As a self-proclaimed beach bum and feral
Parrothead, it seems an odd choice that I would drive 10 hours in
the opposite direction of the ocean for a long weekend get-away. Just
2 hours more and I could have been on the white sand beach of Destin.
An additional 10 hours and 43 minutes gets me all the way down A1A to
the motherland of Key West.
It pretty much falls down to number of
days available- 3- and number of hours my well padded butt can handle
an albeit, comfy, car seat- also 3. When you divide the number of
driving hours by this pivotal number of butt hours, figuring a snack
stop variable of 4...well...a Google maps ten hour drive is the
limit.
Which is why I found myself desperately
seeking A1A at a decidedly northern latitude.
The catalyst for this trip was a Scott
Kirby concert. I was introduced to Mr. Kirby's music via satellite
radio. His warm, pleasant vocals in songs about boats (Little Blue
Boat) and beaches (A Night on the Beach) and general escaping (Sol
Searching) as well as his hauntingly truthful stories of
relationships (If She Tells You She's Batshit Crazy You Better
Believe Her) bring to mind the warm ocean breezes of that mythical
land known as Margaritaville.
His concert in London Ontario fell on
this particular weekend and as we had never been to Canada it seemed
like a good idea.
So I found myself driving north on
highways numbered up to 93x higher than A1A towards a city named for
a much larger city on a continent thousands of miles away.
London, Ontario is beautiful and was
modeled after London England. As demonstrated by our hotel:
Turrets. All buildings should have turrets. |
And this statue of a guy who looks like
the hunter from Jumanji:
This was a soldier's memorial so I don't mean to be disrespectful. |
But seriously. He's waiting to catch Robin Williams before those rhinos stampede from the fireplace. |
And these:
I am not sure if there are
black squirrels in England but I am sure this guy's name is Nigel.
|
I would have also taken a photo of a
cool tank in Victoria Park but there was a precocious seven year old
on top of it who informed us that it was in fact his tank as, and I
quote, 'I farted on it.' I am not sure what country's tradition
this is but wouldn't it be wonderful if all nation's disputes could
be solved this way?
Our concert venue was the London MusicClub, essentially a space in the basement of a lovely Victorian
mansion. I have to admit, after being surrounded by all this
English-ness, I was sort of hoping for some East Enders in leather
jackets and tight, straight-legged dungarees. Sort of a Sid Vicious
without the heroin.
Instead, we were greeted by the LondonParrothead Club whose members had considerably fewer piercings than Sid Vicious yet were equally delighted that we had actually
driven all the way from St. Louis, Missouri. (I didn't try to explain
that we were actually from the Illinois coast. And I am only assuming Sid would by delighted by our trip, although I hear he was a huge fan of road trips.)
It was a fabulous
afternoon of Hawaiian Shirts, tiki heads and beach music. It was even
the hottest, most humid day of the summer.
Except for the lack of palm trees we
could have been in Key West. Which is not what I expected while
visiting a city in a foreign country, named for a bigger city in a
different foreign country. In fact, the afternoon felt nearly
identical to the first time I saw Scott Kirby play, which was in a
tiki-bar styled venue in the back room of a pub type restaurant on
the Coast of Illinois.
And then one of the concert-goers did
something which to me is existentially Canadian. He asked Mr. Kirby
to sign a CD with 'A1-eh?'
Oh...Canada.
And as we walked back to the hotel we
were caught in a perfect London rain.
Come back on Monday for the final installment of Coast of Illinois Goes International ~Once Again I Find Myself at a Border
And if you missed part one...Click HERE
And if you missed part one...Click HERE
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