On Pizza and Politics

I don't post photos (or anything else) on social media, but I must celebrate this PERFECT slice of New York-style pepperoni pizza, extra grease, which I inhaled back in 'Jersey in April.  Served on a single, flimsy paper plate, that's part of the fun. It's impossible to properly explain this delicasy to others - you know, "Burns the roof of your mouth," as you utter, Ummmm.  I can die in peace.

It was Heaven on Earth stepping inside Mr. Pizza Slice in Red Bank.  I was teleported back to the 70's to fun times with family and friends popping inside one of these places for a slice. And here I was, popping in for a slice with Sis.  The only thing missing was the guy stretching and swirling dough in the air, cheap entertainment for kids.  But ouch!  I'd forgotten how intense is the scalding; then those pieces of hanging flesh in the mouth, so annoying.

It's hard getting back into writing.  I think I posted 2 or 3 since my return.  I've begun several with titles like, "Still $3.59 a Gallon," and, "Putin's Got Pictures" in response to headlines on ANY station, but I've decided instead to blend my views into a story from my recent cross-country trip, let's see how it goes.

I'd flown home to retrieve favorite belongings placed in storage in 2016, just before Mom died.  I meant to go back years ago but Covid hit; then I got my current position; but this year I finally said, "No more."  Not only had the rent gone from $25 to $60 a month for this 5x5 (l), but it's becoming increasingly clear that I've GOT to sell as much as I can to recoup what the government's about to take away, and maybe a little extra for a safety net.  At nigh on 70 it's a bit late to start again, but I hadn't counted on life happening the way it has.  No longer bitter (ok, 99%), I'm finally becoming practical, I hope.

I've touted since before November that it's only a matter of time before each of our heads are on this administration's proverbial chopping block, and it seems to be my turn in the form of cuts to Medicare, Medicaid and SNAP.  If I suddenly have to pay a Medicare premium and bear the increasingly high price of food by myself; and if tourism dries up because we've  offended so many countries so that I lose my current position; well, I shudder to think of what I'd possibly face in the form of housing, which is precisely what I faced on the trip.

This would be my first road trip in I don't know how long without having to worry about the price of a room or if they accepted pets; but I DID want to bring several containers of fragile artwork into my room each night. Hard-shelled gourds, like wood, are susceptible to temperature changes and mid-April could still get pretty cold.  I thought the easiest way would be to park outside my room rather than schlep through lobbies and navigate elevators toting tubs, if they'd even allow it.  Like old-time Motels on old-time road trips.

In Oregon, I kept Googling for motels in Monmouth County, but all I found were places which rented rooms on long-term bases, for poor folks like me. I saw more than one of those during my Section 8 Housing search.  That's becoming more and more common due to the lack of inexpensive, low-income housing.  For years I've worked with homeless advocates so I wasn't turned off by that; but for $110 a night, comparable to many of the 'Hotels' in the area?  I don't think so.

Luckily I've been trying to expand my technical prowess and was lured by an online advertisement to Airbnb, where I found a perfect little studio for $65 a night, only 10 minutes from my storage unit.  I kept worrying it was a scam, but no, a very nice couple converted their garage into a studio with fold-out couch, bath, mini-kitchen, very clean and safe, in a lovely, quiet neighborhood

I'd asked permission to invade the space with countless boxes and they were fine with it, so for 4 days I sorted, tossed and repacked my belongings while visiting with Sis and binge-watching Netflix.

It was perfect, better than I'd hoped for, and it made life so much easier.  Now if only I could be so lucky crossing America, because I wing it when I travel.  I took this as a good omen, for this was a great start to the trip. I even learned a couple new Apps.

Perhaps if I was more savvy I could have looked at Airbnb each day, but I can't compute that quickly.  Besides, my destiny was already set.

I planned on following Route 30 because I prefer moseying on secondary roads, where you'll find more older motels.  Route 30 is also called the Lincoln Highway, runs from coast to coast, pretty much along I-80.  If I needed to pick up time, I could always hop over.

So Hillary and I said our goodbyes for now.  I'm urging her get the new ID and come see our beautiful Oregon coastline, much different than back East.  Course, Sis, you can always take a train, that'd be fun.

Off I went, BC's necklace around my neck, my worldly belongings in one layer on the floor of the van, covered by one of my quilts to provide less of a target.  The weather was cloudy as I drove well into PA, navigating around Gettysburg's town circle crammed with tourists and young people waving Pro Life signs and Honk for Jesus.  They were dressed as Redcoats, which struck me odd, and I wanted to take a picture but was afraid I'd accidentally hit someone and wind up on the Nightly News.

It was the Monday of Easter Week, past 4pm (my winding-down time), and I worried I'd have trouble locating a place to stay, so I pulled into the first motel I saw, in Fayetteville.  I won't name it - it's not fair to them.

There were only one or two cars parked, which led me to believe that they might not be one of 'those places' but for traveling tourists.  It was cheap - $61 plus $100 refundable; but only after bringing in my belongings (requiring 4 or 5 trips) did I begin to notice my surroundings (I have a problem with attention).  Half of the door sweep was missing, and despite losing my sense of smell the room reeked of cigarettes.  The bedspread was pulled straight up to cover the pillows, like a corpse; not tucked underneath the pillows like you do at home.

Too late - I wasn't going elsewhere.  I've been in worse places, I can survive; I'll just have to be more careful where I stop. So I rolled up a towel and shoved it under the door, brought in the pillow I bought at Walmart, slept fully-clothed on top of the bedspread with the bathroom light on (keep any bugs away), and put on the eye mask I'd bought for the trip, but not for this reason.

The next morning I was on the road by 7, but it seemed everything smelled of smoke.  I was surprised to be passing the United 93 Memorial in Shanksville, since when I stopped with BC in 2016 (traveling West to East) I thought I'd gotten thrown off Rt 30 circumventing Pittsburgh.  That was forefront in my mind as I neared Pittsburgh this time, and since there was no desire to visit the site a second time, I kept driving.  I neglected to write about this at the time, so here are some photos.

Next to the Visitor Center you see a dark stone path, which represents the flight path of the plane.  There are markers along the path indicating the timeline of events of the morning.  It's quite a sobering memorial and nicely designed, so if you're in the area, on Route 30, Shanksville, I recommend a visit, providing it's still open.  Pretty drive, for sure.

Road conditions were good so I kept driving, window down.  I passed Pittsburgh and by Fort Wayne, IN was ready to stop, but discovered places were full.

Final resting place United 93

After pulling over to check so many times I thought 'to hell with it, I'll stay at a Hotel,' but the room was $160, or $130 with discount.  I just couldn't and told the Desk Clerk no, thank you.  He reacted just like the uppity characters you see on TV - but in Fort Wayne?

I'm stopping here.  Forgive my weak ending - I'm good to get anything out!

Previously: Cross-Country Without Google Maps

Next:  Low-Income Motel Travels