We walked into our musty motel room and Mr. Porter rolled up some tin foil and killed flies in the windowsill. For every fly he killed, another one appeared. The 1960’s style drapes were covered in dust, and Mr. Porter remarked that the bedspreads looked as if they had not been cleaned since the Bush administration. I chuckled. I had the bright idea to go for a swim. Sure, let’s go. It was a hot July day in the Adirondacks.
The pool water looked clear enough, although I admit I didn’t have my glasses on. I inched into the water, pushing away bugs as I went, commenting on how refreshing the water felt. I went in up to my shoulders.
I turned around to notice Mr. Porter had stopped at his waistline. Then I took a better look around; the pool was covered with dead bugs. I mean, a whole layer of bug film on the top of the pool.
I threw up in my mouth a little, and dashed out of the pool.
We went back to the room for a quick shower. When I stepped out of the tub, I realized the entire bathroom ceiling was covered with mold. I ran to tell Mr. Porter, who was back at the window, trusty foil in hand, killing more flies.
At this point, I announced, “I can’t stay here!” It all clicked in at once, this place was a dump, and no matter how cheap it was, it was not worth risking getting mold sickness and vertigo again.
After several calls with Hotels.com and a conversation with the guy who worked in the motel office – he felt bad and started handing me gifts: free mugs and a candle – we packed up the car and left.
We were now homeless in the Adirondacks. We googled hotels, in between 1% and 4% battery juice on our phones, and finally found a nice place. It broke the bank, but no mold, no flies, and it was clean.
The next day when I took a shower and washed my hair, there were bugs all over the shower floor.
The next few days were roller coaster events: a mediocre meal at a restaurant where the 12-year-old hostess couldn’t figure out how to wipe down and dry off a table, a beautiful loon swimming in a pond, the best apple pie I ever ate in my life from a little store in the middle of nowhere that I am sure I’ll never find again. A trip to the German Yum-yum bakery. A dinner at the hotel on the top of the hill that cost $160. A bowl of cereal for dinner another night. A trip to the laundromat, where I heard stories of homeless people OD’ing in the bathroom of said laundromat and others wiping feces on the door handles.
Our last day there, we checked out of our room and headed for Whiteface Mountain. It was cloudy, and visibility was 0. The attendant said we could stop along the way and see views, but there was probably no visibility at the top of the mountain.
We made a stop. I got out of the car and started walking up hill towards large stones. Losing my balance, and veering to the right, I fell and began rolling downhill, then tumbling downhill. I yelled out, “I can’t stop,” and started giggling. I was close to the end of the ledge, still tumbling. I stopped short and was facedown but couldn’t move. I giggled again, “There’s raspberries here!” from deep inside a raspberry bush. Mr. Porter yelled, “Don’t stand up, crawl.” I spun myself around to sit on my butt. My phone was still in my left hand, which I needed to grab onto the raspberry roots to crawl up the hill.
“I’m throwing my phone up to you,” I said, tossing it. Mr. Porter caught it miraculously.
Crawling inch by inch, I made my way up the hill. Mr. Porter and a nice Canadian Lady pulled my arms, and I crawled the rest of the way up, jeans covered in mud, but no raspberry prickers in my fingers.
I turned around and took a picture.
We decided that was enough site-seeing for the day, and drove home.
Another day, still above ground.
SueAnn Porter 