Apocolypse, now.

Day Three

We are the first to awake. We tip toe down stairs to find that coffee has already been made. Soon, Lach is up, followed by the others, and in no time the house smells like bacon frying. As breakfast is made, the Pirate and I pack our things. Feeling much better this morning, I am reluctant to leave such good company. With promises to reconnect when our trip is over, wishes for safe travels and grand adventures, we are sent off on our journey with full bellies and hearts.

This part of Virginia is really very beautiful. Tidy farms and rolling hills make up most of the landscape. We scoot through Floyd heading north, trying our best to stay on secondary roads. All is well until West Virginia.

In West Virginia, we are reminded that sometimes “the process” sucks. All of the secondary are roads are winding and laborious, though beautiful. We choose to take 77, a busy interstate full of truckers and people riding from Florida to Ohio, it seems. Though we are making good time, it's no fun. The highway is hot and exposed. Plus, that little storm last night in Floyd was actually a big, far reaching storm that has knocked all the power out of the entire state of WV. Seriously. It's mayhem. No traffic lights work. The gas stations that are able to function are wrapped in lines of pissed off people reminiscent of a Toys R Us in the 80's when the Cabbage Patch shipment came in.

We are some of these people. I am impatient, it's genetic. Before long, I have made my way to the front of the line to discover an old lady who, bless her heart, is holding up our line out of either politeness or fear. I start directing traffic. It works, until a lady and her daughter pull up to fill up not only their car, but four 5 gallon tanks. Once I realize that some of their fuel is portable, I offer to buy 2 gallons off them in cash. In no time flat, the Girl is full, the lady and her daughter are handsomely rewarded for being hoarders, and we are unfairly on our way. I blame it on The Sopranos marathon we've been on. Bada bing.

We make our goal of getting to Ohio, only to discover that there is no power here either. Every traffic light is out, the restaurants are closed and the hotels are dark. This sucks, because we are warn slap out. The Pirate, using the force as always, pulls us into a Hampton Inn. The manager greets us in the darkened entry with a warm, pun intended, welcome. It's brutally hot, and they have no electricity either. She assures us that they do have plenty of rooms, a pool and they will make us hotdogs for dinner, since all of the restaurants and grocery stores within 30 miles are closed. She even offers us bottled water and a banana while we sit and think it over.

We decide to go for it, even though it will still be expensive. We reason that we are both still under the weather, we've had a long day already, and it will be nice to have a bed. No sooner than the Pirate had payed the discounted rate, the electricity came on! We go from being the only guests in the hotel to being the first guests in a sold out hotel. They made good on their promise to make hotdogs, except that the Pirate ended up making them. Who are we kidding anyway, like the Pirate can stand aside and let someone else man the grill. He made 40 hotdogs on the hotel's gas grill in their entry way. Pretty cute.

Sick & Tired

Day two

We have slept for nearly 12 hours. Since the Pirate got his cold first, he feels a little better. I feel a lot worse. We have coffee and breakfast on the porch, and just as I have sprawled my naked Mermaid self out on the very private deck to try and cook this cold out, Lach arrives. I hop up and dress, and maintain some dignity before I'm discovered. Lach has his friend Bob with him, they are going golfing. The last time I saw Bob, a 64 year young handsome Italian guy from New York, he and his dazzling wife Joy were lip synching Why Don't We Get Drunk and Screw in my living room. That is another story.

With Lach and Bob is Libby, the cutest, spunkiest Boston terrior who, before greeting us, runs around the yard at light speed like a teeny tiny horse. We are in love with Libby. The fellas tell us that Joy and Traci are not expected to arrive for several more hours. So, once they have gone for their golfing, we fire up the sauna and proceed to spend the hottest day of the summer so far making ourselves even hotter. Our theory is that if we induce a feverish sweat all day, we will not be sick as long. We'll see.

Around dinner hour Traci and Joy arrive. A note on Traci: I have spent more vacation time with this woman than any other friend. We met on a houseboat trip to the NC Outer banks, since then we've been on several other trips all with the common denominator of the two of us sipping something nice, laying around, reading magazines with painted toes and stylie sunglasses. She is my female equal in indulgent relaxation. Incidentally, she is also fantastically beautiful and cool.

We hitch a ride with them to Floyd, to the Dogtown pizza place, where Lach and Bob await. Floyd is interesting; a cocktail of equal parts down-to-earth, bluegrass and tie dyed hippie. I, unfortunatley, am “peaking” in the discomfort of my cold, so I cannot hear, taste or breathe, really. I will have to meet Floyd under better circumstances one day.

On our way home, Traci, Joy, the Pirate and I find ourselves in the black-and-white segment of The Wizard of Oz. You know, the tornado part. From out of nowhere we are driving through whipping winds, falling limbs and swarms of fallen leaves under a scary black sky. After just a few minutes, Joy very calmly and politely says “I'd like to go back”, and so that's what we do. In the twenty minutes or so that it takes to drive back and find Lach and Bob a serious storm has blown through. It never rained, but it blew. On the way home, we weave around fallen branches and trees, thankful that we were not beneath any of them when they fell.

But, when we arrive back to the house, Libby has gone missing. There is a friendly note on the door letting us know a number to call to get her back. Poor little thing, now we're even more in love with her.

Before Lach comes home with her, before the after dinner wine is poured and comfortable clothes are put on, I am asleep; once again under a benedryl haze, and grateful for it too.

Here We Go Again

Day One; Trip # 2

OK, we're jerks. For those of you who followed our blog last summer, we left you hanging. Our last post was in Idaho, and we didn't bother to ever catch you up on our adventures in Iowa, Chicago, on Lake Erie and the rest of the way home. We're sorry, really. To make up for this a little, we're posting the last 3 days of our 2011 trip, and we're on another trip right now during which we promise not to abandon you. If you want to hear about Chicago, Cedar Point and all of that, you'll have to have us over for dinner when we get back.

But for now, the present. After 10 months of rest, R. Girl is shined up and ready to go with a new k&n air filter and fresh oil. She's sporting the very same saddle bags as last year, with an added aluminum bottom to the one that sits over the exhaust. We've borrowed my Dad's ancient (or rather, retro) Diamond Brand external frame back back to strap to the sissy bar. We have a bag on the fork, and a bag on the handlebars. This should hold all of our stuff for the next 64 days as we ride up to Newfoundland and back.

Our day begins as many trips for old school couples do: man sits with running vehicle, calm and yet ready to go, while woman goes back in to pee, then checks all the locks, looks under the bed, looks in the fridge, then pees again, then check if the stove is off, and then is ready.

We ride just a stones throw to the Blue Ridge Parkway. My job as official navigatrix is easy today: get on the Parkway and stay on it for a little over 200 miles. We are riding up to our friend Lach's ( pronounced Lash) house in Floyd, VA, which was not our original plan. Last week, Lach and Traci joined us for an evening ride out to the Straightway Cafe, and in the course of dinner conversation, we talked about our upcoming trip. The Pirate and I had planned to go through Kentucky to get to Lake Erie. Lach and Traci suggested we join them in Floyd instead, since they'd be there anyway. We didn't hesitate. See, it's part of “the process” for us; to let an experience unfold, to identify and then jump at opportunities . As Yvon Chouinard said in 180 degrees South “If you compromise the process, you're an asshole when you start out and you're as asshole when you get back”. In other words, relax, and let an adventure change and affect you. To plan something out so that you are never surprised, or taken off guard, so that you are safe, unruffled and cool also guarantees that you remain an unchanged asshole, you know? You can't have unexpected joy and delight and know exactly what will happen and when; it just doesn't work that way.

So anyway, after a very lovely ride up the familiar and beloved Parkway, lunching on the typical Pirate & Mermaid fare of olives, charcuterie and dark chocolate, we veer off just past the Mabry Mill and meander under 4 miles through the country to Lach's charming get-away. We are so grateful for the bucolic scene that we decide to live on our picnic food, and ration it out so we don't have to leave, which is smart, because we are sick.

We have both enjoyed our first day's ride under the grasp of a really shitty, mundane cold. Picture it: super cute Mermaid in black leather and mirrored aviators blowing her nose every few miles into a bright red hankie. Well, we all new that I was both glamorous and tough.

And so the first day goes. We fall asleep to the sounds of night critters and a constant breeze in the tree tops, held gently in the bosom of benedryl and advil (and essential oils, of course).

Homeward Angels

Day 50: Fayetteville WV to Asheville NC

I think I'm over hotel rooms. The dry air, the noisy air conditioner, the stiff comforters and plastic ice buckets have lost their appeal. I will miss being able to veg out to the travel channel or the food network at the end of the day for sure, but ultimately I would rather fall asleep to the sound of crickets than “Chopped”.

We decide to try one more restaurant in Fayetteville before we hit the road, it would be a shame not to. We settle on The Cathedral Cafe, a small church with enormous stained glass windows that has been cleverly converted into a little eatery. And, there is a little bar where we can perch, so we're extra happy. The coffee here is good and strong, and the breakfasts are huge. The staff is super friendly; and as though they could sense our reluctance to get on the road for our last day, they let us linger with full cups of hot coffee for as long as we wanted.

When we finally got ourselves on the road, it was nearly 11:30. We meander through small, impoverished mountain towns, rekindling our connection to the southern Appalachians. We decide that we're glad we're used to the culture of these hills, otherwise the signs like “kuntry kitchun” and the abundant front porch junk yards would have been a shock.

The Gauley River is our guide through most of the morning. We crest hills that send us shivering, then dip back down along side the river and warm up. We have not so much “seen” the country as we have sensed it. Sun and shade have been both relief and torture at times, the force of a powerful wind belting across a sage scented desert is not easily forgotten. I will remember what the air on the California coast tastes like, and that 90 mph sounds a lot different than 60 mph. The bugs in Iowa feel like little bullets, and driving through Chicago is like pulling up to a buffet of everything.

Tiring of the windy, slow going back roads, we jump on the old familiar 81 and then 26 and come in to NC. We stop at the NC visitor center and meet a photographer who had just taken our picture, not knowing we were pulling in. We hoot and holler when we cross in to Madison County, and then, with quiet reverence, pass through the familiar territory of Weaverville, Woodfin, Merrimon Avenue, downtown and finally east Asheville where we will stay in the sweet little cabin being renovated by the Pirate's folks.

Some people say that 'home is where the heart is', or that 'home is where you hang your hat'. For me, home is where The Pirate is. After 50 days of constant companionship, we are more connected, more in love, than when we left. I'm not just saying that. When you are a transient being, like a pirate or a mermaid, there is comfort in movement and change. To find a partner that can flow and drift from day to day and place to place is a blessing for whichI never thought to ask. So, though we have been “gone” many days, and we have wandered many miles, we have been home, with each other, all the while.

Mason Dixon Debut

Day 49: Pickerington OH to Fayetteville WV

I can't believe that I'm actually hungry when I wake up. I fell asleep feeling like a snake who just swallowed a coyote whole. Within minutes of opening my eyes I'm on the computer planning the day's route. I'm excited; another day of seeing parts of Ohio that I've never seen.

We give big goodbye hugs to Aunt Meem and Uncle Frank as they head off to Columbus to work, and Ben comes to whisk us off to breakfast. We head to tiny downtown Pickerington to a new crepe place called Village Crepes. They have an extensive menu of fantastic sounding things, sweet and savory. We go for the special sweet crepe, sea salted caramel, and a fritata with bacon and goat cheese. The food is beautiful and delicious, as is the coffee. We enjoy breakfast and talk about travel. Ben and I must share the gypsy impulse that comes with being half Hungarian.

After breakfast we're quickly on the road, passing rolling Ohio corn fields and sweet little farms. Soon we are in hill country, following streams and feeling the Appalachian foot hills for the first time since Tennessee. West Virginia is not far away, and once in this birdie-finger shaped state, I am reminded of its poverty. There are coal mining villages every 10 miles or so, all marked by a small gas station and a Dairy Queen.

Thus, we are grateful to discover Fayetteville. The town seems fueled by the outdoor recreation scene along the Gauley River. There are rafters and hikers and climbers everywhere; Patagonia makes bank in this lil' town. It's obvious that this is a demographic that likes to eat, because the restaurants in this town look promising. We choose a Cajun place and feast on creamy she crab soup and a fantastic brisket po'boy. Though we are still feeling the feast of last night, I order us a slice of their house made pecan pie. Don't skip this pie, it's the best pecan pie I think I've ever had. Whole pecans are suspended throughout the condensed milk base, not just on the top. The crust is thin and crispy and wonderful in its own right.

Though delicious, this feast is bitter sweet. I feel an unexpected sadness when the Pirate raises a glass to “our last night on the road”. I have loved this trip like it was a person, and I'm sad to know it's ending. There will be other trips, probably sooner than later, but it won't be this trip.

Hope Yer Hungary

Day 48: Widowville OH to Pickerington OH

We leave the farm around 2 in the afternoon. The sky is blue and full of billowy white clouds, it's about 85 degrees with low humidity. We are as enchanted with this farm as we could possibly be.

Our route takes us straight through the heart of Ohio farm country. The road is wide with rolling roller coaster hills that get you in the stomach just a little. We pass the campus of Denison College, which is where my grandmother, who I called Nan, went to school. She graduated with a teaching degree, and while there was not simply the president of her sorority, but of the pan-hellenic club as well.. My Nan was always serious business.

We roll in to the neighborhood where my aunt and uncle live right around 4, starving and looking forward to a serious feast. We are in for a treat tonight. Let me back up...we are at the home of my dad's second youngest sister, Mary Beth (I call “Meem”) and her husband of thirty something years Frank, henceforth Aunt Meem and Uncle Frank. Their oldest child is my cousin Ben, who has been following this blog. Realizing we're sort of food oriented, Ben organized for us “The Feast”. “The Feast” varies from family to family, but is usually the traditional Christmas meal that all branches of my Hungarian clan, the Nameths, prepare. It was my grandfather's signature menu. Having this feast on a random Tuesday night in August is a big deal.

First of all, this meal takes no fewer than 3 days to properly prepare. You begin by making cabbage rolls, or stuffed cabbage. There is a filling made with uncooked rice, garlic, paprika, ground beef and pork (ground once). Cabbage leaves are steamed and slices away from the head, stuffed with this meat mixture and layered in a pot with sour kraut and tomato sauce. Aunt Meem does it the way grandpa did by stuffing a green pepper with this meat mixture and placing it in the center of the pot. The pot is brought to a simmer and shaken (don't stir it) once a day for three days. Any less than this and you've messed up a good pot of stuffed cabbage.

To accompany this, there is Hungarian scalloped potatoes: boiled potatoes and hard boiled eggs sliced and layered with bread crumbs, sour cream and butter. In my family we throw some kolbasi in there too. Then, there is Uncle Frank's chicken. This is a variation of the classic “wing dings” that Grandpa made (my brother is notorious for being able to consume three or four hundred wing dings at a sitting). Uncle Frank makes cutlets, or scallopinis, instead. The breading and pan frying is done in the classic way with seasonings so secret that I'd have to kill you if you found out. Eaten mere seconds from the pan, these little fried chicken delights are served as the official first course of The Feast.

By the time we all sit, the table is groaning under the weight of stuffed cabbage with gravy, chicken, noodles and cottage cheese, mashed potatoes, Hungarian potatoes and biscuits. Around the table is Aunt Meem and Uncle Frank, cousin Ben and his beautiful wife of ten months Becky, cousin Dawn and her sons Gabe and Lukey. We eat, we laugh, we tell stories, and at the apex of our jolliness, the famous chocolate cake comes out. This time, the cake is extra special. This cakes is Uncle Frank's mother's recipe, and he usually makes it as the last course for The Feast. But for tonight, Becky has made it. This is a serious test (I'm kidding), and she nails it. The layers of chocolate cake are moistened with maraschino cherry juice to perfection. The frosting is sweet and creamy, and the cherries that dot the top of the cake are gorgeous.

We finish no less than a case of beer and a couple bottles of wine, in addition to our food. We are happy as clams, and full as ticks as we bid each other good night and waddle off to bed.