edwards block

I have just returned from Charlotte, NC, where I was reconfiguring some phone lines connected to our computers. On my arrival at the airport, I stopped to pick up my rental car up from National Rent-a-Car. When I was deposited by the shuttle bus at the Emerald Club aisle, the greeter said “Y’all can take any one of those cars along the fence”. I looked over to see seven white Pontiac Azteks, possibly the ugliest of the American SUVs in its class (though the competition is fierce). I said “Do you have anything else?”. He said “Not until someone returns a car”. I said “I’ll wait”. When he saw that I was serious, he managed to scrounge up a Grand Am somewhere.

After completing my work, I had a free day, so I decided to take a little road trip. I drove to the northeast corner of North Carolina, intending to drive the Blue Ridge Parkway south through the Appalachians, stopping at the Great Smoky Mountains. Unfortunately, much of the Parkway is closed at this time of year, so I spent a lot of time finding alternate routes in the same direction. By the time I arrived at the Great Smoky Mountains, it was getting dark. I drove through the pass anyway, as there is a circle route to Pigeon Forge, Tennessee and back to North Carolina, and Pigeon Forge sounded like a quaint backwater to stop for a bite to eat, likely a small town diner where I could get the real Tennessee hick experience.

Extremely thick fog through the pass, along with the darkness, left me gripping the steering wheel and staring fixedly just beyond the bumper, trying (sometimes in futility) to see the centre line on the road. Unless you count a few tree branches illuminated by my high beams, I saw little of Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

On the lee side of the mountains, just across the state line in Tennessee, sits Pigeon Forge. Well, it isn’t the one-horse town I thought it was (and that the size of the dot on the map implied). Imagine taking Harvey Street in Kelowna, and Las Vegas Boulevard (the lower-end section where the old Stardust and Wayne Newton are), and melding the two into a single thoroughfare. Then extend it by about twenty-five blocks. It is the ugliest strip of American urban commercial blight that I have ever had the misfortune to traverse. There are hundreds of cheesy motels interspersed with awful chain restaurants, Elvis Museums, Mandrell-sibling nightclubs, and trading posts that sell Smoky Mountains trash and Dolly Parton busts (busts of her head, not of her bust). Desperate to get away from it, I followed the signs along Dolly Parton Lane to the “Dollywood” theme park. It was about the size of Fantasy Gardens, and looked a little shopworn (not unlike its namesake). I fled that and headed down Dolly Parton Parkway, the quickest route out of town.

My only regret is that I couldn’t stomach stopping long enough to find out why they named it Pigeon Forge. Did someone long ago construct imitation pigeons near here? Or was it the site of long-ago bird races, where pigeons forged ahead of their opponents and created a whole new hobby for ancestors of today’s ham radio enthusiasts? I suppose I could find out with a Google search, but I might inadvertently come across a photo of the taste-forsaken hole.

(Now in Toronto)

It’s hasn’t warmed up much, unfortunately. I arrived at about 5:00pm, and hadn’t eaten a heck of a lot since breakfast, so I was a little hungry. I still had my packet of Air Canada’s “Gourmet Sesame Snacks”, and munched on those while considering the options. Sesame Snacks aren’t much of a meal. 14 grams in total, of which six grams are fat. The bag they come in has more density than the contents, I suspect.

After almost two weeks in the US, my colon will go into spasm if I eat one more piece of red meat. Before I started travelling for work, I was a vegetarian, but vegetarian restaurants are seldom easy to locate in America, especially in the midwest, and one can only eat so much fettucine. Add on a per diem expense account, and soon I was off the wagon.

(American restaurants usually have something on the menu that they bill as “vegetarian”, based only on the fact that it doesn’t contain meat. The lack of vegetables is of no consequence to the menu planners. In Hawaii once, I was excited to see “Veggie Burger” on a fast food restaurant menu. When I received my order, I got a hamburger bun with mustard, lettuce and tomato. And that’s it).

So I found a vegetarian buffet just off of Bay Street, and gorged myself on garbanzo beans, cous-cous and a medley of assorted vegetables. It’s OK, sweet colon. I still like you. Please forgive me!

Well, I’ve finished my work in Cleveland. This afternoon I fly back to Toronto.

I had another chat with Ed the guard this morning. I was rolling a travel case out to the loading bay (it’s quite large), and Ed said “Aha! I’m onto you. You’re Canadian. You’re smuggling Americans into Canada in that thing.”

I responded, with mock drawl, “Yup, I’ve gone and rescued me a bacth of draft dodgers”.

Ed waved at the case and said “Bye-bye” as though he was happy to be rid of my draft dodgers, and returned to his desk. During our chat this morning, he revealed that he was a conservative who had been pleased to see that last of Bill Clinton, but now he would be pleased to see the last of George W. Ed isn’t a christian fundamentalist, but he is a conservative.

Many who despise the American right wing are quick to stereotype US conservatives, and many Canadians ones, too, as loony nutcases, but this is not always the case, and I would suggest that leftists and centrists do their own movements more harm than good by continuing to subscribe to the theory that it’s only a matter of time until the old nutcases die off before liberalism once again becomes fashionable.

I had a few hours to kill before my plane, but not really enough time to explore the city in detail, so I took a walk through the downtown core. It really is attractive, in many respects. The lobby of the theatre in the Keith Building is beautiful, and there are several galleria that house artisans. However, there really isn’t much to do, so I went back to the hotel to do some writing.

Unusually when travelling on business, I’m not really feeling all that homesick. There are a few people I miss, and I’ll be glad to take another walk to Beaver Lake, but otherwise, I kind of like the feeling of being free and easy, materially. It’s just me and a suitcase. I don’t feel burdened by the pile of possessions that await me at home, and which are effectively my dependents. I work to provide a home for a mountain of books and piles of kitchen accessories, most of which are seldom used.

Perhaps I’m just manifesting the purge that I have planned for the spring, in preparation for my next midlife crisis, which will result in great changes in my lifestyle. Maybe when I get home, I’ll be more ready to start taking the necessary action.

So much for Canada. Now I’m in Cleveland. One of the computers here crashed, and as I was the closest stooge (I mean, technician), I was nominated. I never did get the work done that I was supposed to in Toronto, but I did go to a lovely dinner party at the home of some friends in the Beaches. I’ll be returning to Toronto on Tuesday to complete the job. In the meantime, here I am in America again.

At the building where we house our computers, there is a lobby security guard named Ed. He’s quite a friendly guy (for an “Ed”), and we’ve had a few good chats. I often find it rare to encounter Americans that I find interesting conversationalists (for some reason though, when I travel in Europe, some of the most interesting people I meet are American). Ed is obviously quite intelligent and we discussed a wide range of topics. He grew up in LA, and told me a bit about what it used to be like when he was a youth (he’s probably 60ish now).

Cleveland, like most of the US cities I visit, has a downtown core that is dying a slow and painful death, the majority of businesses having relocated to suburbia, following the money. It’s not as bad as some (St. Louis springs to mind). However, like St. Louis, there are many beautiful old buildings. In Cleveland they are generally in better shape, and more utilised, but things are still pretty quiet compared to downown Vancouver or Toronto. You can’t get any food after 11:00pm unless you get pizza delivered.

Did I mention the air and water in Cleveland? The first thing I noticed (after the frigid temperature) was the air. I can taste it, and the taste is reminiscent of much-handled pennies. The water has a similar taste. Perhaps it’s all those smokestacks I see on the horizon (in between the cooling towers of the nuclear power plants).

Cup of acid rain, anyone?

Well, I’m back in Canada. That is, if you consider Toronto “Canada”. This city is more American than some American cities, in the sense of traffic and billboards. There was a snowstorm right before I arrived, so walking is a bit of a pain. I only have a pair of black Rockports, but at least they are waterproof. Unlike Vancouver, though, the snow just lays there, rather than turn to slush and back up the storm sewers.

I’m staying at the Sheraton, downtown. It’s a 42-floor concrete monstrosity on Queen St, across from Nathan Phillips square, also known as “City Hall”. For some reason, I always want to call it “Mel Lastman Square”, before I remember and correct myself. I’m on the 14th floor. There is a sign on my door explaining the emergency procedures. I am advised that if I hear a “whaling sound”, the fire alarm has been triggered and I should evacuate by the nearest stairwell. So far, the hallway has been devoid of the sounds of harpoon guns and shouts of “Thar she blows!”.

You know what I can’t stand about hotels (I mean, besides everything)? The way they fold the toilet paper into a point on the end. Apparently this is supposed to give me the sub-concious impression that the roll has not been used (despite its’ suspiciously small size). It’s toilet paper, not fucking origami, and I don’t feel any more relaxed about using it knowing that the woman who just scrubbed out the toilet used those same hands to grope the end of the roll. Like most things, this trend began wth one chain, and was soon adopted by every hotel in the land. I recall staying in a condemnable roach motel in Fort St. John that had a bare light bulb, peeling paint, and a yellow-stained bathtub, but hey, at least the toilet paper was shaped into a pleasing white arrow.