Part of my boredom and grumpiness could have been due to hunger and lack of caffeine. So I left, and headed out to the Silk City diner for breakfast. I had Dutch Potatoes (or was it Dutch Eggs?). In any case, it was eggs scrambled with potatoes and onions, with a thick slice of some kind of white cheese in the middle. It tasted like processed cheese—the kind that melts without getting stringy.
Which leads me to another digression. My impression of Amish food: Processed. Velveeta this, Crisco that, and in those Whoopie Pies and TasteeKakes? My god. Additives galore. Some things I didn’t even think were food. Sodium laureth sulfate? What is that in the cake sandwich, shampoo foam? (Although I admit, those Whoopie pies tasted pretty darned good, propylene glycol and high fructose corn syrup and shampoo ingredients notwithstanding.) I think this Pennsylvania Carb Fest has already added five pounds to my rear view. When the Silk City waitress took my plate, I admitted the obvious: “I guess I finished it all!” “Good girl!” she exclaimed cheerfully.
Eating alone in a diner without my computer or a notebook, I tend to do two things, in addition to reading the menu, ordering, and eating: eavesdrop and stare and people. I know it’s rude, but I can’t help it. I noticed two things about the people at the diner. One, they were all very, very wide (as seems to be the norm around here, except at Golden Gate. Maybe rescuing dogs keeps you thin. That, and avoiding Whoopie Pies.) Also, a lot of the men are mustachioed. It’s not that you don’t see the occasional ‘stash in Iowa City, but really, the men around here resemble Bears fans from Chicago.
I also noticed a couple sitting next to me. The man was complaining about the food, and the woman was laughing, but her eyes were panic-stricken over the conflict. Yet, at the same time, she was fixed adoringly on the man, as if she were simultaneously attracted to and repelled by him. They were both wide. She had short curly hair and glasses. He had a moustache.
Fortified by the food and empowered by my ability to ignore the spectacular rotating case of homemade desserts (at this point, I had yet to fall prey to the allure of the Whoopie Pie), I headed back out and drove up and down the highway a bit, looking for the little mock German town with café that Heather, the Golden Gateway caretaker, suggested I visit. I finally found it—attached to the Stoudt’s brewery where I was last night. Fake but quaint, the “village” had a clock tower and lots of little shops, plus one big antiquing area. I was more patient with the antiques this time, and meandered through, contentedly digesting.
I only bought one thing: An old encyclopedia of purebred cats, which I’ve been looking for since I write cat profiles occasionally and don’t have a good reference book. 
In the main village, I wandered alone, fighting wind so intense I couldn’t help gasping and turning my back into it. I found the café and headed inside for a latte. I mentioned my quest for local food to the barista, and she asked if the shoofly pie I tried was dry-bottomed or wet-bottomed. A-ha, new information about this local specialty! With interest, I asked her about the difference. Apparently I had had the wet-bottomed variety, since mine had the layer of molasses at the bottom. She said that was her favorite kind, too.
I decided not to ask if she could make a soy latte.
Next I found the Toy Robot museum, which Heather also recommended. The caretaker/collector directed me to his collection, and told me I could play the pinball machine and the arcade game for free, as long as I wanted, but he closed at 4. Ha ha. (It was 10:30 a.m.) I paid my $1.50 and wandered through a fantastic collection of toy robots of every imaginable type, including memorabilia from Forbidden Planet to Star Wars. I played pinball, and realized that I suck at pinball. O.K., I already knew that. I watched old toy commercial, then bought the kids some souvenirs.
Back in the car, I made a mental note that I like driving a black Pontiac Grand Prix, then headed to another antique place, where I almost bought an old Collie book and an old dog care book published by one of the first pet food companies. But I decided against spending the money. I don’t really need those books. Finally, truly bored by antiquing, I headed back to the turnpike, meandering past sheep farms and probably puppy mills, back to the airport. Near the airport, I exited to fill up the rental car with gas and, over the crest of a steep hill, got a stunning backlit view of Three Mile Island with its billowing steam clouds. Cool.
At the airport, I had to buy another carry-on so I could fit all my purchases, mostly those bulky pretzel bags and bulk spices. Thinking I would sample one Whoopie Pie and throw away the rest, I ate one before checking in, and damn if those things were so good, I couldn’t throw them away. I tried not to look at the ingredients list again, and guiltily stuffed them in my suitcase instead of my new carry-on. My thought process: If you can’t bring liquids and gels onboard, the very serious folks at airport security might object to the shampoo filling and confiscate my beloved Whoopie pies.
I checked in, and casually mentioned to the woman at the northwest counter (short curly hair, glasses, wide) my quest for local food. Her first words: TasteeKakes! I was proud to tell her they were in my suitcase, along with the Whoopie pies. “Ah, Whoopie pies!” she said, with some fondness. I nodded enthusiastically, happy to be in cahoots.
Wandering around inside the gate, a Pennsylvania-themed store lured me in and I picked up a small venison sausage from a local sausage farm and two little gift Hershey’s kiss boxes for the kids, since Hershey, PA, is so near. With two hours to kill, and knowing I wouldn’t eat again for hours, if at all today (and god knows I’ve been starving myself), I parked in a restaurant, opened up my laptop, and ordered a margarita and a basket of nachos, hold the meat. The margarita was so good, I had to order a second.
My trip is almost at an end, and as I sit in the airport watching the sun head horizon-ward, I remember one of the people at the restaurant last night asking me how Pennsylvania met or foiled my expectations. I would say, from the little I know of it, that it looks more like Iowa than I expected, but that the small rural area where I stayed resembled Iowa City in virtually no other way, even though Iowans are mostly of German heritage and we have an Amish community nearby. Maybe I’m thinking mostly about the food (what a shocker), because really, the people don’t act much different. We have our fair share of wide-hipped ladies with short permed hair and glasses, our fair share of husky mustachioed men. I don’t even have a discernible accent, as far as I can tell. But the food is different. Maybe it’s the Scandinavian influence. Maybe it’s the gigantic influence of lard and sugar. Maybe it’s the pervasive influence of pastry, or the heavy, heavy, heavy emphasis on meat, especially the kind containing lots of different animal parts (scrapple, anyone?). I’ve made it easy on myself during this trip by eating dairy products, even though in some ways I wish I wouldn’t have. But my quest for the unique and local clashed with my quest for peace. Again.
Anyway, speaking of peace, as far as the world of pet rescue is concerned, it seems that while Pennsylvanians face a community of farmers who consider animals a commodity, such a viewpoint exists worldwide. So do people who don’t recognize animals as fellow souls and consider that reason enough to cast them aside when they become inconvenient. I hope this is one aspect of human nature that we will eventually grow out of, in favor of a broader sense of unity with the life on our eccentric planet. No, I don’t hope. I pray.
Ah, but getting home on schedule was not to be. My flight out of Harrisburg was 90 minutes late, due to a leaking coffee maker. They also had no lights and no working lavatories. When the flight arrived, I couldn’t believe I had been “travelling” for five hours already, and hadn’t even been on a plane yet. We climbed aboard, the airport personnel assuring us all the while we would “make up the tine in the air,” but of course we didn’t, and by the time we got to Detroit, my flight was long gone. Prepared to fight about how they’d better pay for my accommodations, I was happily surprised when they handed me a dinner voucher, a hotel voucher, and a breakfast voucher, already printed up and waiting for me (for many of us on that flight) at the desk. They had me flying out at 8:52 a.m. the next day.
On the plane, I had made friends with a petite, assertive, powerful New Englander transplanted to Michigan. Turns out Gretchen is in ad sales for several magazines . Her company handles some dog magazines and health/wellness magazines, so she was interested in me and hooking me up with some of those editors. I suspect the magazines don’t pay much, but I could be wrong. We chatted on the flight and she called her husband as soon as we landed so he could look up our connections, which is how I knew, before ever getting off the plane, that my flight to Cedar Rapids had indeed departed on time.
Gretchen works at home like I do, although for a company, unlike I do. She had spent the weekend doing wine-and-dine, meet-and-greets at a trade show with clients. I can tell she would be good at such a job. When we landed, we both took our dinner vouchers to a sushi restaurant and had a very light and surprisingly good meal. I couldn’t resist a small amount of sashimi, my quest for peace once again subverted by my interest in going along for the ride with Gretchen. We parted with a hug and promises to keep in touch.
I called the shuttle and went, in the company of several others who had also missed the flight and must have chosen to have dinner at the airport first, to the Best Western. The desk clerk had long black ringlets and a lazy eye. When I got to my room, the bed was all unmade, so when I called the desk clerk, she apologized profusely and gave me a nicer room. The hotel has a bit atrium area with paths and fountains and a pool and pool tables. My sister Liz would love it. I had no time to enjoy such amenities, however. I called Ben, then went to bed. Suspicious of the desk clerk’s assertion that I would have a 6:00 a.m. wake-up call, I set the alarm on the clock radio. Good thing, too, because I woke up at 5:58, waited for my alarm to go off, and got dressed (in the same old clothes, of course). The phone never rang.
I headed downstairs about 6:15 and caught the shuttle back to the airport.
As I wheeled my carry-on towards security, I realized that the Pennsylvania Dutch Birch Beer I bought for the kids to share (it’s not real beer, it’s like root beer) was a liquid. Because I had bought it inside the gate, I should have been able to take it straight through and home. But no. Since I left security, they made me throw it away. Exhausted and, as usual, completely undone by any reprimand from authority, however kind (what does that say?). The sec urity lady came out of her stern shell for a minute, probably seeing the tears I was trying to hide, and said she was really sorry. It was sincere. Then she told me I still needed to go back to the ticket check-in because I didn’t have a boarding pass for today. Sighing, I pulled my carryon behind me back to ticketing and explained my soda dilemma to the vivacious Jamaican woman who handed me my boarding pass. She sympathized, told me about European travelers who bought duty-free items then left security and had to give them up, and made me feel much better. But I still didn’t have those tears out. “Just go drink it yourself,” she reassured me. “I guess I can tell them how it tasted,” I said, meekly. I felt powerless and ridiculous, all over a bottle of soda. I felt ready to go home.
I went over to a bench somewhat hidden behind a wall and let the tears come for about 30 seconds. Then it was over. I looked at the birch beer. Yuck? I opened it and it exploded all over the floor, which filled me with a sense of vengeful self-righteousness, as if the airport itself, or the janitorial staff (o.k., now I feel guilty about it!) is responsible for silly security rules that refuse to allow Pennsylvania Dutch soda souveniers for children on an airplane. I also noticed that the liquid, which looked brown in the bottle, looked red on the floor. I looked at the label. Red food coloring. Of course! It’s Amish. It tasted similar to root beer, but with a strange chemical taste. The kids probably wouldn’t even have liked it, and I know for sure it wouldn’t have been good for them. It’s bad enough I’m bringing them Whoopie Pies.
When I went through security, soda-free, I noticed the table they have set out for people to remove their forbidden liquids and gels from their carry-ons. A partial six-pack of V-8 cans. A half-full bottle of apple juice. A large bottle of Pantene shampoo. Did these people feel meek and powerless too, when security sent them back to jettison these items they thought they needed?
On the other side, near my gate, I used my last voucher for a fruit-and-nut bagel with peanut butter and a large vanilla hazelnut brewed coffee. No cream. I’ve had enough diary to last me at least until I go to New York City next month. Assuming this flight is on time, I should be home by 9:40. The computer screen says it is 6 degrees and snowing in Iowa. I wish I was going to Florida next. I could use a few days of doing nothing on the beach. But I need to get home and write this article, and all the other ones coming due.
Next up: New York City, for the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show.
