Into the Magnolia State

January 6, 2024 steveboilard1 Comment

This morning I left my motel in Greenville and resumed my eastward journey on US 82. After about 15 minutes I came to a familiar town: Leland, MS (pop: 3,900). I had come through Leland just last Spring, when I made my storied road trip along the Blues Highway (i.e., US Route 61). You’ll recall that The Blues Highway is a north-south route that roughly parallels the Mississippi River, and it intersects Route 82 in Leland. And as we learned in last year’s blog post, Leland is the birthplace of Muppets creator Jim Henson. Which seems pretty random.

Less random is the fact that the Mississippi Legislature named this stretch of US 82 after native son B.B. King.

About a third of the way across Mississippi I came to the town of Greenwood (not to be confused with Greenville, where I started today’s journey). Greenwood was established at the confluence of the Yalobusha River and the Tallahatchie River. Yes, that Tallahatchie River. The one into which Billie Joe MacAllister jumped, as described in Bobbie Gentry’s “Ode to Billie Joe.” That song references a “Tallahatchie Bridge,” but the bridge Gentry was supposedly thinking about was destroyed by vandals in 1972. A few years later, in 1976, Max Baer Jr (who you know as Jethro from The Beverly Hillbillies) made a movie version of Gentry’s song. The movie used another bridge in the Greenwood area, but this too was demolished in 1987.

We are left, therefore, with Greenwood’s Ashwood Bridge as a decent stand-in for the place where Billie Joe ended his life. This bridge was constructed while Gentry was living in Greenwood age 12, and it stands just a block from the school she attended. So it’s certainly plausible that it was in her mind when she wrote the lyrics.

*Certainly it would have served Billie Joe MacAllister’s purposes.*

Indeed, the good people of the Mississippi Country Music Trail have placed a marker at the Ashwood Bridge to commemorate Bobbie Gentry and her song. Appropriately, however, they stopped short of saying that this bridge and the one in the song are one and the same.

If you like, you can watch Bobbie Gentry perform the song here:

So, we got the blues, we got frog puppets, we got the Ode to Billie Joe…what else is this part of Mississippi known for? That’s right, it’s in the middle of the Bible Belt. Exhibit A can be seen on US 82 just outside of Greenwood. It’s a 120-foot-tall, 20-ton cross, complete with spotlights and surrounded by a set of speakers that perpetually play religious piano music. The cross was erected in 2021 by The Rev. Dr. Jim Phillips of North Greenwood Baptist Church.

Now, while that might look to you to be a one-of-a-kind project, take a look at what I encountered just 30 minutes further down US 82:

This one, however, dispenses with the piano music and instead displays a dozen tablets with scripture engraved on them.

I was unable to dig up anything about this second cross, other than it was erected in 2014 and it is 120 feet tall (just like the one in Greenwood). I also learned that evidently there are a number of other, identical crosses scattered around the state.

This second cross is on the outskirts of Winona (pop: 4,500). Like so many other towns from the 19th century, Winona sprung up around a railroad station (and not the other way around). In this case, the railroad was the Mississippi Central. The station and the town were established in 1860 and 1861, respectively. Winona’s rail service was discontinued by Amtrak in 1995, but the station still stands.

I had a particular reason for wanting to visit the depot: I had read a newspaper article touting a worthy restaurant named “The Tracks” that had opened in the depot in 2019. I found the depot easy enough, but the restaurant had evidently gone out of business.

*Winona’s forlorn depot, now stripped of trains and eateries.*

A passerby saw me looking in the windows and said “You’re scopin’ the place out because you want to open a restaurant here, huh?” I told him I was actually just looking to eat at a restaurant, not open one. He responded that the owner moved his restaurant to another location when the city started construction on a big clock tower across the street. I get the sense that the city was trying to improve the commercial attractiveness of the area, but it backfired when one of their few businesses got angry about the construction noise and dust. I grimly observed that a whole block of historic buildings across the street from the depot were all closed, and none seemed to be about to open any time soon.

*Wouldn’t this make a great historic business district?*

I asked my new friend if he had any suggestions for getting lunch. He directed me to a mobile barbecue rig that comes to the area on the first and third Saturday of each month. I thanked him. Then he asked me if the recommendation was worth a few bucks, “so as I could get a cup of hot coffee.” It was.

The mobile barbecue joint was a family affair set up in the parking lot of a State Farm office. The wife (or maybe the daughter) took my order from a trailer.

*A small but steady stream of patrons kept coming by while I waited for, and then ate, my food.*

Meanwhile, the husband (who calls himself “Grill Master Shawn”) and his friend (?) were working the barbecue.

While the cole slaw was forgettable, I have to admit that the pulled pork sandwich was one of the best I’ve eaten. So if you ever find yourself in Winona on the first or third Saturday of the month, check out the Grill Master!

On the way out of town I passed an old Ford dealership, which is in remarkably good shape. According to my research, it was built around 1920, making it one of the earliest buildings dedicated specifically to Ford. (Recall that the Model T had first come out just a dozen years earlier, in 1908.)

This dealership, owned by one E. K. Myrick., was Mississippi’s first Ford dealer.

At the end of today’s travels I came to the town of Starkville, Mississippi (pop: 25,000). Starkville is known for several things, not the least of which is Mississippi State University. In fact, you see the college mascot (a bulldog) everywhere.

*This one is a little weird, but it scores points for originality.*

But I have known about Starkville for a different reason, since I was a mere lad of 8 years old. That was the year my Dad let me buy a record album for the family stereo, and for reasons now unclear to me I selected the Johnny Cash at San Quentin live album. One of the songs on that album is “Starkville City Jail,” whose lyrics describe how Johnny Cash was arrested for picking flowers in the town in 1965. Or so he says. The full story is here. Anyway, the only thing I knew about Starkville until today was that it was where Johnny Cash got arrested for picking flowers.

Oh, and here’s the song:

Tomorrow I plan to take US 82 through the rest of Mississippi and into Alabama. But first, I need to leave you with the:

Brew of the Day

I got today’s BOTD at a restaurant called Georgia Blue in Starkville, MS. It’s an imperial IPA made by Southern Prohibition Brewing in Hattiesburg, MS. They call it “Crowd Control,” for reasons that I’m unable to divine.

As you can see, this beer is slightly cloudy and has a thick head. The mouthfeel is smooth and pleasing. This beer lacks the strong, bitter hoppiness of the California IPAs that I’m familiar with. As a result of all this, the beer is quite quaffable. In terms of taste, pineapple and citrus notes predominate. But the taste is somewhat one-dimensional. It lacks the complexity you’d want from an imperial IPA. The ABV clocks in at 8 percent. Overall, it’s a serviceable beer, but not worth driving to Mississippi for. I give it 3.5 stars out of five.

Ghost stories · Road trips · trains

I do believe in spooks! I do, I do, I do….

January 6, 2024 steveboilard2 Comments

So much for my grand plan of escaping the wintry weather by taking a southern road trip. It’s been raining cats and dogs all day.

I knew something was up when I was on the second leg of my flight (from DFW to Texarkana). At our scheduled arrival time we found ourselves circling for three-quarters of an hour over thick fog and rain. Thankfully, the pilot of our tiny plane (there were only about 20 of us on board) handled the tiny plane as well as could be hoped. The whole situation reminded me of Gilligan’s Island; if not for the courage of our fearless crew, the airplane would be lost.

Anyway, we finally landed at Texarkana, which appears to be world’s smallest airport. Seriously. This airport does not seem designed to handle commercial aircraft. I think there’s just one runway. And some unfortunate employee had to literally wrestle the (apparently only) deplaning ramp into position by hand in the rain. When we made it across the small patch of tarmac and entered the tiny building, I practically bumped into the (single) car rental counter that is squeezed into an inadequate space next to the baggage claim. On the positive side, their single rental car was parked right next to the door. I was off in a flash!

There are actually two Texarkanas, which togetherstraddle the boundary between Texas and Arkansas. Texarkana, Arkansas (pop: 30,000) sits on the Arkansas side, of course, and hosts the Lilliputian airport. Its sister city of Texarkana, Texas (pop: 36,000) is in the Lone Star state. The two Texarkanas combine into a large metropolitan area with a population of almost 150,000.

Before heading out onto Route 82 I spent a little time exploring Texarkana’s downtown core. One of the most prominent features is an imposing federal courthouse/post office building that sits squarely on the state line. Half the building resides in Texas and half in Arkansas. There’s a sign out front that helpfully commemorates that fact.

Speaking of commemoration, I spotted this nearby monument to the mothers of Confederate soldiers. Clearly I’m not in Kansas anymore.

Inscription on the base: “O Great Confederate Mothers, we would print your names on monuments, that men may read them as the years go by and tribute pay to you, who bore and nurtured hero sons and gave them solace on that darkest hour, when they came home with broken swords and guns”.

The two Texarkanas were established in 1874 (in Texas) and 1880 (in Arkansas) at an important intersection of several railroads. The railroads contributed much to the area’s growth and prosperity….and when railroads began to decline in the second half of the 20th Century, so did Texarkana.

A relic of the glory days is Texarkana Union Station. It was constructed in 1928, and like the post office, it straddles Texas and Arkansas. It’s another imposing structure, and when I drove up it appeared to be alive and well.

So I parked my car among the many others in front of the building, and I entered through the front doors. What I encountered was a ghostly tomb of a building, which clearly hadn’t been in operation for years.

*Forlorn balcony overlooking the railyard.*

I should emphasize that there wasn’t a living soul in this place. In some places it had been tagged with graffiti, and if other places there was evidence of recent efforts to paint or repair damage. But the whole situation felt odd: why is the front door unlocked? What is this place used for these days?

I went to the back platform, where men in their fedoras and women in their shirt waister dresses would catch their trains.

A little more exploring revealed an active Amtrak waiting room and ticket counter! And by “active,” I mean it was closed. But evidently trains still stop at this station. In fact, according to Wikipedia, it is “the second busiest Amtrak station in Arkansas.” I couldn’t tell you how much of an achievement that is, however.

One final, tantalizing piece of information about Union Station: An April 2023 story in the Texarkana Gazette reported that Amtrak and both Texarkanas had signed a good-faith agreement to restore the station, that $200,000 in seed money had been authorized, and that grant funding was actively being sought. I do hope they’re successful; this could make an impressive anchor for the downtown, which clearly has seen better days.

This blog project has repeatedly encountered the question of why do some historic towns survive, others die, and still others wallow somewhere in between. I was thinking about this while I explored Texarkana. There are a number of buildings that have evidently been abandoned, just slowly decaying in place, like this old appliance store.

*No wonder the Maytag Man is so lonely.*

On the other hand, there are a number of public art installations and renovated structures scattered about as well. One of these is a historic streamline passenger car that’s been converted into a coffee bar.

The place is called Alley Cats, and it’s appropriately located not far from Union Station. I went inside and ordered a coffee from Gus.

*Gus making my espresso aboard the Concho.*

Gus also recommended their Loaded Peanut Butter Toast (thick, locally-made sourdough with peanut butter, honey, granola, and bananas). How could I turn that down??

Gus explained that the Concho was built in the 1930s, and it used to be a barber car (i.e., a car where train passengers could have their hair cut or perhaps get a permanent) while en route. Many of the original elements of the car, including the extensive use of stainless steel, remain. The car has also been decorated with the work of local artists.

As I tucked into my Peanut Butter Toast, the owner of Alley Cats — one Hillary Cloud — came aboard. She explained to me that she used to be a loyal customer when the business was owned by others. But when those owners had to sell the place last year, she and her business partner snapped it up. She seemed to be motivated by a desire to save a business she appreciated, but also to help advance the revitalization of a downtown that she loves. Hillary is not a major land speculator. She was born and raised in Texarkana, and after going away for college and doing some coaching she returned to her hometown. She spoke passionately, but realistically, about promoting local business. Alley Cats sources some of its food (including that delicious sourdough) from local businesses, and showcases the work of local artists. It was clear to me that people like Hillary make the difference between towns that thrive and those that decline.

*Owner Hillary Cloud, with a mug produced by a local artist.*

Finally, well-fortified with peanut butter, it was time for me to get onto Route 82–which was the whole point of this trip.

US Route 82 is like most of the other US highways that I’ve documented on this blog: most of it has one or two lanes in each direction, and it becomes the main thoroughfare of the towns it connects. These routes are not heavily traveled, as most of them were superseded by interstates the middle of the last century. As a result, they often feel like The Land That Time Forgot.

For this first day on the road, my goal was to drive from Texarkana to Greenville, which sits just beyond Arkansas’s border with Mississippi. Along this route there are only a few towns of any notable size. Much of the drive is flat or gently-rolling hills cutting through stands of second- or third-growth hickory.

One of the first towns I came to after Texarkana was Magnolia, Arkansas (pop: 11,000). Everyone wants to be known for something, and Magnolia is known for its World Championship Steak Cookoff each spring. They like to promote their “World’s Largest Charcoal Grill,” which I saw parked alongside Route 82. It is an impressive piece of ironwork which resembles an ICBM.

*View from the back. (I probably should have taken a panorama shot!)*

The next town was El Dorado (pop: 17,500). Established around the same time as Texarkana, it’s downtown appears to be thriving. Attractive public spaces, prosperous businesses, and public art displays abound.

And then I came to Crossett (pop: 4,700). Crossett isn’t a big town, but it’s noted for something that’s come to be known as the Crossett Spook Lights. Rather than try to describe them myself, allow me to quote from something called The Encyclopedia of Arkansas:

Outside of Crossett, where the old railroad tracks once lay, an unexplained light has become a local legend. It has reportedly been seen consistently since the early 1900s by multitudes of people. The light is typically seen floating two to three feet above the ground but also is said to move into the treetops and sometimes side to side. The light reportedly disappears as one walks toward it and then reappears the same distance away, so that one can never get a close look at it. The Crossett Light’s color reportedly ranges from yellow or orange to blue or green.

It’s claimed that the lights are connected with a long-ago incident involving a railroad worker who was decapitated. I did a lot of research on this as I had a snack at a Crossett fast food joint, and it seems that there are many people who earnestly insist they’ve seen the Spook Lights. However, there was a lot of disagreement as to where, exactly, they were to be found, and under what conditions. Undaunted, I waited into the approach of nightfall and I headed out a lonely dirt road into the middle of a dark forest to see what I could see.

It was getting cold and dark, and the rain was unrelenting. But I dutifully parked in the middle of the narrow road (I encountered no other cars) and waited for the lights. I confess it was eerie out there, and more than one I was startled by a bird or a wind-blown tree branch. A few times I thought I saw a small light briefly winking at me through the windshield, but as it was raining, I chalked that up to the drops of water.

Finally I gave up and slowly headed back along the muddy road. Then, what should I see, but several small yet distinct red and green lights!

I was beside myself! The stories were true! I can’t wait to report back to my loyal readership! Assuming, of course, I’m not about to be abducted by aliens…

I continued forward toward the lights and…alas, I discovered their cause. There’s a small, private airfield, complete with guidance lights, a few hundred yards off to the side of the road. Talk about a buzzkill.

I got back onto Route 82 and after an hour I crossed the mighty Mississippi and entered Greenville. This is where I’m spending the night.

BEER OF THE DAY

In Greenville I went to a local pub called “Spectators,” where I asked for a local brew. I was presented with a Southern Pecan nut brown ale, brewed by the Lazy Magnolia Brewing Company in Kiln, Mississippi. The beer is brewed with roasted pecans, and has an ABV at a very modest 4.5 percent.

Despite the brown ale style and the addition of pecans, this beer is pretty light. It has no bite to speak of (hops seem almost to be absent). But neither is is malty sweet. Still, it’s as smooth as silk, going down very easy indeed. I would have liked to have seen it in a glass (it was served in a bottle), for its dark color and head. (I was able to see some foam in the bottle.) Anyway, it’s an inoffensive beer, but not memorable. I give it 2.5 starts out of five.

Oh, as I was leaving, I noticed a plaque on the edge of the counter where I was sitting. I guess it was meant to be!

Road trips

The Winter of 82

January 4, 2024 steveboilard13 Comments

T.S. Eliot called April “the cruelest month,” but I’ve always felt that January is more deserving of that title. This is of course largely due to the obvious and excruciating bathos occasioned by sudden termination of a string of merry holidays–all the decorations, costumes, huge meals, family reunions, parties, and music come to a screeching halt after a superfluous sip of champagne and a perfunctory kiss from our sweetheart literally at the first moment of January.

“ *I think we are in rats’ alley/Where the dead men lost their bones.*“

But there are other reasons I nominate January as the cruelest month. January is cold and dreary; the skies are gray and the trees are bare and the front lawn is brown. The rain curtails outdoor activities, and even if you do get a clear day, the sun seems to set just a few hours after it rises. Add to this the arrival of W-2’s and other tax forms that signal the unwelcome beginning of tax season. And if that’s not enough, January is the month with the most American deaths. According to the CDC, about a quarter of a million of us die each January. Cruel indeed!

Faced with 31 days of this wintry and literally life-threatening cruelty, I decided it was time for a road trip. A change of scene might do me good. And even if I can’t escape the month, perhaps I can escape the worst of the weather. So I consulted my trusty Atlas and searched for a suitable route in the South. And I came up with US Highway 82.

Highway 82 was established in 1931, initially as an east-west route between Mississippi and Arkansas. It was extended over the years, and today it runs from Alamogordo, NM all the way to Brunswick, GA on the east coast.

*Route 82: The Official Highway of the Cruelest Month.*

I’m not going to be driving the whole route, however. I’ve already crossed the Texas panhandle more times than I’d like to remember. Therefore, I’m going to begin my journey at the Texas-Arkansas border, in the imaginatively-named town of Texarkana.

*The town that takes the concept of drive-through dining to a new level.*

The drive from Texarkana to Brunswick is about 900 miles, and I plan to get there on Tuesday evening. Then, on Wednesday I’m going to make a special side trip before heading home. I won’t reveal the surprise, but suffice it to say that it will be a monumental achievement in the Boilard Travel Archives.

Right now I’m at Sacramento Intergalactic Airport, waiting on a red-eye flight that departs at 11:59 pm. I’ll be in Texarkana tomorrow morning, so expect my first blog post from the road tomorrow night.

Until then.

cemeteries · churches · Ghost stories · Halloween · Road trips

Bonus! A True Halloween Story

October 31, 2023October 30, 2023 steveboilard3 Comments

I hope you all enjoyed this month’s Halloween offering, “A Dying Wish.” Of course, the way the timing worked out, the story ended on October 30 (All Hallow’s Eve Eve). So for today, which is Halloween proper, I offer this “true” ghost story for Halloween.

[Editor’s Note: Long-time readers may recall that I related this incident some years back, while I was on my US Route 60 trip. But that story appeared in the days when I was composing my so-called “blog” in Google Docs and emailing it to a small number of friends, so you might not have seen it. We pick up the story on Day 7 of my trip, as I’d entered West Virginia.]

It struck me today that this drive across the country on US 60 is similar in many ways to my trip across the country last fall on US 50. Sure, US 50 is a northern route, and US 60 is a southern route, so they each have a distinct flavor. But there are many similarities between the roads. Both are mainly two-lane highways, and both cut through the middle of countless towns. The two roads even end up in the same state, not too far apart. And this morning I was feeling that this leg, through West Virginia, feels as remote and lonely as US 50 passing through Nevada. They call that stretch of US 50 “The loneliest road in America,” and for good reason. In a similar way, today’s stretch of US 60 had me driving for long stretches without seeing a town or even another car. It’s not a bad thing. In fact, it’s pretty therapeutic to be driving all alone along a windy road closed in on both sides with foliage. It’s calming and gives you time and room to meditate.

*The narrow ribbon of asphalt that is US 60, cutting through the briars and brambles of The Mountain State.*

As the afternoon wore on, the sky began to cloud over and the mountains began to take on a more melancholy feel. I was passing through the unincorporated village of Sam Black Church (named after a church building, which itself was named after an itinerant 19th-century minister). Here’s the church:

As I was passing through the deserted village and sensing the melancholy air, I came across this sign:

This was awesome! A “real” ghost story! (The full tale is explained here, in Wikipedia.)

Maybe it was just how my mood was affected by the weather and the long, solitary drive, but I felt compelled to find the grave of this Zona Heaster Shue. Surely she would be buried close by. After a quick consultation of Find-a-Grave on my iPhone, I found that she was buried in a churchyard just a few miles away. I set out for Soule Chapel Methodist Cemetery. The route was a narrow, twisting road over some hills, without a living soul anywhere in sight. Not so much as a grazing horse was out in the fields.

Finally, I arrived at the cemetery, which turned out to be a 150-year-old churchyard next to a white clapboard chapel. It was the perfect setting for a ghost sighting.

*“So sure of death the marbles rhyme, yet can’t help marking all the time/How no one dead will seem to come. What is it men are shrinking from?” -Robert Frost*

I walked among the graves and quickly found Zona’s headstone:

I have to admit that, while it was gratifying to have found the “ghost’s” grave, I was disappointed that the headstone looked so much fancier, perhaps newer, than the others in the cemetery. And it’s a little garish to identify her as the Greenbrier Ghost on her headstone. (The ghostly phantom you see in the headstone is my reflection, which just goes to show how shiny the headstone is.)

I should point out that this is Zona’s second headstone. She was first buried shortly after her death, but after her ghost supposedly appeared to her grieving mother, the authorities were compelled to exhume her body. Her corpse showed evidence (earlier overlooked) that she’d been murdered, and her husband was implicated and soon sent to prison. When she was re-buried, someone saw fit to identify her as the “Greenbrier Ghost” on her headstone. I assume that she’s OK with that, because even in death she doesn’t seem to be shy about communicating her complaints to others.

OK–It’s me again, on Halloween 2023. I hope you enjoyed all this month’s spooky offerings. Feel free to suggest your ideas for next October! Meanwhile, watch this space for another road trip soon.

sdb

cemeteries · Road trips

Mamma Mia!

October 7, 2023October 7, 2023 steveboilardLeave a comment

NOTE: As we take the weekend off from our Halloween tale, I figured I’d update my loyal readership on my latest travels (which is, after all, the putative purpose of Chasing Phantoms.)

Last week I took a motorcycle trip in a formerly fascist country that’s now run by a far-right government, where people treat traffic laws as mere suggestions, and where still-active volcanoes periodically spew lava. What could go wrong?

I speak, of course, of Italy. My wife and I decided to take a trip to Europe, and as part of our Preserve The Marriage Pact (whereby we try to keep at least two countries between us while on vacation), she went to Portugal and I got The Boot. I rented a Ducati motorcycle with the unsettling model name “Monster,” and started cruising down the Italian coast from Fiumicino to Salerno.

*To paraphrase Joel Coen: “We rent monsters and then we can’t control them.”*

Now, the Internet already has tons of reviews and photos of Italy’s coastline, so I’m not going to add to that saturated theme. But I would like to make a few observations about Italy’s drivers. You may have heard that they’re insane. That charge is patently unfair–to the mentally ill.

Let me paint a picture for you: Most of the roads I’ve been riding are two lanes (i.e., one in each direction). The lanes are narrow, but they’re sufficient to allow one car width each. So I can comfortably keep the Monster in the center of my lane. Periodically another motorcycle will pass me in my lane, which makes for a pretty tight squeeze, but you get used to it. However, cars do the same thing; they come up behind me and pass me in my lane.

The real challenge, though, comes from the oncoming vehicles. In my lane. Seriously. Sometimes oncoming drivers find that there’s no room left to pass someone in their own lane, so they shift over to the opposing traffic lane to pass. But they are totally unconcerned about the presence of other vehicles. As a result, many times I looked ahead to see an Alfa Romeo coming straight at me at 100 km/hour. I get the sense that whoever’s got the smaller vehicle is the one who’s expected to take evasive action, so, since I’m on a motorcycle, I move toward the right shoulder and let the guy pass me. Did I mention this all takes place in my lane?

The other notable thing is the speed of traffic. These coastal roads have posted speed limits of anything from 30 km/hr up to 80 km/hr. (The inland “Autostrada” goes up to 130 km/hr.) But on all these roads they might as well display meaningless symbols like the one Prince confusingly adopted, since the actual speed of traffic bears no relationship. Periodically you’ll see a sign that says “controllo della velocita con sistema Tutor,” which seems to mean that speed is monitored electronically. Either these are just empty warnings, or half of Italy’s GDP is based on traffic fines.

*Where’s the fire, Mac? Can’t you read the signs?*

And then there’s Naples (pop: 900,000). Naples makes the hazards of Italy’s coastal motorways seem like the Autopia at Disneyland. Neopolitans must dodge speeding, swerving cars and everyone tries to avoid the motorcycles that are parked helter-skelter…and that’s just the sidewalks I’m talking about!

A rough approximation of driving in Naples.

I can’t let this topic go without commenting on Italian parking. To be fair, these people are pros. They can parallel park a 9-foot minivan into a 9.5-foot space. And I have proof. Check out this video I took from my hotel room in Rome, figuring I’d need it for my insurance claim when the guy hit my motorcycle. Somehow there was no collision!

Anyway, it’s the smaller towns where one really experiences Italy’s charm. For me, the unsung gem is the town of Anzio (pop: 60,000), where I spent my first night. Anzio is an unpresupposing fishing port just a little south of Rome. Ancient ruins from the Roman empire (including the remains of Nero’s villa) still stand in the town, largely ignored by the residents. And, somewhat randomly, it’s a sister city to Brooklyn.

In January 1944 Anzio was the site of an Allied landing which slowly (over four long months) pushed the Germans out of their strongholds and eventually led to the liberation of Rome. This paved the way for D-Day and, ultimately, the defeat of Germany. Anzio seems to be quite proud of its accidental heritage, and the local museum is largely dedicated to the allied landing.

*Recovered WWII propellers outside the Anzio BeachHead Museum.*

*Recovered American flag. I tried to point out to the docent that the flag was hanging backwards, but he didn’t seem too concerned…or, more likely, he didn’t understand my rudimentary Italian.*

*Does the mannequin used to display this soldier’s uniform look a little, uh, feminine (compared to the photo of the soldier)?*

*And what’s up with this soldier’s headgear?*

Anzio also hosts an American cemetery with the remains of over 7,800 American war dead.

*A small portion of a very large sacrifice.*

For me, the best part of Anzio was the Villa Romano B&B. It’s a spacious and comfortable home off the beaten track. It’s also the family homestead of brothers Alessandro and Francesco, whose family has deep roots in the town. They were the perfect hosts, and shared good tips for visiting the area. Francesco tells me they’re planning to open an American-style barbecue restaurant and plant a vineyard on the property. If you ever find yourself in central Italy, you must visit.

Anyway, I promised not to try to replicate the much-better Italian travelogues that are readily available online. So I’ll say “Arrivederci.” I’ll be back Monday with the next installment of A Dying Wish.