The Grand Canyon is no less spectacular now than it was when I first saw it years ago. The difference this time was seeing it through the eyes of my children, wide with wonder. We lingered at the view point and as the sun melted into the western rim. In the lingering twilight, the kids pulled out their guitars and played. The hundred or so people crammed onto the overlook were hushed for a minute or two as the sound of Spanish Romanza wafted through the air, spilling into the canyon below. Then, they resumed conversations and picture taking. One couple, who had scrambled over the barricades never did break their face-sucking stride, making out through the entire sunset. Their dual immolation was almost as spectacular as the canyon itself and an act almost as old too.
Leaving the canyon we find ourselves behind a line of 5 Porsche 356s ranging from a 1955 to a 1963. One red, one blue, one green, two white – a couple of hard tops, the rest convertibles. We catch up with them at a Route 66 diner and chat for a few minutes. One driver, Bill Collins from Windham, NH, has a friendly smile and is eager to talk, even though he’s been driving a while and I’m keeping him from his lunch. He says “the boys” left New England a week ago and covered 800 to 900 miles a day to pick up the “women” in Phoenix. “Your own women? Or just some women?” I asked to clarify.
He smiled even wider, “Our wives,” he said. “We’re on our way to Squaw Valley, Lake Tahoe for a car show. People will show up from all over the country who have trailered their cars in and handle them with white gloves. We show up with bugs on our windshields and mud and stickers from where we’ve been.” They’ll cover 9,000 miles total to the show and home. I ask if he’s concerned about putting those miles on a vintage automobile. “No.” he said. “These cars a made to be driven. I’m carrying 28 lbs of parts in the nose, so I’m ready if there are problems.” Apparently, each car carries between 25 and 30 lbs of parts and they’ve already made one stop for repairs.
We let the boys and their women go to lunch and pop into a “soda fountain” just a few doors down in hopes of finding an authentic fountain root beer. What we find is a fake. Festooned in Coke signs and upholstered bar stools, a modern soda machine cranks out the same soda you’d pour for yourself at 7-Eleven. A real soda fountain would ladle a scoop of root beer syrup into a tall fluted glass in a metal rack with a handle, and then fill it to the brim with carbonated water and stir. We love these, and the family tradition is to order it without stirring. That way, you can nick a little of the syrup straight from the bottom and stir when you’re ready. Needless to say, it was a big disappointment to be handed a paper cup with soda you could get anywhere. This is Route 66 after all – The Mother Road – you would think you could get a mother of a root beer. But alas, it was not to be. Not today anyway.
Leaving the canyon we find ourselves behind a line of 5 Porsche 356s ranging from a 1955 to a 1963. One red, one blue, one green, two white – a couple of hard tops, the rest convertibles. We catch up with them at a Route 66 diner and chat for a few minutes. One driver, Bill Collins from Windham, NH, has a friendly smile and is eager to talk, even though he’s been driving a while and I’m keeping him from his lunch. He says “the boys” left New England a week ago and covered 800 to 900 miles a day to pick up the “women” in Phoenix. “Your own women? Or just some women?” I asked to clarify.
He smiled even wider, “Our wives,” he said. “We’re on our way to Squaw Valley, Lake Tahoe for a car show. People will show up from all over the country who have trailered their cars in and handle them with white gloves. We show up with bugs on our windshields and mud and stickers from where we’ve been.” They’ll cover 9,000 miles total to the show and home. I ask if he’s concerned about putting those miles on a vintage automobile. “No.” he said. “These cars a made to be driven. I’m carrying 28 lbs of parts in the nose, so I’m ready if there are problems.” Apparently, each car carries between 25 and 30 lbs of parts and they’ve already made one stop for repairs.
We let the boys and their women go to lunch and pop into a “soda fountain” just a few doors down in hopes of finding an authentic fountain root beer. What we find is a fake. Festooned in Coke signs and upholstered bar stools, a modern soda machine cranks out the same soda you’d pour for yourself at 7-Eleven. A real soda fountain would ladle a scoop of root beer syrup into a tall fluted glass in a metal rack with a handle, and then fill it to the brim with carbonated water and stir. We love these, and the family tradition is to order it without stirring. That way, you can nick a little of the syrup straight from the bottom and stir when you’re ready. Needless to say, it was a big disappointment to be handed a paper cup with soda you could get anywhere. This is Route 66 after all – The Mother Road – you would think you could get a mother of a root beer. But alas, it was not to be. Not today anyway.
No comments:
Post a Comment