Days 15 – 16

This morning began at the lovely Bodie Hotel in Bridgeport, California.  Of course I am being facetious when I say “lovely.” I guess if you were the type of person who found the Bodie to be lovely you would also be the kind of person who would find Purgatory a great place to vacation. I could go on and on, suffice to say I would rather forget about the place.



1949 Packard camping trailer? Goldfield, Nevada

After leaving Bridgeport we headed south and made our way back into Nevada. Traveling along the lonely desert highways we made our way through the scattered old mining towns that dot the landscape in this part of the country. These are hardscrabble towns where the people endured the heat and a most foreboding landscape in order to make a meager living in the mines. Back in the days of yore a man in old mining camps such as Tonopah and Goldfield could work up mighty thirst.  But these old miners could drink with a clear conscience as they could use their beer bottles to achieve the American dream – building their own home. Beer bottle houses are found in a number of towns in west-central Nevada. Goldfield seems to have the most. Rock was hard to quarry and local lumber was non-existent. Beer bottles, on the other hand, were everywhere. While Goldfield seemed to have the highest number of bottle houses, none of them compare to the greatest bottle house located in the old ghost town of Rhyolite. Built in 1905 by a saloon keeper named Tom Kelly, it is unique due to the fact that the bottles were not covered with stucco. I first heard about the bottle house in Rhyolite when I watched an old Charles Kuralt On The Road segment when he visited the house in the early 1970s. When he visited the town was populated by Rhoylite’s last resident, an old song-and-dance man and former snake oil salesman named Tommy Thompson. Tommy Thompson came to Rhyolite in 1905 and was still there in the early 1970s filling the ruins of the town with his personality. Interestingly enough Rhoylite was founded by Charles Schwab who was baptized in Williamsburg in 1862 (fifth baptism according to our parish records).  In the segment Tommy Thompson plays the accordion and speaks about the early days of this forlorn gold camp.

 

Having seen the Kuralt segment I had high hopes for Rhyolite. Some of them were fulfilled, others were not. Gladly the house has been restored (thankfully) and a fence was erected around the property. The house has survived heat, wind (the wind howls through the mountains that surround the ghost town), and atomic blasts (it is only about 50 miles from a nuclear testing area), the house survives as a testimony to good construction and quenched thirsts.



 

 

After leaving Rholyte were not far from the fabled Area 51. Perhaps visitors from other planets stop here to gas up and get a fountain drink.

Finally we made our way to fabulous Las Vegas. There are many things I find troubling about Vegas; from my vantage point at the buffet I think one could see all 7 of the deadly sins, gluttony being foremost. One man cut in front of at the buffet on his scooter with a plate so full (a half eaten corndog on top) that he had no room for the egg rolls he had picked up so he placed them in the pocket of his jacket. While the buffet at the Rio hotel was great, it reminded about excess and need.

 

After supper I traveled to the famed Gold and Silver Pawn Shop, home of the television show Pawn Stars. Sadly Chumley has not there. The store is not as big as you would think, but it was worth the visit.

 

An older Rich Little and Fr. Aron

After the pawn shop Fr. Doug got two rooms at the Rio hotel. I originally wanted to just stay up all night and go to the airport early in the morning. Fr. Doug wanted to rest (rest is overrated) and got two rooms for $39.00 each. For the price you could not get a better deal. After a brief rest we headed to the Las Vegas Hotel to see Rich Little. Now to people of a certain age the name Rich Little is very familiar. Others may ask, “Rich Little, is he still alive?” Still others ask, “who is Rich Little.” Rich Little was the preeminent American mimic in the 1960s and 1970s. He is a regular on the old Dean Martin Celebrity Roasts. He and Don Rickles are basically the last two comedians  of that generation who are still performing. For the show Rich narrates Jimmy Stewart’s life as Jimmy Stewart (one of his famous impersonations) and does over thirty other impressions of people talking about Jimmy Stewart. If you are an old soul like me, or if you are just plain old, you would love this show. These old stars live on in Rich Little, a man who actually knew all of them. A cavalcade of old time characters came to life. The best impressions  in my opinion were Walter Brennan, Paul Lynde, Foster Brooks, and Johnny Carson. He even did Karnack the Magnificent. When he was impersonating Don Rickles he ripped on Fr. Doug (we were in the front row) and told him that he hoped that when he jumped on his bicycle the seat would be missing. In the end I shook his hand and second only to seeing the Pope it was my second best encounter with greatness.

After an early start, 4:30 AM, we boarded our plane and after two stops landed in Pittsburgh. Centuries ago Marco Polo once reported “I have not told half of what I saw.” I concur. Thanks for reading.

 

Day 14:



Notre Dame des Victoires Church

Early this morning we bid farewell to my sister Anne and headed into San Francisco for Mass. I read that the church of Notre Dame des Victoires, located near Chinatown, offered Gregorian Chant at their 7:30 AM Mass; no further searching needed. As a lover of all things Latin I was excited. Moreover the church is one of the few remaining authentic French national parishes in the country. All of the priests assigned to the parish (members of the Marist order) are French, or are of French derivation. The have a weekly French Mass for the la francophonie people who live in the Bay Area.  Since Altoona is not blessed with a French ethnic parish I jumped at the opportunity.

Mass is Mass, no matter where you go. Irrespective of where I went to Mass be it San Francisco, Ouray, Wilber, Mundelein, Ada, or wherever else, when we attend Mass during the trip it always felt like home. That being said I was disappointed when I found out the schola was off this weekend. Additionally when the priest read two (yes, two) canned homilies back-to-back it served as a good reminder to me to always prepare well for this vital task.

We departed Frisco and drove east (for once) heading for Yosemite National Park which is about 4 hours away from the Golden City. Not much happened on the way; I had a Twix bar as a pre-breakfast repast (the blog has hit new lows), and we got gas. A few hours later we stopped in Oakdale, California for a real breakfast. Oakdale is the "Cowboy Capital of the World." Not exactly sure how it was given this moniker. Truth is all through our travels we ventured through many "capitals," in fact it would blow your mind to realize just how many "capitals" are in our one nation. Of the cities we visited or passed through in California alone we saw many places where something is at the very top of its game; Sacramento is the Almond Capital of the World, Lodi is the Zinfandel Capital of the World, Stockton is the Asparagus Capital of the World. While California boasts many "capitals" perhaps the region that seems to be the "Capital of the world, Capital of the World," is the Midwest. We passed through Wilber, Nebraska - "Czech Capital of the United States" (it was too bold to say Czech Capital of the World in light of the existence of an actual Czech Republic), Lincoln, Nebraska - "Steak Capital of the World" (never mind Argentina), Elk Horn, Iowa - "Danish Capital of Iowa" (though the good Danes of Elk Horn seem to think they may be the Copenhagen of America, but are far too humble to make the claim), and the list goes on. I digress...

Back to Oakdale. We stopped at a great diner/family restaurant where I had a chili cheeseburger for breakfast. After breakfast Fr. Doug gave me Last Rites (please, it wasn't that bad). About an hour or so later we made our way into Yosemite National Park. For an admission fee of $20.00 you can enjoy the park. Yosemite is beautiful and as a National Park it has a great history which I won't ramble on about right now. However I do not think it is worth the trip if you are from Pennsylvania (unless you are already here). Think Potter County with large sequoias, Manhattan traffic, bigger mountians, no dive bars and no deer camps. You would be better off driving to Germania, Gennesee, Galeton, or Gold on a Sunday afternoon; it is free (save fuel costs) and you can stop at the Wharton Hotel and play the ring game.

Yosemite; The Sinnemahoning of the Sierra Nevadas

 

Trying to figure a way to put this in my checked luggage

 

 

The striking Wawona Hotel in Yosemite. Spend a day here and you will need a loan. Spend a week here and you will have to sell one of your kids.

 



After a few hours at Yosemite we headed out of the park for Bodie, California. Along the way we saw some beautiful mountain lakes, including one with a fair number of swimmers. I wanted to stop but the thought swimming in the robust waters of Yosemite didn't seem to offer much appeal to Fr. Doug. We also saw Mono Lake (use swimming there when you are asked how you got the disease), which didn't much appeal to my aesthetic senses. I think (I also think I may be wrong) it was Thoreau who once said that lakes are the "thumbprint of God." Mono Lake reminded me more of a carbuncle.

 

Bodie, California is a well-preserved Ghost town that is now part of the state park system. It was last inhabited in the early 1960s when the last tenant was evicted upon Bodie becoming a park. With a population of over 10,000 in the days of yore, it continued to dwindle for many years. 12 miles back on a dirt road (paved at first) it has so many tourists it looses some of its ghost town appeal. They lock the gate promptly at 6:00 PM, so be there as early as possible.



Bodie Odd Fellows hall (right) next to a bar (left)

 

After leaving Bodie we headed for nearby Bridgeport. Tonight I made reservations for the Bodie Hotel (supposedly moved here from Bodie), and after experiencing the place  feel inspired to write some sort of jeremiad about the joint. First of all I think we may be the only guests in the hotel. Secondly when we arrived the clerk who came out with his shirt unbuttoned, had no record of my reservation. He called the owner on his cell phone who then yelled at him so he put the phone down while she continued to talk/yell. At that point I didn't feel much like lodging here for the evening and told him that I think we are going to "head down the road closer to our final destination." He called the owner back and put me on the phone to negotiate. She said she had my room reserved and still had my credit card info (I had to provide this in order to make the reservation). In the end she told me regardless if I stayed or not she was going to charge me for the night. That determined where we staying for the night. The hotel is decorated in a style I call, "faux 1970s country antiquish," Fr. Doug called it "neo-shyster." There is no cable, no screens in the window, and the steps feel like they are going to give way. I should not complain; I am happy to have a roof over my head. However it is not worth $106 a night (I am no Rockefeller - this is a pricey place).

 

Tonight we packed for the trip home. It was like putting a flea market in a Ziploc bag. When I cleaned out the car I found the rental agreement from Hertz. It reminded me of the I first found the rental paperwork when it was above the sun vizor last week. When I pulled the vizor down the papers fell on me and spilled onto the floor. I said, "Hey, nice job Ondeck, geeze." Fr. Doug said, "yeah, I planned all this, I put it up there and planned for it to fall on you, thinking to myself,  now we play the waiting game." Tomorrow I had originally planned another ghost town (with a troublesome history) but Fr. Doug said he will loose what hair he has left if we hit another abandoned city. Still there is one more tomorrow then the wrap up.

 

A simplified life is one step closer to perfection. Time to recommit to that lofty goal.

 

 

 

 





Day 13:

 

 

Day 13th began with my sister taking Fr. Doug and I on a walk. It was a novelty.  Along the way we saw some interesting architecture and even more interesting people.

 



A caravan headed through town



 

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
After a light breakfast we headed into the San Francisco. Fr. Doug is sick of "Fr. Aron's Prison Talk" so we skipped the Alcatraz tour. When we got into the city our first stop was to visit the ruins of the Sutro Baths which are located right along the Pacific Ocean. First opened in 1896, the Sutro Baths were world's largest indoor swimming complex, housing a several pools and toboggan slides. While the baths are a thing of the past today you can enjoy the ruins which include a former pool that is basically filled with sea gull droppings.

 

 

While at the Sutro Baths we observed a group of models involved in a photo shoot. Right around the same time we noticed a man with a bicycle coming up from the restricted area. The man climbed the wall where the models were posing and threw breadcrumbs all around the area summoning every sea gull between San Francisco and Tokyo. The models were about to be micturated upon by the gulls when one of them, as shown below, yelled at the man, who then left and climbed a large rock in the sea.

Man on bicycle invites the birds to dive bomb the models
 



 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
After visiting the Sutro Bath remains we went a short distance down the road to the beach. San Francisco's beaches are cold and as a result do not attract a typical beach crowd. While I visited my sister last year, due to our itinerary and the fog I never actually saw the Pacific Ocean. Today I not only saw the ocean, but even waded into the waters which remind of the Soviet beach in Murmansk.
 
 
 
 

 

The robust waters of Kamchatka

 

After our brief visit to the beach we made our way to the "Little Saigon" section of the city. We stopped at a Vietnamese sandwich shop where I had a banh mi chu lua, aka the fancy pork sandwich. The sandwich includes pork, cilantro, sauce, carrots, and hot peppers. I had a drink called "Grass Jelly Drink," which reminded me that I should have had a Pepsi instead.

 



 
 
 
 
 

"This way to the fancy pork sandwiches"

 

Where Fancy Pork Sandwiches are born



 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
 
After lunch we paid a visit to the city's St. Ignatius Church. There was a wedding going on when we arrived. While they had a Rolls Royce parked out front I hope that somehow the reception was at a fire hall.
 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
After leaving St. Ignatius we stopped at the famed Mission Dolores, the old Franciscan mission in town.
 

 

Following a trip back to the house we returned to the city and visited Japantown. Center of the Japanese population of the Bay Area we ate at a restaurant that served food in the shabu shabu style. It took me the better part of an hour to figure out the concept. Basically you take thinly sliced meat and vegetables, swish them around in a hot pot of broth on your table, pull it out (using chopsticks), dip it in some sort of sauce, and eat. I worked up a sweat. Fr. Doug felt he should get some part of the tip because he had to cook the meat himself.

 



Cooking my own food

 

Finally we took a walk around Chinatown (we had to complete the trip between Little Saigon, Japantown, and Chinatown).

 

 

 

 



 
 
 
 

Day 12:

Well much to my disappointment the ghost who haunts the Silver Queen Hotel didn't show. I was really hoping to lodge my complaint about the lack of fans to the ghoul, but alas I was stood up by the phantom (or phantomette) who works the hotel.

St. Mary of the Mountains

Our first stop this morning was to St. Mary of the Mountains parish in Virginia City. Whilst there I learned that the parish was built in the heyday of Virginia City under the guidance of Fr. Patrick Manogue. Born in County Kilkenny in 1831 he came to the United States and entered the seminary in Chicago. While there he became ill and had to leave the seminary. After recovering he needed to help his family with their finical troubles so he headed west with his brothers to mine gold. A true "miner '49er" he eventually worked hard enough to become part owner of a mine. While he was a miner he continued to informally keep up with his studies. After prospecting for four years, and acquiring a small fortune, he approached the archbishop of San Francisco about reentering the seminary. He completed his studies in France, paying his own way, and was ordained in 1861.

Fr. Manogue directed the construction of the church and was a dedicated pastor before being named coadjutor bishop in 1880 of the (now suppressed) Diocese of Grass Valley, California. Upon the suppression of the Grass Valley diocese he became the bishop of Sacramento until his death in 1895. The parish in Virginia City is a landmark that reflects his good taste and love for significant architecture which began while he completed his studies in Europe. The miners helped to build the structure; in order to finance the project he placed jars in every saloon in Virginia City. A little dose of Catholic guilt worked wonders.

Following the same pattern as the town, the parish boomed then declined rather quickly. Mission parishes that were very close to Virginia City were suppressed and St. Mary's limped along. In the late 1950s a group of religious order priests were assigned to staff the parish. Eventually these religious, referred to by the locals as the "mad monks," gutted the church. The high altar and communion rail were removed, the paintings taken out, and most of the ornamentation jettisoned. When these things ended up in the garbage dump the locals collected just about everything. Most of the items ended up in private homes and in museums that line the streets of the town that was quickly becoming a tourist attraction. Knowing the sacred value of these items and remembering that these artifacts didn't belong in a secular museum the people of this small parish petitioned the bishop to restore the parish. The good bishop gave permission and the Church was restored its original splendor.

Today, in addition to the tourists who come to Virgina City the parish has about 70 families. Interestingly the parish organist is also the organist at the Episcopal church in town, and is a Jewish Rabbi (he is free on Sundays). The parish maintains a nice museum in the church basement which displays many artifacts from the parish and Nevada Catholic history.

After leaving Virginia City we headed for California. Along the way we drove around the southern half of Lake Tahoe. Fr. Doug said that to his recollection the Ponderosa bordered Lake Tahoe (think of the flaming map), and since this area reminded him of the set from Bonanza he would call off his one man war against  Hoss, Little Joe, Hop Sing, and NBC.  Driving through the bleak Nevada countryside I once proposed a new motto for the state, namely: Nevada, when does it get better? When you reach Lake Tahoe you find out.


Lake Tahoe, Raystown of the West

Making our way into the Golden State we passed through the beauties of rural California. Along the way we stopped in the other Latrobe. Since I was a small boy I always knew there was a Latrobe, California (I found out about alternative Latrobe in and around the 2nd grade). As the consummate tour guide I told just about everybody I knew that there was another place privileged to bear the name of my beloved hometown (there is also a Latrobe in New Zealand). Since I was a child I wanted to go to the only other place that I could properly call home. Today my dream came true.



The other Latrobe is exceptionally small and very rural. It has a school, a fire department, and not much else. I visited the men at the fire hall and we had a great conversation. The chief told me that he always wanted to visit the Pennsylvania Latrobe and gave me two t-shirts to take back. Another fireman told me that he was once fighting a fire in Sacramento and one of the fireman from Sacramento remarked, "whoa, you came from Pennsylvania." He said that until that time he never heard of Pennsylvania Latrobe.



The people of the other Latrobe were interested to know that true Pennsylvania Latrobeans call our town "Lay-trobe." "Lay-trobe, huh?" one firefighter said, "I think I am going to tell people I am from lay-trobe when they ask where I am from." They asked if our towns were named for the same person; I told them that our Latrobe was named for the son of their Latrobe (Latrobe, PA is named for Benjamin Henry Latrobe, Jr. son of the famed architect Benjamin Henry Latrobe for whom Latrobe, CA is named). The people of the other Latrobe were friendly and all around good guys. Perhaps they are just good people or maybe, so I hope, they share a common bond that unites all Latrobeans.



Fr. Doug began to wear thin during my time in the other Latrobe. As a non-Latrobean he could not comprehend the profound bond that Latrobeans share.

Latrobe and Latrobe, nexus of the universe

 

 

After leaving Latrobe, CA we had lunch in nearby Sutter's Creek. The town was fair; too trendy and touristy for my taste. We did however take a picture of the old general store in town. The store is now a museum; back home such places are nothing out of the ordinary.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We left Sutter's Creek and headed for San Francisco. For the first time I saw some of the beautiful vineyards and orchards that are part of the fabric of California. Finally we arrived in Berkley (my sister's actual home) and took a breath - we were here. Tonight we had supper at a Puerto Rican restaurant in San Rafael with my sister and her boyfriend Dan.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fr. Aron with nephew Apollo on his shoulder

 

 



Day 11:

Breakfast of Champions

 

The Nevada Hotel in Ely is a place of extremes. On the one hand the rooms are cheap, clean, and comfortable. On the other hand the casino has a very depressed feel about it, the water temperature fluctuates wildly (there were three signs in the bathroom warning the unsuspecting patron - it is either scalding hot or freezing cold, - certainly never lukewarm), and the fire alarm goes off when you take a hot shower (as it did for me this morning).  The hotel has a restaurant (a sandwich costs nearly the same price as the prime rib) where I opted for a large taco salad for breakfast.


 

After leaving the hotel we headed back onto US 50, the loneliest highway in America.  After hours of driving we passed through only two towns, Eureka and Austin. We stopped at the International Hotel (I guess clients come from all over the globe) where we had a pop and talked with the young woman who was working in the dining room. It was a bizarre place where everyone, save the server, seemed withdrawn and burned from the blazing wrath inflicted by the unforgiving desert sun. I asked the server where children from the town went to school as Austin was literally hours from any other town. She said Austin had a school, and while she wasn’t sure about the current enrollment when she graduated two years ago there were 24 students K-12.

US 50 - The Antisocial Highway

 

 

 
 We didn’t linger in Austin and headed back down US 50 toward Fallon, Nevada. A few miles before Fallon we spotted a massive sand dune in the distance. We drove back the road to the dune and found a good number of people driving dune buggies on the dunes. The sand was so thick on the road we nearly got stuck. Many people were also camped at the base of the large mound of sand. While the sand was nice, much like the sandbox variety, I am not sure how anyone would find sitting around in a camping trailer in the desert sun to be a relaxing getaway. Then again most people would probably not drive across the country to meet a 115 year old woman on their vacation.  Below is a picture of a local Berber man who is largely insane from the desert heat.

 

 

 

 

 

After passing through Fallon, the so called “Oasis of Nevada,” we headed for Virginia City. Virginia City is of course where the 1960s television show Bonanza was set. The town boomed in the days of silver and gold. It possesses many fine buildings which to a large degree reflect the golden age of Virginia City. That being said the place is super touristy. Sure it has boardwalks and the buildings display a vintage motif, but the town is also full of junk shops - touristy stores trying to sell you the next doodad or knickknack you do not need. There are also many saloons on the main drag which attempt to capture a bygone era. Interestingly enough the town slows down about 6:00 PM and so if you want to come to take in the museums and trinket shops you better get here early.  Fr. Doug is not a fan of Virginia City. He has reported that he feels personally hurt by the fact that the lush Ponderosa depicted on Bonanza is really a howling wasteland. Moreover I think he fails to see why Mr. Cartwright, Hoss, Adam, and Little Joe spent their lives defending a city that is a tourist trap. I am rather detached I was always a bigger fan of Gunsmoke and have long felt the plots of Bonanza are too fanciful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We are staying at the Silver Queen Hotel. An authentic hotel from the heyday of the Comstock Lode (i.e. what put Virginia City on the map), today it is too pricey for what you get (they don’t offer two-bed rooms so we had to get two rooms at a cost of $60.00 each). The place is supposedly haunted; if the ghost shows up I am telling her to haunt the owner until box fans are put into the rooms. For supper tonight we ate at a decent Mexican restaurant located just outside of town. It is hard to find a place to eat in Virginia City; everything was closed by 7:00 PM except for the Mexican place and a Chinese place which had no customers and was located inside of a brothel museum. We opted for Mexican.  The restaurant had three large windows in the front that were open which not only brought in a pleasant breeze but also gave a great view of the mountains.  Tomorrow we saddle up and head for Frisco.

 


1955 Oldsmobile, just like Hoss drove to the prom