Chocolate Amish Eatting Cheese Steaks and Gambling in the Rain

Belgium is the land of Chocolate – but Hershey, PA – well it is trying desperately to win a little something back for itself. Hint: it's failing. Belgium also has beer.

Hershey, Pennsylvania is known for being home to the much beloved Hershey bar. We headed out bright and early to get to the magical wonderful land and see and smell all the chocolate. I grew up in a house across a giant field from a chocolate factory. This did two things to me. One: destroyed all ability to suspend disbelief when watching Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, for I knew there were no rivers of melted goo – only smoke stacks and employees, normal sized. Two: made the smell of chocolate unforgettable. Real chocolate. Factory made chocolate.

The closest I got to this scent was from the candles in the gift shops. If there ever was a real factory here – or if there still is, well I saw no signs of it. Though I did see a library. Not really the same though, is it?

Our one stop to get out of the car, plant our feet on the ground, and mark this town as officially visited came in the form of Hershey World. We rolled up at eight thirty in the AM. It didn't open until nine. You'd think we were sad pathetic people waiting for a chocolate world to open, if only there weren't so many others doing the same thing, for what is really just a glorified shop, with some over priced attractions.

When the doors opened people rushed to their chosen and pre-determined places of interest. Some went for the 4D movie, others for the make your own chocolate bar, and others for the trolly tour. Each thing cost ten or more dollars – none were worth more than five. But the shop – the chocolate shop – this was the place to be. Do not get distracted by the five pound Hershey bar for forty dollars. Yes it may look novel, but it is not your best chocolate to dollar purchase. Not by a long shot. The 32ct boxes of bars, those are the ticket. You can buy one for nineteen bucks, or two for twenty. There's little to think about here. The two boxes give you six pounds of chocolate, for half the price of the big bar.

I was overcome with glee, and desire. Katherine said they would melt. I joked we would eat them faster. Then I did the math. If we each ate two bars a day, they would still take over two weeks to finish. Were we to up this to us each eating four bars a day, that would still take eight days to eat them all. And if one of us ever fell behind, or did not consume the requisite number of candy bars, well then – rage! rage! Still – at only thirty one cents a bar, it just seemed like such value to pass up.

I don't even like chocolate. I just like value. A lot.

When we finally left with only a back of York's mint m+ms, and some Good & Plenty (not for me – because, as a normal person, I hate those with the same ferocity as I hate candy corn) we headed off away from this town – bypassing the theme park (not chocolate themed though, clearly missing an incredible opportunity) – and made our way to Lancaster.

Lancaster was the capital of the country for like a day, once upon a time. The more you travel this area, the more you realize that just about every town can claim itself being the capital for an hour or so for some nonsense reason. But, it's true, this town had something going.

There was a market – the oldest market in the USA – that begged to be explored. It also claimed that I needed to buy a BBQ pork sandwich and one of the largest, most delicious, dill pickles I'd ever had. This was one you knew was a cucumber not that long ago. And the sweet sweet juices. Fantastic. Lunch was good – and filling.

Lancaster is also home to some great used bookstores, an old theater, one of the most well preserved hiding spots used during the underground railroad, and all number of Urbz sitting on their porches yelling at people. Often times shirts seems to be merely a suggestion. There are also a few galleries to be viewed. Two struck my eye. The first was on the second floor along Prince Street (this section of town is known for all the various art galleries) – the owner paints in her space every day, adding the new pieces to the wall, price tag attached. Her best piece – reminiscent of Death (Neil Gaimen's creation) – was long ago sold but for four hundred and fifty dollars you can still take home a print of your very own.

The model is the subject of many other originals, and I wonder just who she might be. Friend? Daughter? Lover? Hopefully not all three.

A few shops own you'll notice red umbrellas in the window. These umbrellas are the theme of the painters work. Every piece has a subject holding one. The paintings are from all parts of the world, as well as the parts residing only in imagination. At first I thought the theme tacky, an childish. But the more I saw, the more I thought I'd like some of theme. Then I began to picture a home where art could be displayed – what a terribly expensive hobby. It's right up there with smoking, car restoration, and heroine.

In this imaginary house, I'd also need tract lighting. Something to bring out the colours, make the images pop. This was not making the fictional abode any more affordable. It also made me think of the photo I took on the Brooklyn Bridge in the pouring rain, way back in March of two thousand and nine.

Lancaster could have been the base of a few days exploration, with a music scene illustrated by people handing out fliers for future shows. But we had to press on. Driving the thirty, we watched as highway gave way to farmland. Reaching Paradise, we set out north along the old roads for Intercourse (no jokes, none at all, about this town name were made. Truth.) The whole time we were on Amish watch. When finally a horse and buggy was seen, I can tell you what I didn't do. I didn't lean far out the window, holding camera astray, snapping as we passed at forty miles an hour. That would be crazy.

We saw Amish clothing hanging on the lines – fact, the Amish women wear blue panties.

“How can you tell it's Amish clothing?” I was asked.

“Well – all the shirts are basic fabric and one simple colour. Also –“ pointing out the clothes at the end of the line, “how many other people do you think need their three all black long pants, long shirts, washed during this summer?”

An event occurred where I may have screamed, causing a sharp left to be taken, at perhaps speeds a bit to high, in a road a bit too crowded. But I had seen a sign. A sign that needed investigating. The sign? Home Made Root Beer.

I love me some root beer. And home brewed? Perhaps in a tub somewhere? By real salt of the earth folks? Well how could I resist? Sure we drove down a long farm driveway, passing signs reading “root beer, this way.” I may have felt like the cartoon fool picking up candies from the ground. Finally stopping on the giant X, ready to be crushed from above. Even the final sign simply read “for root beer, stop here.” It was a trap – it must have been. But no, there was a cute blonde haired boy no bigger than eight, sheepishly selling brown liquid in glass jars. A pint jar for two dollars, a liter for four, or a big jug for six. The empty jars themselves would have been worth the ticket, but to have them filled with a cold mysterious brew? Well – it was delicious. It was flavourful, like no root beer I'd ever had again. And as I finished the last refreshing drop, it struck me, I'd probably never taste it again in my entire life.

But in the moment I both enjoyed and appreciated it. Real Amish experience? Check. Next!

Our next stop was Philadelphia. We had two things in mind. The Liberty Bell, and a cheese steak.

For four dollars and twenty five cents we parked in a lot near the bell, and made our way the bell centre. Sadly the barriers were too far away for the thing to be licked, but who would want to do that anyway? Still – there was all sorts of information about it, and to get in was free. But we were on a mission – see the bell. We saw it, took pictures, stood in front of other people to get shots with it, took shots for others, shot other families in front of it, and merged into family portraits, spoiling them (enhancing, I felt) for all of time. And then we were off. Back to the lot. Time was ticking. If we showed up too late, the ticket would cost eight dollars to exit. Not wanting to pay for an hour, when only thirty one minutes had passed, we hustled. No time to pay at the gate, we paid in the machine with cash. With seconds to spare we jammed it in, and made payment. Success. Liberty Bell? Seen.

Next up, cheese steaks at Jim's a mile and a half away. We were told by all sources that these were the best in town. I'd craved one of these for years – and biting into it? Meh. It was alright – just, kind of, some meat on a bun with fried onions. It's alright, but nothing to really care about. The fake ones at out of state restaurants tasted better, and were the cheesy mess I'd craved. These authentic ones? Well locals cover them in ketchup – but then they just taste like a burger. Eat a burger. I just don't see the draw, neither did Kath. But, she's starting to come around, “I'd never eat it again – but for the experience? That made it worth while.”

I also had some frozen custard, which I'd regretted passing up three states back. It's just soft serve ice cream. Disappointed. But with those experiences? Phillie. Check! Onwards!

We were to find a motel just outside of Atlantic City, so we could spend the next day in the sun on the beach, and popping into the casino's of Vegas' little brother. It wasn't until we were in down town AC that we realized the GPS was not set for the outlying motel, but rather the city itself. Hard to notice. As we passed through Pleasantville, doors were locked. It was, shall we say, sketchy. People walled into the road at random, and yelling was not all that unheard of.

Driving through Atlantic City, it is mostly run down housing, all grey and falling apart. The boardwalk has lost its shine, and to be frank, it was depressing. This was no place to spend more than an hour. I got out of the car to wander up a small hill to see the boardwalk, and thus claiming and experience, but that was more than enough for me. Just getting out of the city to the motel was hard enough.

On the way we passed ten (yes ten) motels in a row advertising rooms for twenty bucks. These were the murdered in your sleep places. We headed for the Knights Inn. Getting there with our thirty five dollar coupon, we were ready to sleep and make more miles tomorrow, getting as far from this hole as possible. It reminded me of Coast City with the cyborg Superman destroyed. All I could think of was how I doubt few would care if this place was ripped from the map. A terrible thing to say, I know, but I've seen the world – and few places are as “I am not getting off the bus!” as this one. The motel jumped in price due to 15% tax, but still prices didn't match up. When I questioned them again, I was finally told about a secret three fifty charge for phone use. Even though we'd not use the phone, and there was no notice of this, that was the last straw. With so many twenty dollar places around, I was not going to pay for anything more.

Back in the car, we headed out. Screw the twenty dollar places. Lets get as far from here as we can before sleep.

Lesson learned: Stay the hell out of Jersey. Most people seemed to have learned this long ago.

Off we headed to a fifty dollar a night motel in Delaware. Sure it would end up costing more – I make bad financial decisions when I'm upset... hidden charges! But with the magic of zero tax in DE, the difference wouldn't have been all that great. Still – we never reached that far. Ending up on a toll road (my GPS unable to handle routing if a toll must be paid, if avoid tolls is on – there's not way out of Jersey without paying. To be frank, I'd have paid anything. No price is too high to leave that state. Unless you're visiting the Cake Boss. He seems cool.) Kath tossed her seventy five cents into the bucket like a seasoned pro. Just like on TV. Getting within spitting distance of the state line, we pulled off to a camp site. The first of our trip. Why not start camping when sun has set and you'd never put the tent up before? Good a time as any.

With car headlights shining poles were arranged and arched, and snapped onto, and the tent came to be. This didn't take long, but it wasn't the thing of beauty our thirty second tents were in Africa. Those were the best tents I'd ever had. And everyone in ear shot was sure to know it by the time I stood inside this one. Mind you, the fact you could stand inside this one was something.

It was hot. So very very hot. A lot of sweating was done. Camping in the summer's desert now is brought into sharper focus. Time will tell. But this? This was hot.

We acclimatized, and I pulled my gear from the tent walls. Never leave anything by a wall. The tent will probably leak, and your things will be ruined. At two in the morning I was woken to the sound of rain, but rather than finding it peaceful, I was nervous, still not trusting the walls an roof that surrounded us. Still, nothing seemed to be leaking. Finally shut my eyes it was, at last, the end to a very long day.

Gettysburg

Katherine was driving down the highway when out of nowhere a projectile came flying at her face. Luckily for her face, there was a giant pane of glass in the way. Unfortunately for the glass, it was not impervious to the striking blow of a high velocity stone kicked up by the car in front.

A small crack forms in the windshield. And sure, it's not much to look at now, but Apple Auto Glass commercials have taught me that if not filled it can spider out to something worse. Still – they just want money right? So we'll do our best to ignore this small situation – what could possibly go wrong with this plan of attack? After all, there's been a wee little notch in the van I used to travel out East years ago, and nothing bad ever came of that. What would make this different – aside from the fact that if something goes different it could have devastatingly costly repercussions.

By noon we rolled into a wee little town in Pennsylvania. The town never wanted attention, nor did those who brought such infamy to the woods and hills surrounding the quiet community. But, on July 1st, 1863 the Northern and Southern armies of America collided in what was to be the turning point of the Civil War.

We pulled into a parking spot just off from the visitor's centre. Just as useful as tourist stops in airports, the information centres will hook you up with all the maps, pamphlets, and personal information needed to make sense of a town, or city, or state. Just try not to feel bad about the fact that you'll toss most of them away only a half of an hour later. Those pamphlets would have been printed anyway, and after all there's so much forest in this country, who's going to notice if a few hectares go missing?

The town itself is pretty plain, with a few sights worth seeing, and a train station holding a piece of history as Abraham Lincoln once stepped off there. Though, travelling by train, I'm sure he stopped at many stations.

There were a number of gift shops – or antique shops, really – in the town. Some were owned and operated by large men, dealing with debt collectors, trying to make a buck or two to sustain their lifestyle. They may also have had three parrots that constantly squawked away. I wouldn't know about this. I never saw them. How, Katherine later asked, could I have missed a parrot right in front of me at the cash, and not heard their loud obnoxious calls? Personally I'd want to just call her a liar, and be done with it – but looking at the owner, he did seem the type who would have had those birds at work.

Down the street was a place called the Drummer Boy, run by snooty guys who had a more well stocked, and orderly store – but they would follow me around, perhaps to make sure I didn't steal some dug up bullets, or what have you. The bullets dug from Gettysburg were priced three times as much as those from Virginia. Fun fact: They look the same, and could easily be such – you're really going to trust these guys who some how grabbed them from the ground where sings are posted telling you relic hunting is prohibited (what would Tia Carrerer do...)? They've already cheated once.

Still – while the town may be lacking of the luster, that is not why you come to Gettysburg, or so the woman in the visitor centre told me. No – obviously, you come for the battlefield. For that you're going to want to head on to that visitor centre a few miles from town, and start your journey there.

In the centre you can grab a map with a 25 mile route all laid out on it. This route is signed the whole way around with stars, and arrows, and numbers, making sure you don't get lost in what will take – at the very least – two hours to complete. For those who want a little something more, there is also the audio tour option. There is one drawback for the audio tour – you can not rent them. Oh no, forbid they allowed something as easy as that. No – you have to buy them from the gift shop, in CD form. They range from 25 to 40 dollars. Why anyone would want to buy these collections of discs is beyond me. What good are they the next day, or any that follow?

I can only imagine myself trying to play them in Toronto, “and if you look to your left you'll see Little Round Top where thousands of...” Looking in earnest, I would be sadly met with the realization that they just don't work quite as well back in Canada.

For those with a little foresight and knowhow, it may just be possible to grab MP3s from the internet and have them ready ahead of time. But that would be wrong, right? And... as I said, require foresight.

[ protip: a number seem to be located here - http://www.civilwartraveler.com/audio/podcasts.html ]

Touring the battlefields took us the better part of three hours. This is no self contained park, but rather a drive through the surrounding district. Be sure to have a navigator nearby to yell at you when you're about to miss something, or get you lost. Mind you, sometimes when you're driving you may need to point out on the map – to the navigator – your location so they can reorient themselves. Then they're back in action. At times it may seem like you're giving your little cousin an unplugged video game controller and letting them feel as if they're playing along with you – but never underestimate the value of a navigator. They'll keep you on track, even if it's to the point of explaining that some pictures are better taken without stopping, through the window of the car.

Very quickly this three hour tour could have become a five hour one.

And – if you want to stop and look at every monument? Well then, plan at least five days. I don't know if it's a fact that Gettysburg has the highest number of monuments per miles square, but if that's not the case, I'd really like to see the town that can beat its record. Every mile there are four or twelve new statues for some regiment, or some state, or some person that did something. And while you think that they're of little value – just trying to press on to all sixteen starred sights. Never fear though, someone in front of you will see the value in the hunk of granite, and slam on the breaks without any warning to take their snap. It's like following a bunch of hyperactive children through a toy store – except all the kids will obtain thousands of dollars of damage, should any of them ever touch.

Still – there's parking a plenty, and most of the roads are one-way. This may be the first time I've ever admired one way roads.

From a number of the fields, you can view the farms where the battle started, and where leaders bunkered down. Last stands are pointed out, and the lines are marked with cannons stretching for miles. To think that there were that many men on the field, looking across at that many more on the hills above, and knowing that they'd soon have to charge? Well – seeing the battle fields really was an interesting experience.

From Little Round Top we looked down over the killing pens, and I wondered what it would have been like to be a solider either trying to hold the line, or break it – what would be more terrifying? And if you have any of the aforementioned children with you, even they will be entertained here, as there are plenty of rocks to crawl over and around.

The twenty five miles we covered were soaked in history, and nearly every state's license plate was represented in the parking lot for the centre. Perhaps every state – I counted twelve different ones without repeats before I wished I had a checklist with me.

I wondered what the experience would have been like for someone who had studied these battles? For someone who had probably played them out in their head so many times before, whose mental images of the lines were so detailed that they knew every small action that transpired here. What would it be like for someone who really cared about and knew this moment in history to view such a place?

I'll have to ask my father if he ever manages to make it this far. Probably something like when I saw the Jurassic Park field in Hawaii – except, you know – more... because these battlegrounds are a wee bit more important, and so much more happened here.

The hills, the valleys, the trails. You could get lost hiking them, and you're more than welcome to if you feel up to it. Though, who would – it's hot, it's muggy, and those twenty five miles aren't getting any shorter. Still – every day there are small hikes, and talks given by the park staff to visitors who show up at the right place at the right time. A schedule can be found in the info office. These are all free – but Katherine and myself? For us, the three hours was more than enough. As we reached stop 15, we were glad we started at 16, wandering the cemetery, and viewing the monument to Lincoln only a few hundred meters from where he gave his famed address (why they didn't build it on the spot, I don't know? Union issues is my guess.) We were done, we were satisfied, we could move on.

Together we left this historic town behind us, headed to Harrisburg, PA where we'd sleep for the night.

The road there was not free of encounters. We hit up a Mackers for food – and discovered you could get a salad on their dollar menu. This is a good salad, which gives me much needed and desired veggies. Not only that, but the dressing is Newman's own – fantastic. I think Mackers has now earned a permanent spot in our daily ritual. Scoff all you want, but you find a good salad in a grocery store for less than a buck – can't be done. No coolers here, no buying in bulk. And even if we were, the difference would be negligible.

Unfortunately it was training day in Mickey Dee's. For all staff. Chain of events:
-food ordered
-juice punched in instead of soda, 89 cents difference, plus tax.
-four cents too little given for refund.
-no cups for any drink presented
-cups not found when pressed
-two cups given instead of one – mistake not mentioned, due to four cents under refunded
-no dressing given for salad until pressed, when looked at as if crazy for still standing at counter

It was a rough day for the staff of that lone fast food eatery.

But then, then came excitement of excitements. Bass Pro Store! I'd never been to one before. Two stories of shopping wonderland. Each small area complete with its own dead an stuffed beasts. There were even old men tying flies in the fishing section.

I found a great camo jacket, but Katherine threated to leave me if I didn't take it off immediately. Pictures are all that remain now.

Waterfalls, aquariums, and shooting ranges all inside a store? I was overwhelmed. And hats – so many hats. I love hats. I can't say enough good things about hats. And so many ranging from quality to ironic.

But this could not last forever. Saying goodbye to the Beef Jerkey we walked into the mall, and discovered Toy Story 3 was playing. Nine dollars each, later, we had tickets. I won't get into it – but those who don't cry? Well you have no soul. Fact.

Eugene O'Neil vs. Michael Scott

We headed out without a plan, driving without a plan, and not really getting anywhere without a plan.

With a destination in mind, today was planned as being nothing more than a driving day. The main purpose was just to cover ground. I'm not really up for that, but with Katherine's dislikeament of our Woonsocket excursion, I thought it was best to just keep on heading on. But then, lo, a sign came into view. And the sign read, “New London, next exit.” I'd been to old London, and that was a pretty fantastic place. This NEW London must be even better. It seemed like a reasonable hypothesis, at any rate.

But how... how to get to New London without fear of it containing nothing, and upsetting my travel companion?

“Hey, I think we should get gas,” she spoke. A message from whatever divinity governs road trips. Hermes (Mercury) seems to make the most sense. So lets go with that. Her voice came as a message from Hermes, vipers copulating on his caducecus.

“Why, yes, what a lovely idea that is,” I replied. Though probably not in those words.

Off the highway I sped, well assured that even if the town turned out to hold nothing worthwhile, I would not be blamed for an experience gone awry, because – after all – we were just here to get gas. Anything else? That was just a bonus.

Actually getting the gas required twisting and turning through a number of streets. I saw a number of parking spots along the way, and was determined to make my way back to them to check the area out. It was some sort of sailing fest this weekend. A number of roads were closed down, and all sorts of activities and happenings were around. Not only that, but I saw a music shop. This could be my chance to pick up a ukulele.

But – focus – first, the gas. Filling to the top, we paid, and I started to drive back to the roads with the parking spots. But wait, why am I one level up, above the other roads? And what is this – why am I on the other side of the road barricades? A few odd turns later and I was headed back in the right direction again. But in the time it had taken me to get lost, the spots had all filled. Of course, one opened up just as I drove by. Hurrying around the block, and cutting through a parking lot to avoid a light, I was on aim at last to the spot – only three cars ahead of me. Fingers crossed, fingers crossed. Silver van? Passed it up. Black Jeep? Also drove by. Red truck. Red truck... no! The red truck pulled in, and again we were without parking.

Fine, whatever, that's it – I give up. Time to leave New London. I'm sure it's very lovely, with lots of wonderful qualities, but I gave it a go, and I failed. The potential ukulele haunting me as I drove away. But – on my way to the highway on ramp Hermes choose to smile on us once more. A brown sign with an arrow (sure sign of a local American attraction) pointed the way to Eugene O'Neil's house.

For those unfamiliar with American literature, or who some how missed this in high school, he is the author of Long Day's Journey into night. I could not – in good conscience – pass up the opportunity to see it. Also, it would be a one up chip in my pocket when other English teachers get snooty.

As we rolled up, the sign outside also claimed that this house was the setting for A Long Day's Journey into Night. Extra 1up points. “Ahh yes, but can you really understand the play without having actually been there? Walked around the very location, seen the rooms, the staircase, the town in which everything was brought into being?” I mean – of course you can. You don't have to have visited a place, or experienced something for your thoughts about it to be valid – but again, this is just if people start getting – and I say it again, snooty.

Now, the sign said there would be tours, but not until noon. It was now eleven. And remember, this was a driving day. We wanted to press on. But I could not pass this up. A quick trip to the O'Neil theatre centre, learning all the days plays would be far too late to stick around for, and then realizing that all beaches were private in this area, we headed back to the house. Outside, on the brick wall, we sat – reading more Scotty P.

When the old married couple showed up, relieving us of our seven dollars each, we stepped inside. Though there were days when no one showed up at all, today there was another pair – a professor and student working on his Masters. Also, a young family with thirty two year old California mommy, and her three kids ranging from thirteen to four. Husband had to wait outside with their screaming kid proclaiming it was too hot inside. Never mind that there was air conditioning there, and nothing but hot hot heat outdoors. Were it my child, in he would be. Once you bargain with them, it's over. Also, I wouldn't want to sit in the sun with someone complaining about the cool interior of a centrally cooled homestead.

All the rooms were set as they had been described in the play. Notes were taken, and the original sketches were adhered to. The room where the drug addicted mother paced back and forth – right above the sitting room where the family spent most of their time. Her haunting and disruptive footsteps, just as they would have been.

The brother's room, and the view overlooking the sea – beautiful today, but no doubt a depressing sight as winter's gray months took hold. And Eugene's room – complete with the desk he used many times throughout his life. While there are many pieces in this house that were not original, this important artifact was pure. And, if that professor would quit leaning over, sticking his butt out at us all, to caress it – well then, I might actually be able to take a picture of it.

The tour guides were a wee bit wacky, dotty as Katherine writes, pointing out things such as boxes by saying, “this is a box.” That's it – no further explanation. Someone asked about the basement. Nothing was mentioned. Seeing the door beneath the stairs not really locked, I turned the deadbolt to peek below. Sometimes you just have to act.

Leaving, I came clean that I wanted to come to New London to explore – and look at the unknown treasure we stumbled upon. I think I'll have more leeway with future diversions.

Still – we were now hours behind, with miles to go. Back in the car we pressed on once more. Our final destination for the night? Scranton, PA.

Scranton – for those out of touch with popular culture – is the home of Michael Scott – paper salesman, first class. He is a fictional character from the American version of The Office, played by Steve Carell. Was it important that I saw Scranton? Well – yes – I very much wanted to say I'd been here. Did it help that there was a 39.99 motel in the area? Yes. Yes it did.

Checking in, and learning a great deal about the history of India, we tossed our bags on the floor, and headed out into Downtown Scranton. It was just past seven o'clock on a Sunday night, when we rolled up. The sun, an hour from setting, was casting an ethereal glow on all the buildings – combining with the beautiful architecture to create something quite special.

Getting out of the car and walking a few blocks, we started to notice something. It wasn't obvious at first, but the more we wandered the more we realized, we were the only people around.

Cars were parked at the side of the road, and the city seemed to be its normal self, but it was completely unpopulated. An eerie feeling began to descend. A noise from behind. A loud moaning, a groan more, and turning we saw an old man stumbling towards us slowly, jerking from side to side. We carried on. Around the next corner another man stumbled out of a door way towards us, we side steppe him. When he and the one behind me, loud groans and shouts – a primitive language – could be heard. We carried on, trying to take in the Electric city (home to the first electric street car system) but could not shake the empty streets, the stumbling slow creatures, and the absence of life.

This was a town overrun, and unoccupied.

Slipping into our car, we still didn't know what to make of it. But there was no time to worry. We were hungry. Dead hungry. Hungry for...

Pizza.

Alfredo's Pizza Cafe, as mentioned on The Office. Yes, sure, the pizza was nearly twenty dollars (nineteen after tax and tip) and that was a lot – but when would we be back? Of course, when we finally saw the beast – the giant bigger than extra large pie (not their largest either) – it didn't seem so bad. And eating broccoli and sun dried tomatoes? Also a treat.

The pizza was delicious, and the restaurant was not all that bad, except for the terrible chairs, the waitress who had never eaten there before, and the tv showing Extreme Home Makeover – WWE edition. You know what, maybe it's best you just order for pick up.

Paying for the pie entirely in one dollar bills, we stifled school girl giggles as we headed back to the car, back to the motel, and back to sleep.