Issue Two

I am sleeping and then I am awake. I am rocking and rolling. Why can’t she drive better? My need for sleep over powers my urge to yell, "Why does she keep putting the brakes on?" I loathe being a passenger. I think it’s because in my past life I was in a terrible accident. I was not driving because I had already put my time in at the wheel. The only thing keeping me from "taking the wheel" now was exhaustion. Kim had a driver’s license (god only knows how) and she was going to use it.

We were heading home from Disneyworld in a rented silver mini-van; a van not one of us would ever be caught dead in except for vacation.

Another jerk and I can’t resist, "What is wrong with you?"

"It’s the road. It’s not me. Go back to sleep," she answered, much angrier than I sounded. I heard Penny snicker–she always liked to hear Kim and I argue.

The kids were sleeping. One face was covered with a Mickey Mouse hat and the other covered with melted a Kit Kat bar. Nobody said we were ‘good’ mothers, but they sure were good kids. Apparently the jerking and rolling wasn’t bothering them a bit.

It was starting to become tradition; the three of us traveling together. Last year we had rented a house on the Outer Banks, and the year before that, the Outer Banks. Three years ago we went to the Outer Banks. We were attracted to sand, beach, warmth and laziness.

This trip had been different; we decided to forfeit the laziness and head for Disneyworld–a place we knew would require some work. There would be no lying around in the sun, we would have to walk up our daily sweat. There would be no reading a book a day, we would be reading brochures and ride restrictions. And there would be no sleeping in, we have to be up and out before the maid came. (A maid, who, Penny swore, drank her whiskey. Kim and I doubted that any maid would go into a customer’s luggage and take swigs from a hidden stash. Penny, to this day, insists.)

Our motivation was driven by our need to be heroes to our sons. We would be the mom’s who gave them their dreams of Disney. Never mind the lack of fathers. We were going on a real family vacation even if we had to re-invent the family. Kim, our childless friend, helped shape this family by acting in the role of ‘doting’ Aunt. The only problem with Kim was that she came with a white miniature poodle and a high-pitched voice that told our kids to ‘eat their vegetables.’ To Penny’s and my amazement, they liked her anyway and they especially liked the fluffy white dog. We called it a ‘not my’ dog. It was always getting into some kind of vacation trouble. Last year because of its superior attitude toward everything he landed in the mouth of a huge German Shepard and I had to rescue it. If the kids could see that poodle now, hogging the air conditioner. His well-groomed face was placed directly in front of the wind flow so that none could reach me. I pinch him and he tilts his head only a bit not daring to move and miss one "blow" of cold air. I poke the poodle again. He knows what I want. His tongue hangs as dainty as a strip of soft cinnamon red gum.

"Why do you keep putting the brake on?"

"It’s the road." She says. "Look at this road! It twists, it turns. It’s the stupid road!"

"Right, "I say. Penny smiles at me and understands.

"I’m going to be sick." I say not kidding. I am thinking of the "turkey legs" and Disney.

There is no better place, besides Vegas, in this country to watch people than in Disneyworld. Like Vegas, you get all walks. You get the family who has saved every single dime to be there and they stroll in their black stretch pants and white socks wearing their new Wal-Mart sneakers and they like to wear their bowling jackets no matter how hot it is. Right behind them you see the really rich family with a dad who really does wear his sweater tossed casually over his shoulders even while carrying their pretty daughter probably named Ashley on his slender tanned hip. He’s wearing Dockers and mom is so clean looking that you swear she just walked out of a photo. Proof right in front of you that people like that are not just in magazines. There are people in diamonds, in minks, in tee shirts and wheel chairs. People carry diaper bags, Gucci bags and shopping bags. Some push strollers while others push walkers. The American demographic is represented at any given time at Disneyworld. And they’re not fighting one another.

That used to be enough for people like me but true to the Disney way, they’ve added something new to the mix. The turkey leg.

"Come on," I beg Kim and Penny, "if I told you guys I was going to pitch to the Disney execs a turkey leg as a luncheon special in Disneyworld, you would have laughed. Who in the world would even pitch the idea? Maybe it was on a dare or something. Yeah, some shmoes in the lunchroom probably dared the janitor to pitch the idea to the executives, trying to see what they would do. The guy who thought of the idea probably got a raise and now owns his own Hawaiian island. Who would have thought it would be a hit?"

And ladies and gentlemen, it is a hit and if you don’t’ believe me, go to Disneyworld and rustle yourself up a nice big turkey leg. They look exactly like the one no one wanted to eat on Thanksgiving Day at moms. All big and burnt and brown and crispy and exaggerated and comical, like everything else at Disney. A turkey leg for lunch at Disney makes perfect sense. Disney–where everything is blown up and offered out of proportion. Where the most ridicules is purchased, rode, watched, eaten, adored and sought after–and because we’re at Disneyworld it all works. Now, if you were to offer me that turkey leg at thanksgiving dinner–a big no thanks.

"Alright! I’ll pull over." Kim says in disgust at my gagging. The poodle senses something is about to happen and shifts away from the air. I immediately stick my face where his was and he looks up to his owner for help. She circles a parking lot.

The Motel Dolores is low and dark. The neon sign has lost the stuff that makes it neon and Motel Dolores now relies on the handy bright orange open sign you can get at the hardware store for 88 cents on sale. Motel Dolores was probably built in the 50’s. I don’t know why, I just have a feeling. In the 60’s and 70’s the purple and burnt orange carpet was installed and plastic plants were placed around the doorway. Since then there appears to have been no further attempt to upgrade or update Motel Dolores. A crumb-laden coffee table with a stained Mr. Coffee maker on top tells me I’m in for another fantastic continental breakfast. A cheap way to feed the boys who think any breakfast on any day is a treat.

We have the conversation–the same one before any room is taken. Should we tell them we are three adults, a dog and two kids? We decide no. Penny assumes her ducking position on the floor in the back. This time she is wearing underwear. The last time we tried this a valet attendant saw everything and wouldn’t leave the side of the van. I kept telling Kim to tell him to step away from the vehicle. When Penny sat up-he moved away. Ever since that time she wears underwear or else she ducks with her legs together.

The television we hear is not in the lobby. It’s from the room where Dolores lives. I think I’m going to ask her why motel people always live behind the front desk. It makes me squirm to smell their dinners, see their stoves, listen to their muffled conversations and I especially hate when their children peak at me. I’m on vacation, I don’t need that. Dolores, annoyed, shuffles to the desk. The infomercial is about a miracle-cleaning agent. Not much on at 3 am in…I don’t know where we are?

"Pennsylvania." Dolores says not amused. "If you don’t’ know what town, I don’t see what difference it makes, you’re leaving in the morning anyway."

I am about to respond but Kim kicks me. The message is this: we don’t want to piss Motel Dolores off because we have a two kids, a poodle and a women who may or may not have underwear on in our van and we’re not paying for them.

She charges us 10 dollars per person. We sneak into the room. The boys sleep with Penny. I sleep with Kim and the poodle. The room is damp with a foggy feel. Thick air. Purple carpet majesty among the fruit colored walls. I am sleeping in the Pennsylvania Mountains.

In the morning we get a good look at Motel Dolores and we begin to realize that the adage ‘you get what you pay for’ is true and we are living a cliché. The rug is worn and cracks in the ceiling tell me the room is experiencing some stress. Penny is in the small bathroom. The boys play with the poodle on the sagging bed. I dig through the sheets for a lost sock–and there it was, the large dead bug. A mountain bug, as big as my thumb. The kind of bug that grows big because no one is around to kill it in its youth. They grow and grow into largeness and finally die of old age as big as a thumb. I jump back and Kim comes to inspect.

"Oh my god!" She can’t help it. Penny fly’s out of the bathroom her toothbrush in her mouth.

"What?" Wet toothpaste flies in front of her.

"A bug!" Kim says in her familiar high octave voice. Penny looks down and jumps on the bed–the one with the bug. She is standing in defense on the same bed with the same bug and looking on the floor.

"Where?" She demands to know. Kim and I realize that jumping off the floor is a most natural thing to do when someone yells mouse, spider, snake or bug. But at Motel Dolores, nothing is natural–it’s like the turkey leg. It belongs but it doesn’t belong where it is.

Kim is trying to tell Penny that the bug is not on the floor like most bugs. But she can’t bring herself to say it. I am pulling on Penny trying to get her off the bed. The dog starts to bark frantically, in his poodle high pitched bark and I can only think of Motel Dolores annoyed. She will find us 6 in a room for only 20 bucks. I pull Penny down but she is fighting me. Toothpaste is in my hair. The kids think the poodle is playing and start wrestling each other on the other bed.

"The bug is on the bed!" Kim finally yells out and that’s when we hear a knock on the door. We are still as church mice. The kids tip toe into the bathroom with Penny who laughs through her toothpaste. Kim wraps the dog in a towel and places him gently into the bathtub. Expecting Motel Dolores, Kim calmly answers the door. It is only the maid telling us we are past check out time.

We give Penny the OK and our entourage comes out. Penny holds up the half bottle of whiskey. As a travel writer I am not suggesting that you offer the housecleaning help a shot or two of whiskey as a bribe to keep your hotel secrets, but in case you don’t have a large bug to work with it doesn’t hurt.

As for Disney and the mountains of Pennsylvania, both are great trips. Disney is constantly adding not only new foods to their repertoire, they are continuously adding new adventures in thrills and learning. As for traveling the mountains in Pennsylvania–now I know why some people say ‘finish the 219.’ To Kim’s driving credit, it is a twisty turning road.