Hotel Woes On The Road

It’s not all fun and glory on the road as a travel writer. Sometimes you gets what you get. Here's one of the worst hotels.

Sleeping Room: It is high summer and the wall-mounted air conditioning unit’s performance falls somewhere between finicky and abjectly useless. Yet inexplicably the bed is outfitted with a heavy wool blanket and padded spread. Pillows are fabric thin. Asking for additional pillows produces stained sponge rubber wafers that smell of Vicks VapoRub and some species of mammalian urine.

A small screen TV hangs precariously from a wall mount. It's so close to the ceiling only a presbyopic giraffe, watching through the spinning blades of the ceiling fan, can view it comfortably.

A single narrow shelf nailed to the back wall serves as a desk. The ill-matched chair is so low it brings to mind fond childhood memories of sitting with one’s chin just a few inches over the Thanksgiving dinner table while balancing on a Sears Roebuck catalog.

The Bath: Secured by a single rusty bolt, a padded toilet ring pinches one’s tender nethers and lets out a little vinyl fart upon sitting down. Paper comes off the roll mashed and pre-moistened with unidentifiable fluid. A twist of the sink spigot produces a high velocity surge of water that douses the back wall and floor.

A half pane of smoked Plexiglas encloses the tub-cum-shower. Its purpose is a mystery as it neither protects the bathroom from shower spray, nor provides privacy. At any given moment, water could range from scalding to frigid. This requires the bather perform a kind of indigenous dance over the surface of the tub: rinse, yelp, hop, test the stream temperature, then repeat steps 1 through ...

Water comes out of the sink taps at an interesting 37-degree angle. The light over the sink glows just enough to throw one’s face into deep shadows while applying make-up.

There is no “Do Not Disturb” sign to hangs on the doorknob. Perhaps it’s a given that one must be already disturbed to stay here.

On Location in the FOX News Studio, Chicago, IL

Lights, Camera … me?

The Green Room. One cup of strong, major-league-caffeinated coffee, 2 cream, 2 sugars. My hand trembles ever so slightly as it holds the finger-scorching double-stacked paper cup. My visage is being powdered and poofed by a makeup artist. As she’s applying the lipliner, the nurse in me is wondering how many others have been lacquered with the same brush??

It’s 5 minutes to air time. I'm ushered into the studio. Mind is blank. Intention whithered.What have I gotten myself into?

Less than 36 hours ago, I was an aging, anonymous git with a feather up my keister about the healthcare coverage issue. And now … oh, only 4 minutes to air time - I’m sitting in a studio chair waiting to have my brain picked by a high-ranking television muckety-muck. The camera in front of me, centered in the otherwise darkened studio, is a flat shadowy square surrounded by a row of retina-bleaching flood lights.

In the distance, I see the on-air monitors. (Don’t look at them, you’ll be distracted, I chide myself. )

I’m listening for the audio que. The cameraman has just inserted an earpiece into my right ear. OK, that’s sort of my not-so-deaf side. Now he’s clipping the lavaliere mic on my blouse neckline. I don’t have tie to clip it onto.

Now I sit and wait, in front of hot studio lights. My mind as featureless as the dark side of the moon. Geez. I hope it doesn’t stay blank. I have notes, but …

Gum. Oh yeah, get rid of the gum. I stick the wet little glob onto the back of my notes and put the stack onto the black table to my left. What’s supposed to be on the table besides my sweaty notes and the ball of stale gum leaving a watermark on the inked text?

In the background I hear Neil Cavuto interviewing another guest speak. Who, I’m sure is much more talented, thinner, cuter, younger, smarter, well-heeled, jaunty, winky, blinky and nod than I.

Sound check. “Miss Lonze we’re checking sound levels, please count to 10”. Breathe. Breathe. “One. Two. Three. (er, what comes after three??) “OK that’s fine. Can you hear Mr. Cavuto?” Yes.

Yes, I’m thinking. I hear him. In fact, I listen to him every day. He’s a god in the broadcast industry. On the other hand, I’m a mere peasant, raked in from the field. Ready to be turned on the spit. Fed to the wolves. Leftovers for jackals and tsetse fly larvae.

I am acutely aware of my life and credibility stretching before me, and sinking like NASDAQ futures after an overnight Asian markets plunge.

“We’re going for a commercial break. Then you’ll be on. Listen for the que”.

The que? I’m also acutely aware of the fact that my panties are inside out – the result of a hurried shower and reassembly. This sorry fact was discovered when I made a last-minute visit to the ladies, just before air time.

What the heck am I doing here? Must be some mistake. I’m just me.

But I have something to say. I’ve written it. It’s published. Mr. Cavuto read it. There’s no turning back.

Neil’s voice flows into my right ear. He’s asking a question. He’s very nice. He’s very smart, and an excellent interviewer. I like him anyway. I won’t disappoint him. It’s his show. And it’s my chance.

We banter back and forth about the issue at hand. He liked my article and it complements his show theme. More importantly, he gives me a chance to speak my mind, and perhaps put a voice to the fears and concerns of my cohort having genuine concerns about how the decisions of the current political machine will affect their lives.

We speak. We question. We tackle the issue at hand.

Soon, it’s over. I didn’t drool; didn’t pick my nose, hem, haw or stumble.

I’m honored. I’m happy. I’m humbled. Thank you, Mr. Cavuto. Thank you, readers. Mission accomplished.

Oconaluftee Indian Village, Cherokee, NC

The year is 1829. As a young woman in Southern Appalachia, you hold property rights to a farm producing corn, beans and squash. You fight in battles, vote, make speeches and have an active voice in government. You are head of a household, perhaps even a chief. You have power and prestige. You are Cherokee.

This is the advanced culture nearly destroyed by white settlers eager for farmland and quick riches, after gold was discovered on tribal lands in Georgia.

Following passage of the Indian Removal Act 15,000 Cherokee people were rounded up into concentration camps and marched off to Oklahoma in the bitter winter of 1838. Along this “Trail of Tears”, over 4,000 perished of cold, disease and starvation.

Only 400 natives, known as the Oconaluftee Cherokee, were allowed to remain in their stockade towns. Today, their descendants are one of the few Native American tribes to still occupy their original homeland that now makes up the 100-square mile sovereign nation of Cherokee.

Oconaluftee village on the Qualla Reservation is in Cherokee, North Carolina. Wander through this outdoor museum. Take the self-guided tour to see baskets woven by women who learned the craft from their mothers. See a demonstration of weaponry. Did you know the Cherokee were the only North American people to use blowguns?

Around the bend, another member of the tribe stands beside a giant log topped with burning embers, telling how dugout canoes were made. Later in the evening, watch the story of the Cherokee unfold in the outdoor theatre production of “Unto These Hills”. Experience what it means to be Cherokee.

Oconaluftee Indian Village is open seven days a week May 1 – October 24 from 9am – 5pm. Tickets are available on line and at the door. Nearby is the Museum of the Cherokee Indian, Qualla Arts & Crafts center. Cherokee hosts numerous cultural events throughout the year.

Museum of Salt & Pepper Shakers, Gatlinburg, TN

Pass the salt and pepper, please.

Sprinkled among the stores and gift shops of Gatlinburg’s Winery Square is the world’s only Museum of Salt & Pepper Shakers.

Hogs, frogs, bears, and marine life are sorted by category, filling the displays. Would you pour salt out of a miniature toilet? Pepper from a tombstone? Mr. Peanut, the Campbell Kids and even miniatures of the King and Queen of Nepal have their own place of honor on the shelf.

Wandering through 3,200 sq. ft. museum, you’re likely to hear “We had a set just like that!” as visitors find familiar figurines from days gone by. Hallways are painted black so that the shakers in brightly lit, glass-fronted rooms stand out. Yellow arrows on the floor point the visitor to the next gallery. There, you’ll see even more sets made of ceramic, wood, walnut shells, horn, eggs, rock, glass, metal, plastic, nuts, sea shells, crystal. From the world’s largest to the smallest set, it’s unique, quirky and fun.

The collection was begun over 22 years ago when the Ludden family didn’t have a working pepper mill. One mill grew into a collection. Over the next 20 years Andrea, archaeologist and museum curator, had amassed over 20,000 sets.

Visitors can start their own collection with a purchase of shakers in the museum’s gift shop. You can even collect a spouse while visiting, as the Salt & Pepper Museum doubles as a wedding chapel.

The museum is open Monday through Saturday from 10:00 am until 4:00 pm. Admission is $3 for adults, and children under 12 free.

Ocean Park Expo, Motobu-cho, Okinawa

Forget the rod and reel. This is one amazing fish story.

On the northwest coast of Okinawa, Ocean Park Expo is the site of the second largest aquarium in the world.

Peer into the 2 million gallon water tank. It feels like standing at the bottom of the sea. Home to thousands of fish and marine mammals, schools of fish shimmer in the natural sunlight. A giant manta ray slides up the side of the 2-foot thick acrylic glass panel. Suddenly a whale shark glides by. At a length of 26 feet, it’s the largest species of fish, and one of the few living in captivity.

Dip your hand into the cool waters of the tide pool exhibit and feel the rough skin of a starfish or the delicate spines of a sea urchin.

Sit under the shaded canopy of the outdoor theater to watch whales and dolphins fly through the air during one of the 15-minute water shows presented 5 times a day. Nearby there is a sea turtle pool, ocean nursery, dolphin lagoon and manatee house.

Then, walk through a reproduction of a native Ryukyu village. Thatched or clay roof wooden buildings blend into the tropical garden setting. Inside you’ll see authentic furnishings, kitchenware and even a shrine.

Ocean Park Expo is open daily from 9:30 am to 17:00 pm (later in the summer). Admission ranges from 600 yen for children to 1800 yen ($20 US) for adults. The park can be reached by car or bus. It's a 2-1/2 hour trip from Naha City, along the Okinawa Expressway. The complex overlooks the East China Sea.

From the water surface to the ocean floor, you’ve just visited the waters of Okinawa, and didn’t need a towel.

Dunnington, Indiana

Dunnington is one of several unincorporated communities dotting northwest Indiana. The town's namesake (John Dunn) made his fortune selling baled hay to the government for the U.S. Cavalry during the Civil War. Then in the 1870s he ran a local 320 acre farm. 

Today, visitors can travel for miles along 2-lane back roads that roll through the gentle hills of Benton County. Acres of knee-high corn flutter in the late June breeze as summer bugs ping the windshield.

At a crossroads in one cornfield, St. Mary’s Catholic Church rises over the handful of buildings built in Dunnington dating from the late 19^th century.  For church gatherings, neighbors still serve freshly shucked and boiled corn, home made slaws and pies. Chicken, baked to a golden crisp is heaped on large family-style platters. Oversized bowls swim with German-style string beans flavored with nuggets of sausage and onion. Traditions and family ties run deep.

Headstones in St. Mary’s cemetery reflect the community’s German heritage: Altepeper, Gros, Schilling, Schwartz. Some folks lived as long as 97 years, while others lasted a brief half hour. A little girl rests next to her grandparents. One cold day she wandered out of the house while her mother tended a newborn sibling. Within days the toddler was overtaken by pneumonia. Her headstone is dated 1920 - 1922.

Wikipedia calls Dunnington ‘now virtually extinct.’ Yet there are signs of life. 87 new wind turbines of the Benton County Wind Farm churn in the summer wind. Prayers for a good harvest are still offered during church services.

Two miles east of the Illlinois border, 38 miles west of Purdue University. It’s the 1001^st “place to visit” before you die.

Rodin Museum, Paris, FR

You can smell flowers long before you see them in the garden surrounding the Hotel Biron in Paris. This is the house where French sculptor Auguste Rodin lived and worked for 12 years until he died in 1917.  Two years later it was turned into a museum of his artwork.

This grand house was built nearly 200 years before Rodin rented rooms on its lower floors and set up a studio. It’s here that you’ll find the Thinker, Balzac and the Burghers of Calais. But don’t look for them indoors.

Wander through the 7.3-acre park, over powdery white gravel paths, through the rose gardens. At the edge of one path a half-dozen cone shaped trees form a leafy alcove. Inside, you can walk right up to the bronze Thinker, sitting atop a white marble pillar, deep in meditation.

Rodin used acrobats, dancers and strong men instead of professional models, so the statues have natural poses, looking right at home in this park-like setting.   

Stroll down the shaded lanes on either side of the garden to see students perched cross-legged on the grass by the elegant fountain, trying to capture their version of the scene into sketchpads.

Nearby, the golden dome of Napoleon’s tomb at Les Invalides gleams in the afternoon sun, hinting of the grand buildings of Paris that lie just beyond this peaceful niche. 

These quiet gardens are perfect for reflection, picnics or sketching some of the very best in French art and architecture.