Journey: Windsor, ON - Indianapolis, IN
Notable Cities: Detroit, Manchester, Waterloo (a third one), Chelsea (yeah, I own you), Romulus (!!!!!!).
Total Miles Driven: 1186.6
Kate Gosslin Hair Count: 3
This one’s a doozy. Please to prepare yourself fully.
Waking up at an ungodly hour for the complimentary “Continental Breakfast” at the Days Inn (Note to those who are non-travel savvy: Continental Breakfast means stale cereal, a couple bagels, juice, and if you’re lucky some fruit) I was greeted by some newly 18 year old future frat boys who were clearly still hung over from the night before. Unlike myself, they braved the fearful streets of Canada to go up to Caesars. Their stories filled me with regret:
Oh dude, I cannot believe I came out of there with $1,500!
That casino was fucking sick, dude!
Best.Night.Ever.
Clearly I missed out. But hey, who got to watch The Luck of the Irish when it wasn’t even St. Patrick’s Day? This girl! Eight points to me! Surely their $1,500 profit at the BlackJack table (where they claim to have been counting cards) beats my 8 points, but that’s up for argument.
After brekkie, Thomas directed me towards Heritage Tire in Windsor, the only shop within a 30 mile radius of where I blew my tire that carried my size. Or at least that’s what I was told. Upon inspection it is found that there was a miscommunication and the tire size they were told was not the size they have. A few strikes of the keyboard and all is well. Seems as though a different size, while not optimum, would work just fine. Now to play the waiting game.
I had given the boys at Heritage more than enough work as it seems I had been driving on my flat tire for some miles before discovering it. So, while they were struggling to cut the tire off my rim, I was enjoying complimentary Fairly Odd Parents and People Magazines in the waiting room. I don’t claim to have always the most refined tastes, but the endless articles about Jon & Kate Plus Eight gave me the brilliant idea to begin counting copycat hair styles from this point on. I hadn’t seen any thus far on my trip, but logic told me that if I were to see such atrocities anywhere, it would be in the Mid-West. How right I was.
After a few episodes of Timmy and his pink hat causing a ruckus, my car was ready to go. I thought this meant I was ready to go, but alas the Canadian tire shop did not accept American Express. I suppose I should have seen this coming. In between making calls to my parents and having endless trouble with the card machine in the store, a youngish woman and who I could only guess was her daughter came into the shop. She complimented me on my shoes, which opened a conversation about designers and her luck to have a rich Mother in law who constantly gives her name brand bags and shoes as a discounted price. Somehow this (mostly one-sided) conversation turned into stories about her local cleaning business. She offered to clean my house, but I politely declined explaining that I wasn’t local. “Oh, where are you from then?” “Manhattan.”
I have never received a more enthusiastic reaction to my place of residence than I did from her. Quite literally, mouth agape, she responds “like….The Manhattan?!” I calmly assured her that, yes, I did mean The Manhattan. Somehow this answer always leads to the question “what do you do?” and this time was no exception. “I work in television and film,” I told her. Again. Priceless reaction. I try not to make a big deal out of ~what I do, but usually the big deal is made for me. And guess what?! This woman’s a writer! Of course. “If you ever need a story, oh girl, I am the queen of stories! I have stories about everything, that’s just how crazy my life is!” I didn’t question her, but stories were told to me anyway. She then went on to say that we should exchange information and maybe I could pass on her book of poetry to a publisher in NY, because everyone in NY knows each other, right? Of course I know people at big time publishers. I mean, it’s a really small city.
I don’t mean to blatantly patronize this woman, because she really was completely sweet and lovely. It’s just, sometimes I don’t know how to react to these situations. I couldn’t just write her off completely, so I scribbled down my email address and told her to send me a message at any time with some of her work. And hey, who knows, maybe she is the greatest undiscovered talent of this day and age. Who am I to discourage that?
Overhearing the conversation between the lady and me, the kindly owner of Heritage waited until she left and asked me if I was in the “movie biz.” I found his inquiry miles more endearing. He was genuinely interested, but not at all hoping to gain notoriety from me stepping into his shop that day. Finally sorting out payment issues, I turned to leave when he called out “well, maybe we’ll see you at the Oscars someday!” I smiled, and said “oh, you will” leaving on the note “it’s been really lovely spending this morning with you all,” because as it turns out, I spent a good three hours there.
Here’s my promise to you, Heritage Tires of Windsor, ON: If I ever am lucky enough to be giving a speech at any televised awards show, you will be thanked. You saved my life that day, and gave me hope that not all people look down on young girls from the city. If I never do make it to that acceptance stage, consider this your eternal thank you. Well, this and the $730 Canadian dollars.
I wasn’t aware the 10 hours I spent in Windsor that I was a mere five minutes from the US boarder. I felt a sense of relief as I crossed the Ambassador Bridge into Detroit. The relief was quickly suppressed upon being greeted by US Boarder Control. I understand that it must not be the best job sitting in a booth all day grilling lawful Canadian and US citizens, but I’m sure that’s no cause for outright meanness. Maybe the officer took my friendliness as a means of hiding something, or maybe he just gets some sick joy out of playing James Bond interrogation. The following is an exact replica of our conversation:
Me: Hello, officer!
Officer: Where are you coming from?
Me: Toronto. I was visiting a friend there on my way through to the West Coast.
Officer: Who’s your friend? What’s their name?
Me: His name is Mark *Lastname*
Officer: And how do you know Mr. Lastname?
Me: We met in NY four or five years ago.
Officer: *With boiling frustration* What where you doing in New York?
Me: ……living.
With that he demanded I unlock my trunk, poked around at my things, asked if I bought anything in Canada (I conveniently left out the $730 new set of tires), slammed my trunk and commanded that I move along. Part of me was offended that I was treated so poorly. I have never had such a hard time at any boarder, including England and they are famous for being tough. The other part of me; however, was thinking Go ahead! Tell me I can’t go back into America! I don’t want to be there anyway.
The rest of my five hour drive to Indianapolis was mostly uneventful, marked with billboards in the middle of nowhere reading: “Prepare to meet thy God!” or the more straight forward “BIBLE.” My only source of excitement was the moment I thought I had left my sunglasses on a Wendy’s table and jotted the following down in my journal: Left Behind: Ray-Bans. Rest In Peace, or at least comfortably on the nose of whatever Trailer Park Row resident is lucky enough to find you. Before you judge me for the term “Trailer Park Row,” allow me to note, that was an actual name. Of an actual road. In an actual town. You can’t make this schiße up.
Arriving at my friend Stephanie’s house in Indiana, I was introduced to her lovely grandparents who welcomed me openly. We talked about New York and Germany (where Stephanie and I had met), and they informed me of many little known facts about Indiana, though I was most interested by their accents. I had no idea people in Indiana had a Southern twang. Stephanie has no accent and as far as I could remember, my cousins from Indiana have no accents. But, apparently, it is not uncommon. Fun fact of the day.
Stephanie and I decided to go out on the town in Indianapolis for a little dinner and ended up at a nice little restaurant called Usual Suspects where our waiter Leif was quite possibly the most adorable thing ever (Call me!). We were seated outside where the people watching was optimum. I have never seen so much bad denim than I did that night. Do these people not read magazines…or watch TV…or leave their city? I felt for them. If you’re reading this, people of Indianapolis, two words: Dark. Wash. You’ll thank me later.
I ended my visit with Stephanie the next morning asking the million dollar question: What is a Hoosier? She simply shrugged her shoulders and said “No one knows.” That, my friends, is the secret to Indiana. Just…no one knows.
