Our intrepid travelers ask the following questions: Can we find an open restauarant on Sunday night? Do thrift stores come with a selection of stock smells? and, why won't this goddamn fire start?

Sunday, September 22 continued...

As we drive to Mom's for dinner, I start thinking about the ramifications of living in a town that exists totally on the tourist trade? There's really nothing here but gas stations, convenience stores, chain eateries, and motels. And when you get too far from the Falls it just STOPS. Boom -- nothing. In a way, I guess the locals both love and hate us tourists. Life can be good -- if you own a business.

When I was a kid, I always wanted to live at the Jersey Shore year 'round. We spent our summers there, and nothing seemed more fun than a lifetime of miniature golf, Mack & Manco's Pizza, and nights spent on cheesy boardwalk rides. The older I got the more I liked the idea of living at the shore during the off season, enjoying autumn rainfalls at water's edge, feeling the cold sea mist hit me in the face. Then, when the tourists rolled in, I'd jump in my wheels and move along to another hot spot.

Even today I realize it's not such a bad idea. And the more I look at the amenities afforded by the campgrounds, the more trouble I have shaking the concept from my head. You could truly work about six months of the year and then travel the country the other half. Cook at your campsite, update your web site each day courtesy of a laptop, and live the life of a traveling vagabond/journalist. Intriguing? Yes. Impractical? Probably. Yet it makes me realize how much I dig this lifestyle.

To our dismay, Mom's is closed. Is this a post-Bills victory tradition? I fear we'll never know. We soon discover that a Sunday night in Niagara Fall is not the best time to be out hunting for dinner. Falls Blvd. is an endless sea of fast-food chains and closed-looking restaurants, and we made a pact not to eat at any chains during our travels, and I don't plan to start now. (Okay, I made a pact...there, are ya happy?!) Kak's in the mood for Italian and I'm in the mood for, well, food. I recall passing an Italian-American joint towards the end of the strip and we finally arrive at something called The Goose's Grotto. We arrive at a quarter till eight and the dining room is empty save for one old man, an obvious regular. When we sit down for dinner, the staff still outnumbers the clientele at least three-fold.

I haven't looked at their hours and I silently wonder if they close at 8 pm. After we order a quick glass of red wine (ice cold Lambrusco -- yuk!) it's a bit too late. The old man finishing his dinner is parked right in my line of vision over Kak's shoulder. I notice that he's making faces and I can't tell if he's: a) in pain; b) crazy; or, c) doing it for my amusement. I sorta rule out "c".The food is hot and good, though nothing special. Kak orders up lasagne and meatballs while I devour a plate of open-faced turkey, mashed potatoes and a side of o-rings. A rough-around-the-edges hostess emerges from the kitchen and chats up our waitress during a smoke. Something tells me we've extended their hours - oops. Through the windows I note that a strong wind is blowing the bone-chilling rain at a frightening angle. It looks raw and cold as I mop up the last of my 'tates and gravy with a dinner roll. This is how I'll always remember Niagara Falls.

Nothing says "Good morning" like a thrift store!

After dinner I watch the Eagles trounce the inept Atlanta Falcons and wish -- once again -- that I had a beer to keep me warm. My co-pilot gently rests while I nearly roll atop my glasses during my night in a motel bed. Silently I thank Vishnu that I brought an extra pair -- well aware of my past -- for just such an emergency.The incident vibrantly reminds me of my worst "lost glasses" incident, one that can be chalked up to that demon known as Bacardi Rum. I'd sworn off that liquor for some time -- thanks to the ugly Steamed Clam Incident of 1984 -- and believed that I was well over its evil power. WRONG!

Sis Gonce, her traveling companion, and I visited the one, the only Gonster during his highly entertaining stay at Lehigh University. The ocassion was a party of some sort, and I maintained my dignity during that night of debauchery. The next night, however, was a different story. All I know is that the details surround a 1.75 ml bottle of Bacardi, a grand piano, Marshall Crenshaw's "Someday, Someway," my belt, Devo's "Whip It," and a drunken, knee-crushing, cross-campus run for bowel-obstructing, chili-covered hot dogs called "Greekers."

Unfortunately, my last recollection of that evening — post Marshall and the Spud Boys — involves the hallway carpet outside a frathouse bathroom. The next morning, an angelic vision appeared to me...oh wait, that's just a normal girl. So...why is she so out of focus? Oh, 'cause I don't have my glasses on. Oh shit! I can't SEE without my glasses.The next several hours involved a housewide search for my specs, a quick stop for some Taco Bell Action, and another frenzied search of the surroundings. The problem in a nutshell? I was blind without my specs and neither of my companions could pilot the five-speed frenzy of my Honda Qualude!

As it turned out, one of the house's skanky mutts had lifted the glasses from my face during the extended period I spent passed out in the hallway. The poor, pathetic pooch used my specs as a chew toy, but I was able to see well enough for the drive home...and since that day I've always packed an extra pair of glasses. You know, just in case I get fall-down drunk, pass out in a hallway, and a dog lifts the glasses from my face and chews them beyond recognition!

Our first stop -- after the sharp, caffeine jolt of some Dunkin' Dontus coffee -- is the Windsor Farms convenience store located, conveniently, right next to the motel. The folly of the previous day is driven home by the sight of case after case of ice cold beer, and I realize I could've enjoyed the game with the cozy comfort of a brew-ha-ha. Despite the fact that it's only 10 am I vow not to be caught with my pants down (figuratively) again...I grab some Pete's as the checkout girl gives me a bewildered look.

Just up the road is the Niagara Falls Salvation Army, a pretty good-sized thrift where I score a fistful of 8-tracks, the CLOSE ENCOUNTERS board game, a mid-70s game called SMACK! (which involves a giant mousetrap and some plastic pieces of cheese), a gigantic cookbook, and some back issues of Smithsonian. We would stay longer, but Kak is revisited by a funky smell from the Cherry Hill, NJ Goodwill and is creeped out beyond belief. We hastily retreat to the comfort of the Action Van and head down towards Rochester, NY after a lengthy visit at an outlet mall. Hey, we may be tourists, but we're also consumers!

Um, Do we have to age this wood?

We cruise into Watkins Glen proper after night has fallen. Lake Seneca borders our way to the east and the Glen resides at the southern tip of the lake. Wineries pepper the landscape like fast-food joints in NJ, and we plan to get an early start and wine our way up the lake. But first, some dinner and a campfire.

Finding the actual park ends up being the hardest part of the equation. Signs for the State Park lead us into the parking lot of a small souvenier shop, but we're not the only clueless wonders in the vicinity...the shopkeeper directs us up the hill and pretty soon we're parking our van on the set of FRIDAY THE 13TH!

Task #1 is to build a fire since it's dark, cold, and wet outside. The rains, unfortunately, have left all branches -- dead or otherwise -- damp and useless for building a fire. Like an insane camper trapped in the mountains as a storm approaches, I hack at a sappling with my Wal-Mart "axe" until I can wrench it from the ground. I eventually realize that a 10-minute drying time is not going to be enough...there will be no fire tonight, though we do burn a shitload of leaves!

At least we'll have light, thanks to our handy propane lantern. Following the directions precisely, I light the delicate mantles and prepare for the two-fisted delivery of light and warmth! Kak discovers a large, dead branch that might just work in our makeshift fire pit (it was not a pretty sight) and we start down the hill to drag it back to camp. Did I mention that the mantles are "delicate"?

Of course, I bump the lantern on the picnic table and watch our light source turn into so much ash. We've no more mantles, so I pass the time by berating myself. Our entire heat source has been reduced to two citronella candles and the propane burner that's heating up some homemade turkey-vegetable soup. We eat it for warmth and tear into some Dinty Moore Beef Stew to satisfy the rest of our hunger before retreating to the AV for a good night's sleep. I drift off realizing that it's good this was our second night of camping. Had we started off the trip in this fashion I fear we would've felt like failures. I make a mental note to never count on a campsite having wood and get that frigging axe sharpened before our next trip.

Sadly, the remaining details of this trip have grown cloudy through the years and this tale was never finished...