Date: Fri, 23 May 2003 16:51:32 -0400
Subject: Northeast Passage

Wait 'til I tell you about Sioux City, Iowa! This Athens of the Midwest, this Paris of the Plains States has an unquenchable appetite for culture matched only by its rich intellectual life!

You see it everywhere: over here, a beetle-browed Marxist in a black wool overcoat pores over a dog-eared volume of Michel Foucault; over there, a knot of academics debate the viability of post-structuralism; while at a café table just off the plaza, a young painter tucks a wisp of hair behind her ear, then dips her brush in a bit of alizarin crimson, trying to capture the radiant beauty of a Sioux City sunset.

I'm KIDDING!

Aw, it wasn't so bad. Just an average little red-brick burg which reminded me a bit of Salt Lake City. We didn't spend too much time there, just a quick sleepover at the filthy Plaza Hotel (formerly the Hilton but recently cut loose by the parent company -- always beware of that). However, braving a light drizzle, I did briefly venture out to Sioux City's "Historic Fourth Street" in search of beer and pizza. After passing the Convention Center, where (I kid you not) a Shriners convention AND a local high-school prom were underway -- many candy-colored dresses, many befezzed and befuddled old geezers -- I wandered into a fine, noisy bar called Buffalo Alice's. There, a lot of young white people were having what almost looked like a fun evening. And the pizza turned out to be quite serviceable.

Next morning, we hunkered down for the nine-hour drive to Chicago, and this is where I made what to date has been my only major misstep of the trip: I suggested we stop for lunch in central Iowa's Amana Colonies. You see, Road Trip USA, our trusty guidebook, said that the Amanas were settled by German immigrants fleeing religious persecution... who then somehow managed to invent the microwave oven! (That's right -- Amana, of Radarange fame, is an actual place.) So we HAD to check it out, right?

Big mistake. After straying much too far off the highway and finding little of interest, we finally gave up and pulled into the Colony Village Restaurant, mainly because 1) there was ample bus parking, and 2) the "Y" had fallen off the sign, rendering it the "Colon Village," which was irresistible.

Inside, the scene was even more surreal: a strange, dimly lit, oddly formal, pinkish-brownish dining room; an ancient clientele; a wait-staff who were no strangers to the blue eyeshadow. A quick glance at the weird, Teutonic-flavored menu convinced me that fried chicken was probably the safest bet, and amazingly enough, it was pretty great. Even so, we were relieved to get out of there and back on the road to Chicago.

After two weeks of driving through rolling farmland, the skycrapers of the City of the Big Shoulders were like a welcome embrace. Our room at the Fitzpatrick Hotel was refreshingly clean and up-to-date, our first-night deep-dish pizza at Giordano's was perfect, and the next three days passed in a blur of museums, shopping, and Henry whining about being in a city where one actually has to walk to get from place to place.

(As I type these words, Lisa and Henry are huddled in Henry's bunk, watching Led Zeppelin: The Song Remains the Same. I am concerned on SO many levels.)

Then it was on to Cleveland, and the hotly-anticipated Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame. Which is... LOUSY! O.K., bring on the slings and arrows, but we stand by our opinion: There's too much stuff, it's poorly organized, so much music blares at you so relentlessly that you're barely able to process anything, the building's gorgeousness is severely undercut by the piss-poor graphics (go to their home page at rockhall.com -- is there a worse logo for any major museum in America?) Sure, every once in a while, you'd wander across something terrific -- Tina Weymouth's fussily typed timeline of Talking Heads' early history, a five-page handwritten reminiscence by Jeff Buckley, scrawled correspondence between Jann Wenner and Hunter Thompson about the latter's quite literal need for speed in order to cover the '72 Presidential campaign... but you'd have to flee from TV monitors and pick through too-dense display cases in order to find it.

Also, there's no photography allowed in the museum. They took my camera away from me. Heh? You can take pictures in the Smithsonian, but I can't grab a snapshot of Madonna's pointed bra? HEH??

Bottom line, we were somewhat unimpressed. What's more, because a rap tour was passing through town, every available hotel room in Cleveland was booked, so we had no choice but to press on and spend the night in Canton. At a Fairfield Inn. Next to the Canton Christian Fellowship. It was all... very... nice.

Now, after the wretched excesses of the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame, Canton's Pro Football Hall of Fame couldn't have been a more refreshing counterpoint. The building is bland, dated, and disconcertingly football-shaped. The displays are uninspired. There's very little whizzy interactive content to speak of. But if you want to spend a quiet moment in silent, reverent contemplation of the half-shoe that club-footed Tom Dempsey used to kick the longest field goal in NFL history (63 yards -- I just happened to have that fact right here in my head), then you can. And that is nice.

Next stop, New York City! And our best hotel room of the trip, a tony 51st-floor suite at the Palace Hotel. I had gotten all wound up for the trip to the Museum of Natural History and the Hayden Planetarium, remembering my own life-changing visits to those places when I was Henry's age, but needless to say, he couldn't have been less interested. What he did like was our visits to St. Mark's Sounds and Other Music downtown, where he once again wowed the clerks with his knowledge of obscure St. Etienne rarities. Lisa also got to quarterback one of our days in the city, taking us to the Union Square Green Market and Magnolia Bakery, and when we stopped at a playground nearby so Henry could burn off some energy, whom did we spy but the mayor of New York herself, Sarah Jurassica Parker. So it was kind of a perfect New York visit.

Holy cow, there's still Boston, Washington and Louisville to talk about... but that'll have to wait for the next missive.

Yours from the road,

-- Jeff
for Jeff, Lisa and Henry
somewhere westbound on I-64 near Centralia, Kentucky