at the dump, walls held together with bits of nailed wood and gaffer tape, an ancient rusted car with no wheels up on bricks, broken toys and a scraggy dog by the front porch.
This area was popular as a summer resort for rich people at the turn of the century, says Gil. Nowadays it’s full of hippies and dropouts—and probably survivalists and other scary types, he says as we pass a tattoo parlor set in the grounds of one of the big Victorian houses.
I squint at him. Since when are you an expert?
He reaches into the side pocket of the door, hands me a fat guidebook (
Frommer’s New York State
), and says, Do you think Suzanne would send us off without reference books?
I leaf through it for a minute and then go back to watching the road. How about there, I say, pointing at a white wooden house with green shutters and a wide porch. It has a hand-painted sign that says LENA’S CURIOSITIES AND CAFE .
At the same pace that he drives, Gil pulls off the road and glides to a stop.
The menu is nailed to a post on the big wide porch.
Try some soup and sandwiches on Lena’s homemade bread
reads the line across the top. But it’s the curiosities that I’m curious about. And when we push through the door, it’s clear that they’re the main act.
All over the walls are stuffed heads, about fifty of them. There’s a large carved eagle painted black, a stuffed fish, an etching of a herd of buffalo, an entire snake skeleton in a glass display box and a faded Japanese kimono hung on the wall. There’s a big turtle shell made into a bowl and a fish tank full of crab shells. Also a pair of wooden skis with leather bindings nailed to the wall and beside them some snowshoes.
They look very old. A painting in a big gold frame of an Indian squaw kneeling by a fire needs dusting. There are candles in wine bottles on every table. A pigeon I think might be stuffed turns out to be real. Behind the register is a weasel with a rat in its mouth. It’s missing one glass eye. Not everyone would want to eat in these surroundings.
Can our dog come in?
It’s against the law, says the woman, but she looks at Honey and nods. As long as she’s quiet and doesn’t mind cats.
Well, she’s quiet, obviously, but I don’t know what she thinks of cats. Not much, it seems, because she ignores the big gray one staring at us from her perch on the windowsill and lies down under the table. For a big dog, she’s good at slipping into a small space.
You folks from England? the woman asks, and Gil says, Yes.
I like your accent, she says, looking at me, and I don’t know whether to say thank you.
We order bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches. I ask for root beer because I’ve never tried it. The person we guess is Lena brings Gil coffee without him asking. When he looks surprised, she frowns.
You don’t want it?
No, he says, flustered, I mean, yes. I do.
So, what’s the problem? Her face is stern.
Gil accepts the coffee.
You staying in Saratoga Springs? Racing fans?
Not really, I tell her. Not at all, in fact.
Well, that’s good cause it’s the wrong season, she says. You’re either much too late or much too early. I went there once with my husband. Long time ago. She cackles a little and then goes off to the kitchen and comes out again with our sandwiches and sits herself down in a big comfortable chair by the door, adding up receipts while we eat. She’s a genuine one-man band, is Lena.
When we come up to pay, she and Gil chat about racing. It’s a short chat. As far as I know, the sum total of Gil’s knowledge about racing is Red Rum and maybe Frankie Dettori, the jockey who dismounts by leaping up in the air.
Where’d you say you folks are off to? asks Lena when the conversation fades. Gil tells her the name of the town that’s closest to Matthew’s camp and she says, Still a long way to go.
And I think, You can say that again.
fourteen
H ave you ever seen a terrier at work? It stands stock-still, quivering all over with
This area was popular as a summer resort for rich people at the turn of the century, says Gil. Nowadays it’s full of hippies and dropouts—and probably survivalists and other scary types, he says as we pass a tattoo parlor set in the grounds of one of the big Victorian houses.
I squint at him. Since when are you an expert?
He reaches into the side pocket of the door, hands me a fat guidebook (
Frommer’s New York State
), and says, Do you think Suzanne would send us off without reference books?
I leaf through it for a minute and then go back to watching the road. How about there, I say, pointing at a white wooden house with green shutters and a wide porch. It has a hand-painted sign that says LENA’S CURIOSITIES AND CAFE .
At the same pace that he drives, Gil pulls off the road and glides to a stop.
The menu is nailed to a post on the big wide porch.
Try some soup and sandwiches on Lena’s homemade bread
reads the line across the top. But it’s the curiosities that I’m curious about. And when we push through the door, it’s clear that they’re the main act.
All over the walls are stuffed heads, about fifty of them. There’s a large carved eagle painted black, a stuffed fish, an etching of a herd of buffalo, an entire snake skeleton in a glass display box and a faded Japanese kimono hung on the wall. There’s a big turtle shell made into a bowl and a fish tank full of crab shells. Also a pair of wooden skis with leather bindings nailed to the wall and beside them some snowshoes.
They look very old. A painting in a big gold frame of an Indian squaw kneeling by a fire needs dusting. There are candles in wine bottles on every table. A pigeon I think might be stuffed turns out to be real. Behind the register is a weasel with a rat in its mouth. It’s missing one glass eye. Not everyone would want to eat in these surroundings.
Can our dog come in?
It’s against the law, says the woman, but she looks at Honey and nods. As long as she’s quiet and doesn’t mind cats.
Well, she’s quiet, obviously, but I don’t know what she thinks of cats. Not much, it seems, because she ignores the big gray one staring at us from her perch on the windowsill and lies down under the table. For a big dog, she’s good at slipping into a small space.
You folks from England? the woman asks, and Gil says, Yes.
I like your accent, she says, looking at me, and I don’t know whether to say thank you.
We order bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwiches. I ask for root beer because I’ve never tried it. The person we guess is Lena brings Gil coffee without him asking. When he looks surprised, she frowns.
You don’t want it?
No, he says, flustered, I mean, yes. I do.
So, what’s the problem? Her face is stern.
Gil accepts the coffee.
You staying in Saratoga Springs? Racing fans?
Not really, I tell her. Not at all, in fact.
Well, that’s good cause it’s the wrong season, she says. You’re either much too late or much too early. I went there once with my husband. Long time ago. She cackles a little and then goes off to the kitchen and comes out again with our sandwiches and sits herself down in a big comfortable chair by the door, adding up receipts while we eat. She’s a genuine one-man band, is Lena.
When we come up to pay, she and Gil chat about racing. It’s a short chat. As far as I know, the sum total of Gil’s knowledge about racing is Red Rum and maybe Frankie Dettori, the jockey who dismounts by leaping up in the air.
Where’d you say you folks are off to? asks Lena when the conversation fades. Gil tells her the name of the town that’s closest to Matthew’s camp and she says, Still a long way to go.
And I think, You can say that again.
fourteen
H ave you ever seen a terrier at work? It stands stock-still, quivering all over with
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