Martha and Belin

Belinda Darcy
Day 5. Manhattan, KS to St Louis, MO.

Apparently there was a major thun-
derstorm last night. Martha got next to no
sleep, and has attractive dark circles and
the cheerless demeanor to prove it. As
usual, I slept like a baby. Didn’t hear a
thing. After 2 hours of driving through re-
lentless rain, we pulled over for a big, hot
breakfast at The Country Kitchen, which
turned out to be attached to a Ho—Jo’s.
(Ho-Jo’s have a very nostalgic effect on
Martha, since her father dragged her fami-
ly to so many of them, including the old-
est one in America, on their frequent road
trips). To our great satisfaction, our host, a
big queen, kindly sat us in the section
served by the only gay waiter in the place.
I have no doubt that our presence im-
proved his morning as much as his did
ours. Funny how the mutual recognition
of one queer to another can be com-
municated by nothing more than huge
knowing grins. We ARE everywhere.

I drove the rest of the way through bleak,
washed—out scenery, and managed to miss
the turnoff into St. Louis. In the blink of
an eye, we shot over the Mississippi River
and were headed to Chicago. Back-
tracking is probably the most frustrating
element of any road trip. It inevitably elic-
its an argument (“Give me the map 
Please?”. “No. I got us here, I'll get us
back.” “Would you just give it to me?
Christ, you’re worse than my father!” etc).
Anyway, we found the Holiday Inn
Downtown Riverfront (chosen for its
proximity to the gay section of town,
which by this stage we were sorely in
need of). Our room, on the 17th floor,
turned out to be a Junior Suite, with a
view of The Arch, (a giant silvery monu-
ment rising straight out of the ground,
with teeny windows at the top. Martha
loved it). It also had a big kitchen, two

da’sExce||ent Adventure: Part 5

T.V.’s and a porch (“No, honey, I really
don’t need to see all the little cars way
down there”.) We were wondering if the
swishy Assistant Manager had had any-
thing to do with it, when our thoughts
were interrupted by the couple next
door. It sounded like a man and a wom-
an desperately trying to lift some very
heavy furniture. Evidently they were
successful. Lovely.

We decided to go and be tourists. Martha
talked me into taking the trip to the top
of The Arch. This involved squishing

. into a tiny claustrophobic capsule with a

nervous hetero couple, and enduring the
nerve-wracking four minute — “ride” to
the Observation Deck, with its 30-mile
panoramic view. You really could see a
long way, but one can only stare at an
unfamiliar view for so long. The return
ride was faster, but clunkier. I felt rather
like a multi—vitarnin making its way
through the human body. As we lurched
on down, I was reminded of all those
made—for—TV movies I’d seen, that fea-
tured malfunctioning elevators, whose
cables snapped sending their passengers
plummeting to their deaths. I couldn’t
wait to get out of there.

After consulting our handy Women ’s
Traveller- (such a safe, closeted title for a
LESBIAN travel guide, don’t you
think?), I deduced that one Euclid Ave,
which listed no less than three gay res-
taurants, was the heart of the community,
and an excellent starting point for our
evening’s explorations.

I was right. It was Homo Central. Lots of
gift shops, a bookstore, a hair salon or
two, a health food shop, and a scattering
of tastefully-decorated-small—businesses—
sporting-impressive-graphics. I wanted to
check out all three restaurants before de-
ciding, but it was 7:00 pm, and MaItha’s
blood sugar was down around her ankles.
We ended up at Cafe Balaban’s. The food

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was unbelievably good, which managed
to distract us until about halfway through
my dessert, when I brought up the subject
of hypoglycemia. We got into a polite ar-
gument which escalated into an argument,
which rapidly escalated and progressed
onto such delightful topics as: who’s do-
ing more of the driving on this trip, who’s
dealing with the luggage and the ever-
present cooler, and who’s not getting up
early enough. It was ugly. So we were in
no mood to go out dancing, (although I
secretly contemplated dropping her off at
the hotel, and going out by myself in my
sassy, black cowboy boots). We returned
to our hotel in stony silence. Back in the
room we broke down and made up, prom-
ising to be more tolerant of each other. At
least until we got to Vermont. V

(to be continued)

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