I wanted to write something exciting over my three day weekend, but as I was sitting at a tiny table in a huge Eat ‘N Park in Erie trying to get something down, I was interrupted by a midget and it threw me off my groove.
Perhaps I should back up. Since I realized two weeks ago that I was going to have a three day weekend followed by an eight day work week, I’d been thinking about taking a road trip. After careful consideration of all the factors (I wanted water, Pennsylvania in the fall, and a sunset), I decided that Erie would be the perfect destination. I’d never been to that part of the state — the closest I’d ever come was I-80 on the way to California — and it seemed like the best way to see the sun set over the water, rare as it is on the East Coast to find beaches facing west. When I remembered thinking as I was on I-80 on the last day of September 2000 that the hills would be gorgeous just a few weeks later, I was sold. Wunderground.com told me that Erie’s Sunday sunset would be occurring at 6:32 PM, so I left Harrisburg shortly after 1 PM.
The drive was as breathtaking as I hoped it would be, reaffirming my belief that I live in one of the most beautiful places on earth. I was tempted many times to stop to take pictures, but I knew I needed to hurry if I wanted to make it in time for the sunset. I was worried I wasn’t going to make it until I got onto I-79 at 5:00 and saw a sign for Erie in 60 miles, at which point I knew the timing was perfect. When I got to Erie, though, I actually had a hard time finding a beach that faced west. Kevin had told me to find the peninsula park, but he couldn’t remember the name of it. After some sunset chasing through the city, which, incidentally, was phenomenally ugly despite a few interesting looking old industrial buildings, I finally found Peninsula Drive and a sign for Presque Isle State Park.
The sunset was as beautiful as the city was ugly. I sat in the sand to watch the sun turning gray clouds luscious shades of peach before melting them to molten streams of red lava sparkling across the dark water. I stayed for over an hour, until the last traces of light slipped away and I bid the lake good night. So impressed was I with Kevin’s advice that I decided to follow his second Erie-tourist tip and move on to the local Eat ‘N Park.
The local Eat ‘N Park, though huge and new, was not nearly as impressive as the park. It took nearly 15 minutes for my waitress to notice me and her service was grudging at best for the duration of my meal. After finishing my chicken alfredo and pumpkin pie, I considered leaving then, to write in a motel room rather than at the restaurant as I’d originally intended, but decided instead to stay. Just a few minutes later, one of the classic comedic combinations entered and was seated directly across the aisle from me. A tall, lanky boy of about 19 or 20 appeared first, his goofy smile revealing not only a shockingly average IQ but also a set of cuspids and bicuspids that protruded over his lower lip on both sides of his mouth. Immediately behind him — a midget.
It took me only a brief period to recover from the initial shock and return to my writing, but I continued to listen to their conversation out of the corner of my ear. It was striking only in its lack of interesting topics — these were normal young men, stuck in that awkward stage where they want badly to be adults and to establish their independence but still lacking the maturity and wisdom to do it. They spoke of girls and keggers, cars and the possibility of joining the military. Just as I was getting bored, my thoughts returning completely to my attempt to describe the gulls perched on the series of perfectly uniform man-made rock formations that evenly line the shores of the lake, I was interrupted by a familiar admonishment.
“Smile!”
I must have a tendency to scowl while deep in thought because strangers in diners often use this as an opening line when I least want to be distracted. But when a midget tells you to smile, it’s awfully hard not to. This started a conversation, no more interesting than their prior dialogue, but enough to keep me there for another hour.
The more I travel, the more convinced I am that people are ultimately the same everywhere and although this can be slightly discouraging, I enjoy seeing the humanity beneath the constructs we create. These boys were no different, trying hard to be the people they thought they should be, but looking like they miss more often than not.
I left Eat ‘N Park underwhelmed but satisfied and took 322 through the clear and crisp night, Simon & Garfunkel’s version of humanity filling my ears the whole ride home.