Blinding rainstorms chase us through Missouri and Indiana; I am glad I am not driving.  We can barely see five feet in front of us, yet semis and cars and trucks whiz past us on the left.  I think they are all crazy—or have a death wish.

Indiana

Wishing to avoid the harshness of city lights, at 4 pm, I check Booking.com for a hotel in any small town on the outskirts of Indianapolis. The first hotel that pops up is a Best Western in Martinsville, only ten miles away from my intended destination and $59 a night—with good reviews.

Gladys instructs us to exit I 70 to reach Martinsville, and soon we are deep into bucolic Indiana, driving through verdant farmland down narrow ribbons of road.  A longhorn munches grass in a green, green field.  I think he is lost, as lost as I feel.

Michael looks at me and says, “And you thought staying in Bloomington would be out of the way.” My explanations and reasons and whys and wherefores are shut down—with a smile.

Martinsville and Dinner

The path through Martinsville to get to the hotel is even stranger than the country roads we took to get to this small town.  I really begin to wonder at the capabilities of Gladys. I think she needs a psychiatrist—but she gets us there.  I’d love to have a map.

After saying no to Mexican food (in Indiana?) and no to the choice of two different Chinese buffets, the hotel clerk recommends the Texas Corral for dinner.  So, we go.  On the way, I check Google maps and the restaurant reviews to see what awaits us; Michael and I can’t help but burst into laughter at the unhappy expressions of the three women that are supposedly enticing us—the universal us—to try the restaurant.

Beer costs a dollar, Jell-O-shots the same. The food is not bad—not good—but not bad. Quantities are humongous, and I purposely try to barely make a dent. Everyone at the bar is having a fantastic time. “Dollar beers,” Michael says. He adds, “I wonder if they realize we don’t have moose in Texas.” He nods toward a stuffed moose head hanging on the wall.

Destination Erie, PA

The short seven-hour drive to Erie, PA, extends to almost nine, dodging semi’s all of the way. Finally, exiting the Interstate, we find the Clarion on 8th Street. This is my cue to begin searching for a restaurant close to the water.  I read Michael the menus of two eateries that sound like possibilities; he chooses the one that serves grouper.

I’m disappointed when I discover the Rum Runner Cove is part of the sprawling Sheraton on this large T-head. But we walk across the parking lot and are seated by the window.

The air is cool when we enter the restaurant and even cooler when we leave and decide to take a quick stroll down to the end of the pier.  Cool but mellow and absolutely beautiful. The sky glows; as the sun sets, it catches fire.