The Answer is Sudbury. Part I

Happy Easter, everyone.  It’s always a welcome reminder that Spring is finally here.  I hope this season is a lovely one for you all.  Now back to our show…

I was watching Jeopardy recently when I happened to hear Alex Trebek mention that he is from Sudbury, Ontario. That startled me- because I’ve actually been there.  And I haven’t thought about it in forty-two years.

The summer I saw Sudbury I was on a road trip in a Corvette Stingray.  Husband Number Two had planned the itinerary: Baltimore to Chicago.  Chicago to Eagle River, Wisconsin.  Eagle River to Mackinac Island, Michigan.  Mackinac Island to the Chateau Frontenac, Quebec, Canada.  And then back to Baltimore.

All told 3183 miles- and that didn’t include the vitally-important side trips to Flukey’s and Gino’s East.  (My all-time favorite hot dog- until they moved across Western Avenue.  It was never the same after that. Don’t ask me why.  And in those days, I would alternate favorite pizza joints- Gino’s East or Due’s.  I deeply missed my native Chicago cuisine.  Baltimore’s culinary expertise was strictly restricted to crabs.)

This entire trip was to be undertaken in a Corvette, remember?  And because H.N.T. was quite the clothes horse, we were taking a whole lot of luggage on this safari.  But I was a newly-wed, and with one marital flop already under my belt, I had incentive to put on my game face and go along for the ride.

Like I said, our first stop was my old home town- Chicago.  This was a necessity because I missed my family, friends, and food. (Not necessarily in that order.  See above.)  Then it was on to Eagle River to visit my brother at Camp Ojibwa.

After a day of Catfish Lake fun, we said good bye to Kenny and headed to Michigan.  After the cramped confines of the ‘Vette, I was really looking forward to our home away from home- the storied, expensive Grand Hotel on Mackinac Island.  We had heard so much about it, and I couldn’t wait to relax in a sumptuous room, work on my tan at the great swimming pool, and dine in its four star restaurant.

The problems started at the famous veranda.

It was a scene straight out of Some Like it Hot- the one in which Joe E. Brown and the rest of the rich geezers all rocked in unison and waited for the next bevy of young beauties to show up.  At twenty-one and twenty-nine, we didn’t want to hang out at the old folks’ home.  And that’s exactly what this place looked like- before we even walked in.

Our front desk experience was right out of Lost in America.  The reservations clerk clearly didn’t like us from the get-go.  We weren’t his usual blue-haired, frost-topped, wide load, WASPY guest demographic.  And Lord Baltimore was a spoiled prima donna-  a brat who had been born with a silver spoon in his Maryland mouth.

He was used to only the best, and was more than willing to pay for what he demanded in good service and nice accommodations.  Instantly there was tension between the high-handed front desk guy and my then-husband.  I could tell right away that this was going to get ugly.

But not as ugly as the room the sullen bellhop showed us to.  The reservations clerk had gotten his revenge on my entitled spouse.  It was a broom closet.  A whisk broom, that is.  Faster than you could say “Punked,” Husband Number Two reached for the phone.  And believe me, that desk clerk was all ready for him.

“No, sir, we do not have any other rooms.  The hotel is completely sold out.  As it is every week in high season.  I am terribly sorry.  I’d be more than happy to see if there are any rooms available anywhere else on the island for you.”

I shook my head “no.”  I couldn’t face another move.  He had us.

“Well, at least we can get out of this foot locker and go enjoy a great dinner.  I hear the dining room is famous.  Let’s grab some dinner,” H.N.T. suggested.

But as we strolled out of the room in search of the dining room, we were stopped by an anxious-looking bell hop.  “Sorry, sir.  But you can’t be seen like that,” he said worriedly.

“Like what?” said my guy.  (He looked perfectly fine.  Not wearing shorts or a t-shirt or a trucker’s cap or anything.  In fact, he looked like a GQ ad.  He was very particular about his clothing.  He was the first man I knew to buy ties from a guy who used to be named Ralph Lifshitz in New York.  And then Baltimore Guy became one of his best customers after he followed him to Britches in Georgetown.)

“There is a dress code, sir.  After 6:30, gentlemen are required to wear a coat and tie in all areas of the hotel.”  (Author’s note:  I checked their website.  A policy still in force in 2013.)

“What?!  I wear a suit every day.  This is my summer vacation.  Do you mean to tell me that I can’t even walk around the hotel unless I am wearing a jacket and tie?”

That’s exactly what he meant, and so it was back to the broom closet and dinner in the room.  When the room service waiter wheeled in the trolley, we couldn’t shut the door.  Does that give you an idea of the space? The ‘Vette was bigger.

At least we had the pool the next day to look forward to.

Wrong again.

First there were the pool rules.  And I don’t mean the usual ones against running or splashing or bringing glass anywhere.  Guests were alloted two mingy towels.  And these weren’t beach towels. They looked exactly like the small, stiff, dingy old ones that we had just used in our room.  No matter how he beseeched, bribed or threatened the kid running the pool deck, my then husband could not liberate so much as one extra towel.  You had to make a choice.  Did you want to lay on your towels or use them to dry off?  Up to you.

But H.N.T. didn’t have to suffer the strict towel quota for very long.  After one brief dip, he was banished from the pool completely.  It seems that in his fashion-forward way, he had chosen to swim in blue jean cut-offs.  (Remember when that was considered cool instead of swim trunks?)  That was in violation of the swimming pool dress code and he was promptly ordered out until such time as he could don something seemly.

That tore it.

“That tears it!” he fumed.  “I am not going to be bossed around by resort Nazis when I am spending a ton of dough in this joint.  World’s longest porch? (The Grand’s claim to fame.)  Who cares?  Full of old farts.  And this whole island smells of horseshit and fudge.  Let’s go.  We’re leaving.”

I honestly couldn’t blame him.  And so we found ourselves back in the ‘Vette and headed North.

Mush, you huskies!  On Yukon King!  Tune in Thursday for the exciting finale of our Northern adventure.