Day 116 -- Monday, August 24

I awakened early with madly cascading water on the brain, for I was bound for the Falls of Niagara. My intention was to sneak a quick peek at the precipitant gush of frigid agua and then get a move on. I even had visions of entering Vermont as evening drew nigh.

Fat chance. To begin with, I missed a turn somewhere and ended up on the Canadian side of the falls. And as for grabbing a brief tourist's glance at the wonder, the spectacle of it all, our neighbor's to the north wouldn't hear of it. No, they require that, to see the Falls, one must travel down a lengthy road at a really slow speed, park miles away from the free-falling waters and take what they call a People Mover (actually just a rather futuristic-looking bus) to the actual site. I was not enjoying myself a great deal.

Once I got within viewing range of the fabled honeymooner's delight, though, my mood lightened a bit. Somehow, though, attractions that I've heard of all my life, like these falls, seldom live up to their legend. Don't get me wrong; Niagara Falls is quite an impressive sight but I would hardly plan a whole trip around it. It does, however, ably occupy an afternoon.

The best part was the Scenic Tunnels, an attraction that requires one to stand in line for some 20 minutes to buy a ticket and then queue up again for half an hour or so to receive a silly-looking yellow, throwaway rain parka and gain admittance to the elevators leading down to the tunnels. The first opening in these dank subterranean passageways provides a closeup view of the Falls. One could almost reach out and touch them, only that's not necessary; they come to you. The wind carries a very heavy flow of mist and droplets, soaking all those on the platform. A little farther on are two openings in the tunnel which allow us to view the water plummeting down before us, as we actually stand behind the Falls. Pretty cool, I must admit. When the wind blows in, one can get pretty drenched here, too.

Nearby, in Clifton Hill, Ontario is an Elvis Museum that I'm sorry to report I had to miss. It seemed to me a little incongruous, finding a tribute to the King way up here. Gordon Lightfoot, sure; Anne Murray, of course, but Elvis? In any case, the brochure claimed that the museum houses the largest privately-owned collection of Elvis memorabilia in the world and I deeply regret that I was unable to squeeze it into my itinerary. However, the days remaining in this journey do trickle down to a precious few so I must keep moving.

A pleasant two-hours' drive found me in Rochester. There is a museum here I want to visit but that will have to wait until tomorrow. I spent the evening watching Wall Street on HBO (I had never seen it) and dining on a plate of garbage. No, I'm not passing culinary judgement; that's what this dining establishment, Nick Tahou's, has dubbed the specialty of the house. It's a plate piled high with macaroni salad, baked beans, home-fried potatoes, raw onion and two split, grilled frankfurters plopped on top. This is all served as one big mess, too; no compartmentalized platters here. It is well nigh impossible to take a bite of macaroni salad, say, without some fried potatoes and baked beans coming along for the ride. And the hot dogs are big, juicy franks, not little skinny weiners. It's an odd-looking concoction but pretty tasty nonetheless. I fully expect to have some strange dreams tonight, though.


Continue on the American Odyssey.
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