Day 113 -- Friday, August 21


Nothing went right today. Don't misunderstand; nothing went so terribly wrong, either, but of all the 113 days I've yet spent on this journey, today was the most completely devoid of fun. I spent last night in Battle Creek, Michigan; my research had led me to believe that I would be treated to some sort of cereal tour. After all, this is where, in 1885, Dr. John Harvey Kellogg invented the flaky stuff. Kellogg's is still based there. One would think that Battle Creek would proudly offer some sort of exhibit celebrating the town's leading role in an industry that has given us Sugar Pops, Quisp, Quake, and Frosted Mini-Wheats, but no.

Oh, sure, at the ever-so-glitzy Kellogg's plant, they make a rather feeble one-room attempt at relating the glories of the company's past but believe me, it is jejune to the nth degree. Not a single box of Pep from the old days, nary a ray-gun or decoder ring such as might have been a dig through the carton until you find it prize or a sent through the mail if you send in four boxtops give-away; it was disappointing, to put it mildly. There ought to be tour of the factory, a 60 ft. Tony the Tiger statue, something...

As I departed Battle Creek, there was a big wreck on the interstate leading to Detroit (several cars and a petroleum truck were involved, apparently, and the interstate was completely closed down both directions). I made my way east on tiny county roads that weren't even in my atlas and finally, after more than an hour's delay, got back on I-94.

There was no lodging to be found in downtown Motown so it was out to the suburbs and a Motel 6. Well, that was easier said than done; Detroit traffic at rush hour is incredible. I headed north on I-75 for Madison Hills, only 12 miles away from 94, but it took around 45 minutes. There were three fender-benders in that 12-mile stretch. Nothing serious, thank goodness, but they each slowed traffic to a complete stop. I was, as you might imagine, really enjoying myself by this time.

I figured, hey, I'm in Detroit, it's Friday night; there's bound to be something of interest going on in town, right? The Tigers? Nope, they were in Milwaukee. Some good music? I checked the club and concert listings; no familiar names. I decided then to treat myself to a good meal and maybe a movie.

Unfortunately, when I reached my motel, I realized that I was in the land of malls and multiplexes; nothing in sight but chain fast food and mainstream Hollywood. Ugh. There was, at least, a Steak and Ale; a chain, sure, but at least it's not fast food. I've always had kind of a soft spot for these establishments. You get so much for your money. I had the Hawaiian Chicken, a chicken breast marinated in a sauce from the teriyaki family. I also had a couple of small loaves of warm, freshly-baked bread, a nice big salad of my own compiling, two baked potatoes dressed to the nines and a cup of coffee - all for under ten dollars, pre-tip. Not bad, huh?

Since I was out of luck on the film, I opted to return, in my bloated state, to my room and do a little reading. I wasn't too terribly disappointed; it wasn't, after all, such a bad way to spend an evening: a hearty meal and some fine literature. Still, as the evening wore on, I wanted more. I wanted ice cream. I've enjoyed, on a number of occasions during the Odyssey, a Blizzard from Dairy Queen. It's a healthy portion of that fine Dairy Queen soft ice cream with the fixin's and mixin's of my choice (or yours) blended in. I usually opt for crunched-up Oreos and, in fact, that's exactly what I had a hankerin' for this particular evening - an Oreo Blizzard from Dairy Queen. I would gladly have settled for Haagen Daz, though, or Braum's or Baskin Robbins.

I drove, and I'm not exaggerating here, three miles in each of the four major directions (those would be, of course, north, south, east, and, of course, west) looking for ice cream. Just to save you the trouble, I've already done the math on that: I traveled over 24 miles looking for a refreshing, frosty treat. And remember, I wasn't in Gilbert, Iowa; this was Detroit, for Pete's sake, and it was only 11 o'clock on a Friday night (I mention this because the one little mom-and-pop dairy bar I found was closed, although the sign was still ablaze out front). So, I returned to the Motel 6, disgusted, and ate a whole box of Spree. After all, tomorrow is another day.


Continue on the American Odyssey.
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