conversation. Surprisingly, instead of "popping a cap in his ass" because he was wearing the red flannel plaid of a rival gang, the gangsta youth opens up. Driving hip-hop bass pouring from the headphones around his neck, he talks about his hopes and dreams. The older gentleman sits quietly. The gangsta youth wants to open a restaurant. He doesn't just want to work there, he wants to own it. He wants to be a chef.

"Well," says the older gentleman at last, who perhaps got more than he bargained for and looks a little dazed. "My advice is this, and only this," he continues nobly. "Stay in school."

The Megabus Proves Elusive

I try to find the Megabus!

I've taken the local bus to the Megabus, so I have to walk a fair distance. To keep costs low, the Megabus doesn't use terminals. So it will - say - pick you up under a parking structure and drop you off on a downtown street corner. I'm not complaining because my entire round trip cost $40. I'm just saying that the tiniest bit more specificity about bus stops would have been helpful.

I approach the appointed parking structure. No giant blue bus in sight, I check the bus stop info again. Oh yes, I have to be under it (?). I take the elevator to the basement level and see a pull-through that looks bus-friendly. I walk outside to wait.

Except that something doesn't feel quite right. The bus is due in 10 minutes, and I'm the only one waiting. I keep hearing that all the gang members take the bus back and forth between Chicago (my transfer point), but there's not a soul to throw gang signs too.

Beyond the pull-through are two major interstate exit ramps. The garage is built over them, so I can't try the "under" portion of the other side of the garage without going back up to street level.

I try to walk back inside to the elevators, and discover that the doors are locked. I'm all alone under a parking garage on the edge of the interstate. Shit, dude.

There is literally no way out but to cross the exit ramps. I wheel my bright yellow suitcase behind me as I approach the guard rails. Cars shoot past me.

I keep thinking how cheap everyone will say I am if I die trying not to miss my $40 bus.

I look for all the world like a crazy homeless person. Suitcase, ratty traveling clothes, no makeup, crossing the interstate. I dash across, suitcase bumping as I drag it through the dust and weeds of the median.

I can see the bus in the distance and run across the second ramp. I keep jogging, sweat dripping down my back, hair disheveled, flailing my free arm at the bus to indicate that there's one more crazy that needs to board.

I make it just in time.