When last we left our newly-weds, Husband Number Two and I had just hastily departed Mackinac Island in a huff and we were, once again, on our way on our great North American road adventure. All told it would be over three thousand miles. In a Corvette. Next destination: the Chateau Frontenac, Quebec City, Canada.
But now our carefully-laid travel plans and AAA trip tix were of no earthly use to us. Our truncated stay at the Grand Hotel had completely messed up our itinerary, and we had to head north with no reservations- and way ahead of schedule.
Without a real game plan we hopped into the ‘Vette and started to drive.
770 miles later H.N.T. was done driving. “I can’t go another mile,” he admitted. “I’m beat and I’ve got to stop. Check the guidebook and see where we can stay for the night. I think we’re coming to a town called Sudbury.”
It was dark now, and by the dim dashboard light I made out exactly one lodging entry for the town of Sudbury. It was all the way at the bottom of the guidebook page and it touted the charms of a motel about three miles up the road. Suddenly there it was- dead ahead.
Gratefully we pulled into the parking lot and looked around. It was seedy, but beggars can’t be choosers and it was for one night only. He checked us in and wearily we dragged in the mountain of his luggage into the crummy room. (The bellmen were either off for the night or non-existent.) We both fell face down into the bed’s lumpy mattress and went down for the count.
Early the next morning we were both more than ready to bid the dump- and Sudbury- adieu. We paid the bill, jumped into the ‘Vette and… nothing. He tried the engine again. Nothing. A third time. Rien. (This is a very French-speaking part of Canada.)
Mon Dieu! The car was now completely mort.
I don’t remember the ugly details. I do remember the tow truck coming and hauling the car- and my second husband- away. I was left back at the motel but I was okay with it. The weather wasn’t great but I looked forward to a day of nothing to do. I longed to take a hot bath, read and watch the tube in peace and quiet.
I had just settled in with a book when the phone rang. It was the manager. “I have to tell you that, due to some scheduled renovations, we are turning off the electricity from nine to five for the next three days. And there won’t be any hot water, either. No way to heat the boiler. Sorry.”
It was a long day. And when Hubby Numero Deux finally returned, he looked none too pleased himself.
“There isn’t a new Corvette part in all of Canada. They’re going to have to order it. And it’s going to take two more days to ship it here.”
I lost it. “Two more days in this dump?” I shrieked. “Do you have any idea what I did in the room today without electricity and hot water? Nothing!”
Our night wasn’t any better. The garage didn’t have a loaner for us and the dump didn’t have a restaurant. I think we walked across the way to some awful roadside cafe for our meals. This jerkwater little town was a nightmare and we couldn’t wait until the car was repaired and we were out of there.
For two more days H.N.T. hitched a ride to the garage early every morning to hang around with the mechanics, kibbitz, and not be in the same room as me. I have absolutely NO idea what I did to make the time pass. Read, I guess. With no electricity my options were limited.
After an eternity, the part came in, the car was fixed, we packed up and said goodbye and lotsa luck to that awful motel and that terrible one-horse town. We sped away, grateful to never have to see its one crummy street again.
As we drove a mile up the road I saw it. A great big, new, shining Holiday Inn. What the what? Surely my eyes were playing tricks on me. I grabbed the guide book. Nope, no Holiday Inn anywhere on the page.
But then I turned it.
There on the next page were listed hotels and motels of all descriptions and room rates. From pricey to Tobacco Road. (The place in which we had just sojourned.) Sudbury, it turns out, was a booming little metropolis with plenty to see and do. Lots of places to stay. Many good restaurants to eat at. Decent garages with loaners. The works. But in my exhaustion from the long car trip from Mackinac Island, I had neglected to just turn the guidebook page.
Question: What is the worst place in Canada to get stranded with a broken-down Corvette, an arrogant new husband and an incompetent navigator, Alex?
Well, Yukon King, this case is closed.
love it- Haven’t we all “been there” – and your vivid description is exactly what we’ve all felt but haven’t been able to put into words!
Thanks, Leslie, for letting me know that I am not alone. All these years later, I still can’t believe that I spent three whole days trapped in a dump because I didn’t have the good sense to turn a page. The trip-and the marriage-was jinxed from the start!
As Bob Hope said, “thanks for the memories.” If you had stayed in that Holiday Inn, it would have become another non- memorable vacation. Speaking of Sudbury, try Sudbury, MA. My sister lives there. Quaint little New England town est. in 1639. Stay at the Wayside Inn (oldest inn in the U.S.). About 20 miles west of Boston.
So true, Jimmy. But it was a repressed memory until Alex Trebek mentioned that it was his home town. Then the whole fiasco came roaring back.
Your sister’s town sounds adorable and historic. Does she take lodgers?
Thanks, Jimmy.
This reminds me of the Saturday morning serials on television in the late 50’s.
When’s the next episode?