South By Southeast

Except for the year 2011 when we vacationed in Arizona, Momma Cuandito and I have been trekking down to Florida every spring for the last eight or nine years to escape what we always hope, usually futilely, will be the last vestiges of arctic air.  This year, for the first time, we decided to drive rather than put up with the indignities and inconveniences foisted upon flyers by the airlines.  Our departure date was Wednesday, February 17, and we did not have to be back home until Sunday, March 13, in time for our annual Selection Sunday basketball party.  Our initial initial plan was to make a beeline down to Florida, and then take our time seeing the sights on the return trip.  That original strategy was soon set aside in favor of a much more practical one: Why kill ourselves to get to Florida?  Let's see some sights on the way down too.  Before our trip was forty-eight hours old we encountered a (major?) disappointment, an embarrassment, a pleasant surprise, a discovery and a personally ignominious moment. 

The Disappointment.  As always, Momma C was packed and ready to go two days ahead of time.  I wish I could be that organized, but alas, I pack better if I wait 'til the last minute, so we didn't head out until 2:00.  I correctly guessed we'd get that late start, so our destination for the first night on the road was Mad City, a mere 275 miles from the Quentin Estates.  We've stayed in Madison many times, and usually find acceptable lodging along Motel Row, the string of chains which rim the Madison exit for Route 151, aka "East Wash" (for Washington Avenue).  This time we reasoned that if we used Orbitz we could probably find a much nicer in-town hotel for about the same price.  It didn't exactly turn out that way, as we ended up in the Americinn Lodge on the far west end of the city, a twelve minute drive from the interstate.

For a small city Madison has many very good restaurants, but we would have had to drive back into the heart of town, fifteen to twenty minutes away, to reach the ones we knew.  We were so tired from driving in the dark and arriving after the so-called "dinner hour" that we decided to settle for a meal at Granite City, located in the West Towne Mall a few blocks away.  That is where we incurred The Disappointment.

We are quite familiar with the Granite City franchise.  You might recall from my January 9, 2016 post that my go-to beer there is Two Pull, their version of a black & tan.  I had been savoring a beer throughout the entire day.  I could barely wait for Momma Cuan and I to toast the beginning of our three week adventure with some tasty suds.  We both ordered food when the server arrived with our drinks.  We clinked our glasses and then, down the hatch!  I almost gagged.  My Two Pull tasted like swill.  My first instinct was a flashback to my college days, when I had the misfortune of drinking what remains, fifty years later, the absolute worst tasting beer I've ever ingested, Drury's, the pride of South Bend, Indiana.  Cool label, with the red-jacketed Canadian mountie, but otherwise dreadful. 

I took a quick look at my calendar.  No, tonight is not April 1, so no April Fools joke.  Maybe I'm on Candid Camera?  Is there a hidden lens inside the lamp on our table?  Nope.  This couldn't possibly be Two Pull.  I took two sips and could not injure myself any further.  The twenty ounce mug of the golden draught sat there undisturbed from then on.  Despite the fact that the place was not busy, the server never showed up at our table until a good ten minutes after the food had arrived via a kitchen helper.  By that time I was no longer in the beer drinking mood, having settled for water.  Was this a sign of bad luck to come on our trip?

When we got back to the motel MC fell promptly asleep but I was wide awake.  I caught up on some reading but could not get the disappointment of the bad Two Pull, the beer I'd recommended to others many times, out of my noggin.  What if Granite City had changed the recipe?  That's what I'm convinced happened with Fat Tire, an amber produced by New Belgium Brewing Company in Fort Collins.   I used to crave that beer when visiting in Colorado during Michael's college years in the mountains, but a few years later the brewmaster certainly had unwisely altered the ingredients.  If Granite City pulled the same shenanigans, that would be enough for me to withdraw from membership in its Mug Club.

The more I thought about it, the more steamed I became.  No way to go to sleep now until I got it off my chest.  I had grabbed the business card of the GC general manager, Mike Lyons, on my way out the door, and decided to send him an e-mail.  This is what I wrote:

My wife and I live in St. Louis Park, MN, and frequent the GC restaurant there on a regular basis. I have been a Mug Club member for a few years, and a customer going back even before that at your Maple Grove, MN location. My beer of choice has always been the GC Two Pull.

Tonight we were in your West Towne Mall restaurant for the first time, and we both ordered the Two Pull. I regret to inform you that it tasted like skunk beer,  i.e., what beer tastes like when the lines need to be cleaned or the beer has not been sold on a frequent enough basis to taste fresh. Our server never asked why I left 95% of the beer in my mug.  I am very disappointed by both the product and the service at your establishment.

I "signed" my name and wrote the ticket number of my bill before pushing "Send."  I did not hear anything the next day or the day after that.  Okay, I thought, as long as the GC back home hasn't tinkered with their Two Pull I can forgive the franchise.  

By the time four days had gone by and I'd consumed several other beers (none from GC) at various establishments along the southeast route, I'd forgotten about my bad Mad City drinking experience.  Then, to my surprise, I received the following reply from Mr. Lyons:

John,

I am very sorry that your two pull was sub par from us here in Madison. I have called out our regional brewer to come and check out this issue and we also discovered that we have the wrong beer faucets on for our beers and it can give off a metallic taste to our beer so we have changed those out too. Thank you for the feed back and I will continue to watch that situation closer. If you are ever in Madison again and you decide to give me another chance I will pay for your two pull.

Thanks

Michael Lyons

General Manager

Granite City Food and Brewery

Madison, WI

My faith in humanity was restored!  The Disappointment was erased.  Kudos to GC and Michael Lyons.  He could have just blown me off as a whining Minnesotan who probably would not come his way again. But not only did he reply with an apology and an explanation, he followed up with corrective action at his restaurant.  That is the sign of a good GM.  Now I'm proud to say I'm still a card carrying member of the GC Mug Club, the only club of any kind to which I belong.

The Embarrassment.  I am not a car guy, a fact clearly in evidence by my driving a 2005 Toyota Corolla which I bought second hand in 2006.  (By the way, outside of oil changes and fuel, plus the occasional purchase of new tires, in the eleven years I have owned the car I have spent less than a few hundred bucks on it.)  Another piece of evidence is revealed by the following anecdote.

Whenever I'm undertaking a road trip of more than about three hundred miles, I usually rent a car.  The advantages are obvious, both from aesthetic and safety points of view, not to mention that driving to Florida in an eleven year old Corolla would be preposterous.  Momma C requested an SUV, so I rented a 2016 Kia Sportage from my buddy, Felix, at the downtown Avis store.  Loading the car with luggage and supplies posed no problem, and the car handled beautifully on the road.  We even got satellite radio -- Sixties On 6! -- an unexpected "free" accoutrement.  But when we arrived at the Madison Americinn, I could not get the tailgate open.  After furiously pushing the various buttons on both Avis remotes which were attached to the key ring, I yanked with both hands but the tailgate did not budge.  I tried facing away from the car with both hands tucked under the tailgate's edge and really lifting with my legs.  Nothing.  Mary gave it a go with the same result.  I combed the interior for a lever or latch without success.  I checked the glove compartment to consult the owner's manual, but of course it was missing.  (Why would anyone steal an owner's manual?)  Mary googled a query and found many people complaining about the very same problem, but none offered a solution.  I could not imagine myself hauling out luggage and supplies by crawling over the back seat every time we needed something at one of our many scheduled stops during the next three weeks.

Then somehow, some way, after many exasperating attempts, I got the tailgate open.  I'm not sure what I did differently, but we did manage to get what we needed for the night.  The next morning I decided to bring the car into a Kia dealership before hitting the road for a long travel day.  Luckily there was a Kia dealer a couple of blocks away.  I pulled into the service area and a young man named Phil asked why I was there.  I wasn't more than fifteen seconds into my story when a knowing smile/half-smirk came over his face.  I handed him the Avis remote, he pushed one button and, with one finger, easily opened and lifted the tailgate. 

Standing there with my mouth agape, I channeled by best Jack Buck.  "I don't believe what I just saw!"  Then, "I am so embarrassed."

Phil replied, "Don't be.  It happens all the time."  He then proceeded to show me the sweet spot, a little raised bump on the rubber pad under a chrome plate in the center of the tailgate.  "All you have to do is push the tailgate button on the remote for two seconds, then push the sweet spot."  

Pointing to another Kia SUV parked immediately in front of mine, Phil continued, "See that car?  It belongs to my boss, the service department manager.  It's been sitting there for ten days.  He bought it for his wife, then three days later brought it back in here claiming neither of them could get the tail gate open.  He handed the keys to one of the guys, said 'Fix it,' and promptly left for a two week vacation."

Well, okay then!  I may not be a car guy, I might have felt like a moron, but at least I was in good company with the service manager of the Kia dealership!

The Surprise.  As soon as you cross the Ohio River on I-24 from Illinois into Kentucky you see the lights of Paducah, our second night's stop 487 miles from Madison.  This is the Blue Grass State, the entry into the South.  It is also SEC territory.  For those of you not into college sports, "SEC" stands for the Southeastenn Conference, comprised of fourteen universities including UK, the University of Kentucky.  Basketball is king here, with the Wildcats' fans having no problem with their scandal-plagued coach, John Calipari, running a program designed to use recruits who have no intension of earning a degree (thus giving new meaning to the term "student athlete").  The state also has six other Division 1 basketball schools, including UK's arch rival, Louisville, from the Atlantic Coast Conference (another Power 5 conference like the SEC), and Murray State, only forty-seven miles from Paducah.

Once again for the second night in a row, we were tired and hungry when we checked into our motel, the Drury Inn on the outskirts of town.  As much as it would have been nice to explore Paducah and find a good restaurant, we couldn't resist the convenience of walking across the parking lot to Buffalo Wild Wings.  BW3, as it's commonly referred to, is obviously known for its wings, which can be dipped into a dozen or more different sauces, its tap beer selection and a plethora of televisions, all tuned to sporting events.  When we walked in the place was noisy and packed, like an indoor tailgate party.  The beloved UK Wildcats men's basketball team was taking on the Tennessee Volunteers in an SEC matchup, and many of the restaurant's patrons came with their game faces on and blue & white apparel.  There must have been twenty TV sets showing the game, visible from all areas in the cavernous space.  A few TVs were set for the Nashville Predators-Boston Bruins NHL game, with a handful of others airing various NBA tilts.  

The only seats we could find were at the very end of the bar, not really a great vantage point to watch the SEC battle.  (Probably a good thing, since I would have had to tamp down my preference for a Vols victory.)  Then, much to our surprise, we looked up at the smallest screen in the house tucked into the top corner behind the bar.  Lo and behold, there it was, our own little rodents, the Golden Gophers, about to do battle with the # 6 nationally ranked Maryland Terrapins on the Big Ten Network.  Momma Cuan and I were both astonished that here in this den of Wildcat hoops crazies, BW3 would even subscribe to the BTN.  Out of the 300 to 400 spectators in the place, we were certainly the only two watching that small screen.

A little background for the second surprise of the night.  Going into the game at The Barn, the Terps were ranked 6th in the country, and were # 2 in the country per the previous week's Associated Press poll.  By comparison, the Gophers were winless in their thirteen Big 10 games to that point, had suffered non-conference home losses to both South Dakota and South Dakota State, and stood almost no chance of coming within a dozen points of the heavily favored visitors from College Park.  Stranger things may have happened in the Dinkytown arena, but not many.  The Gophers held Maryland All-American guard Melo Trimble to a meager ten points on 3 for 11 field goal attempts, and the home town heroes won, 68-63.  It would prove to be not only a huge surprise, but the highlight of the entire season for Coach Little Richard's bedraggled, outmanned warriors.

The Discovery.  In the process of charting a course to Florida, I noticed a dark shaded area appearing on my atlas for western Kentucky, overlapping the state line into western Tennessee.  My curiosity was piqued, as I had never noticed any special designation like that on other maps.  It turned out to be Land Between The Lakes, a huge "recreation area" administered by the US Department Of Forestry.  We had been on an interstate since we left home.  It was time for a diversion.

Measuring 170,000 acres, Land Between The Lakes (LBL) is the largest inland peninsula in the United States.  It sits between two manmade lakes, Lake Barkley and Kentucky Lake, created when the federal government impounded the Tennessee and Cumberland Rivers in the early sixties.  LBL was established by President Kennedy in 1963, and opened in 1964.  

As soon as we pulled off the interstate about twenty miles outside of Paducah, I knew we were entering a land of wonderment.  If there really was a Neverland, this must be it. I expected to spot the Lost Boys darting between the pines and balsams at any moment.  There was an immediate sense of isolation, no doubt augmented by the time of year being mid-February, definitely the offseason.  As we drove down the forty mile long Trace, we could see deep into the woods, occasionally catching a glimpse of the lakes.  A handful of apparently abandoned wood shacks lent a backwoods feel to the surroundings.  This may not have been the Ozarks, but Ma and Pa Kettle would have fit right in.  I could picture them mixing a batch of moonshine right there in this forest primeval.

Before leaving LBL we entered the Elk & Bison Prairie, where the object, aside from enjoying the natural surroundings, was to spot the two types of beasts for which the immense landscape was named.  Vehicles are commanded to stay on the paved loop, which traverses about three miles.  There was a postcard view around every bend, and we virtually had the whole place to ourselves.  We were three-quarters of our way around the path, and had not spotted any wildlife.  Still, the experience was worth the $5 admission.

Then, in the distance, we made out a herd of bison, lazily grazing and meandering, some napping, right up against the pavement and the tall grass that surrounded it.  I stopped the car and set the zoom feature of my camera to 16X, the maximum available.  I wanted to snap a shot or two before approaching any closer.  Who knows if they'd get up and run away?  After a few long-range shots we creeped along in the car until we were practically right on top of them.  Still, they did not budge, only gazing up with a short stare as if to say, "What are you humans doing on our turf?"

The temptation to keep shooting was there, but I did not want to be "one of those guys" who was so busy with his camera that he failed to live in the moment.  So we enjoyed keeping the animals company for several more minutes before exiting the prairie and continuing south along the Trace.  True, we never did see any elk, but maybe the bison had told them to scram.       

The Ignominious Moment.  Upon leaving Land Between The Lakes our immediate mission was to get back on Interstate 24, forty-five miles to the east near Clarksville, Tennessee.  Our planned route would take us over a couple of country roads.  One of the first little burgs we came upon was Dover, a typical Mid South rural village with lots of trees, hills, a mixture of American and Confederate flags, small shops, and a disproportionate amount of churches and pickup trucks.  Before we reached the downtown area on the four lane main drag, we drew close behind a very slow moving rusted out red car whose driver was riding her brake down the long curving slope, occasionally allowing her left tires to sneak over the striped lines.  Not wishing to take five minutes to make the descent behind the erratic driver, I pulled out into the left eastbound lane to pass her.  To shorten my time in her blind spot, I gave the accelerator a little oomph.  I was still in that lane when I saw the fuzzy wuzzy at the bottom of the slope, surreptitiously parked on the westbound shoulder.  I knew I was dead meat, and when the red globe lit up atop the squad car, my pessimistic conjecture was confirmed.  It was too late.  The cop wasted little time making a U-turn and, with his high beams flashing irritatingly in my rear view mirror, flagged me down.

I quickly pulled off, dutifully signaling my right turn like a good little boy, and came to a stop on a side street.  Mary offered one piece of advice.  "Now be nice to him, John."  I wasn't sure if she was kidding, but I assured her that I have always made it my policy never to argue with someone armed with a gun.

After what seemed like a long delay, the slender, short, middle age officer came up to my window.  His name plate read "Carl Selph." "How are you today, sir?" he asked.

Nothing annoys me more than a guy who fakes small talk while he's screwing you, but I can pretend too.  "I was doing great until about ninety seconds ago."

The policeman gave a muffled chuckle.  He was done with the niceties as he asked for my driver's license and registration.

"This is a rental car," I said, hoping to diffuse any suspicions that I might have stolen this car with Missouri plates which did not match my Minnesota license.  

"I've got you doing 65 in a 45," Officer Selph proclaimed, probably proud that his radar was capable of irrefutable exactitude."

I knew that reading to be grossly exaggerated, but I recognized the futility of a Yankee making a fuss south of the Mason-Dixon Line.  "You sure about that?" I meekly inquired.

"Yes, sir" was all he said.

The policeman went back to his cruiser, running my license through his on-board computer to see if I was an escaped fugitive.  "I sure hope he doesn't find out about that man I shot in Reno," I thought to myself.  I was going to try that joke on Momma Cuan, but doubted she was familiar with the Johnny Cash lyric, unless someone on American Idol or The Voice had recently covered Folsom Prison Blues.

After what seemed an eternity, Officer Selph came back to my window, handing me a ticket.  Would I have, instead, received a warning if I was from Dixie? I'll never know.

"I reduced the speed from 65 to 64 so your insurance premium hit won't be so bad."  Was I supposed to thank him for that gesture?  I did not have it in me to do so.

"What's this going to cost me?" 

"You have three choices," explained the man in blue (actually white).  "You can pay $125 through the mail, or you can plead not guilty in our county court, or you can enroll in a one week driving class here to erase the fine and remove the violation from your record."

I was going to ask him if I chose Door # 3 if I would be a student or the guest lecturer.  I really wanted to, but Mary was about to burst out laughing at the thought of me enrolling in that class, plus I did not want to get detained on a trumped up charge of resisting arrest.  So, I took the ticket with plans to mail a check to Dover, bid the constable adieu, and resumed our drive toward Clarksville.

In retrospect, I think I handled the situation well.  I took my medicine, I didn't raise a fuss, and I never once asked Officer Selph to say hi to Andy, Barney Fife or Aunt Bee.  Heck, I never even pointed out to the man that he was misspelling his last name.