I've gone to look for America
Jul. 11th, 2004 12:40 pmOn US 146 (southbound) in the North of Rhode Island, I saw a bucolic image the other day. It was evening, when the heat finally breaks, and the mosquitoes stir themselves to begin their phlebotomic activity.
On the side of the road, perched on a hill is a motel, one of those purely American inventions, the "motoring hotel", conceived when gas was 3ยข per US gallon, and "motoring" was a favorite vacation pass-time. Cheap, clean, and found on all the major high ways of the day.
They were often family owned, and were the way to the American Dream of owning your own business and home, all rolled into one package.
In this day, motels are mostly owned by corporations: Red Roof, Travel Lodge, any number of giants with homogenous decor and all the design innovation of a stale pancake. Bland, bland, bland, right down to the little packets of Sanka Instant Decaf coffee that somehow manage to offend not only by the lack of caffeine, but by providing insufficient dried coffee to make a cup of anything other than insipid almost-coffee-flavored-water.
Those motels that have remained owner-occupied are hard-pressed to provide a service at a reasonable price. They usually are run down, and the sheets can be grey with age. But the coffee is real, tar-thick, loaded with caffeine and flavor and something the kind-hearted among us would call "Character".
As I whizzed by the "Hill-Top Motel", I saw something that made me smile. A woman stood by a bed of flowers in front, hose-nozzle in hand. Sunlight caught the spray, and a rainbow refracted in the haze of droplets. A normal activity, watering the garden in the cool of the day. I imagined I could hear the sigh of relief from the flowers, thirsty from a day in the sun.
The one thing different about this scene, what made it stick out in my mind was this:
This woman, caring for her garden, for her business, was wearing a sari, brilliant orange, with a fusia colored top beneath that bared her cafe au lait midriff. Her hair was pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck, and on her forehead I could see a small mark above and triangulating with her eyes.
I smiled. The American Dream is not dead. I wish her luck. And if I ever want to take a break from my home for a night, I may well book a night at the Hill Top Motel.
On the side of the road, perched on a hill is a motel, one of those purely American inventions, the "motoring hotel", conceived when gas was 3ยข per US gallon, and "motoring" was a favorite vacation pass-time. Cheap, clean, and found on all the major high ways of the day.
They were often family owned, and were the way to the American Dream of owning your own business and home, all rolled into one package.
In this day, motels are mostly owned by corporations: Red Roof, Travel Lodge, any number of giants with homogenous decor and all the design innovation of a stale pancake. Bland, bland, bland, right down to the little packets of Sanka Instant Decaf coffee that somehow manage to offend not only by the lack of caffeine, but by providing insufficient dried coffee to make a cup of anything other than insipid almost-coffee-flavored-water.
Those motels that have remained owner-occupied are hard-pressed to provide a service at a reasonable price. They usually are run down, and the sheets can be grey with age. But the coffee is real, tar-thick, loaded with caffeine and flavor and something the kind-hearted among us would call "Character".
As I whizzed by the "Hill-Top Motel", I saw something that made me smile. A woman stood by a bed of flowers in front, hose-nozzle in hand. Sunlight caught the spray, and a rainbow refracted in the haze of droplets. A normal activity, watering the garden in the cool of the day. I imagined I could hear the sigh of relief from the flowers, thirsty from a day in the sun.
The one thing different about this scene, what made it stick out in my mind was this:
This woman, caring for her garden, for her business, was wearing a sari, brilliant orange, with a fusia colored top beneath that bared her cafe au lait midriff. Her hair was pulled back into a bun at the nape of her neck, and on her forehead I could see a small mark above and triangulating with her eyes.
I smiled. The American Dream is not dead. I wish her luck. And if I ever want to take a break from my home for a night, I may well book a night at the Hill Top Motel.
no subject
Date: 2004-07-11 01:09 pm (UTC)But for how much longer? When even Caucasian, American-born and raised friends of mine openly discuss on the diaries fleeing pending the November elections, one wonders.
no subject
Date: 2004-07-11 02:16 pm (UTC)Good gods, the idea of another 4 years of the madness of King George.
I'm thinking about making book on one of two things happening just before elections:
A major attack (of domestic origin, not from some terrorist organization) happening, and martial law being declared, and the elections being postponed indefinitely.
Osama bin Ladin mysteriously being "found" and paraded as a war trophy by the current regime.
I think it's important to remember that this is supposed to be a land where every color, creed or origin is valued. And the lady in the sari represents that to me.
The reality is closer to what you intimate, of course. And that saddens me terribly.
Edie
no subject
Date: 2004-07-11 07:04 pm (UTC)This is America. We are a nation that believes very strongly in the ownership of firearms. Urban Democrats' support for gun bansnotwithstanding, there are plenty of Democrats and other Bush non-supporters who still have assault rifles and know how to use them. (Not me, but that's because my marksmanship is terrible and I have not yet remedied that.) Moreover, we have plenty of militias, survivalists, and others who have been paranoically afraid of martial law for decades now.
In short, I pity the fool who tries to impose martial law on the United States of America, because if you think Fajullah was bad, you ain't seen nothin' yet.
no subject
Date: 2004-07-12 02:19 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-12 04:37 am (UTC)OK, so I'm a country boy who grew up next door to a gun club, so what?
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Date: 2004-07-12 04:48 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-12 04:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-12 04:55 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-12 04:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-12 05:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-12 05:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-07-12 06:57 am (UTC)Not recent ones, sadly, and even more sadly I really, really don't have time today to hunt back specific entry dates for you... :-/.