St. Regis, Montana

I’ve been listening to Country Music for weeks out here on the road, from the rest rooms of an Indiana rest stop to a Missoula 7-Eleven. It seems to be the perfect soundtrack to these interstates I’m travelling while crossing America. And here it is again. Travis Tritt is singing about a “Modern Day Bonnie & Clyde” on the sound system of this so-called travel center. I’m waiting for the Greyhound to get serviced, drinking a god-awful coffee in a styrofoam cup from the convenience store. It’s damn cold outside as I sit in front of the closed Gift Shop. They boast in their window that they have the largest number of gifts and souvenirs from Montana as well as a live trout aquarium, both of which don’t raise my attention even if the shop was open. I look around and think to that if this were my first introduction to the state of Montana I would be highly disappointed.

It’s close to midnight. Across the road there’s a big gravel parking lot where a few semi-trucks are parked, their drivers clearly getting ready for sleep inside the cabs. They move in their tiny driving/work/living spaces with such ease that I’m sure they’ve been doing this all of their adult lives. The dim lights of the parking lot almost conceal a couple of RVs to the back. An intermittent light flashes from inside both of them which makes me believe they are watching TV from their portable devices. I hear a commotion and look in the direction of the Restaurant to see two fairly young waitresses and two middle aged waiters leaving and locking the doors behind them. It was my damn luck that my bus arrived here just after 11 p.m. when the restaurant was closing and I had to content myself with a day old rancid Danish and this excuse for coffee from the open all night convenience store. The waiters and waitresses keep chattering between them in front of the saloon next to the restaurant. The two waitresses then go inside the saloon and the two waiters head down to the casino next door.

The rest of my Greyhound companions start leaving the convenience store with brown paper bags under their arms. The type of road food that after so long on the road I can surely live without. I look at what’s left of my coffee and throw it away although it’s still half full and head to the side of the road to look for any signs of the Greyhound. I overhear someone say that it usually takes two hours for the bus to get serviced here, so it’s probably another hour of waiting. With that I head to the saloon where I saw those two waitresses go a few minutes ago.

The saloon is empty except for the restaurant waitresses and the bartender who’s talking to them. I go in and Clint Black is singing about “Killin’ Time” on the jukebox. I sit at the counter and the waitresses indicate to the bartender that there’s a costumer. I order a draft beer from a local brewery he recommends and he asks where I’m heading. I say I’m just crossing the country on a 30-day Greyhound pass without any specific destination. He says that he did the same thing years ago and that it was one of his most liberating experiences. Next up he’s planning a trip next summer on his motorcycle from up here in Montana to the Southwest and the Deep South. One of the waitresses comes to the counter and asks for two more Gimlet cocktails. Caroline and she’s in her early thirties. Giddy and talkative to the bartender and while waiting for the cocktails, she sits next to me and says, “I couldn’t help but hear you talking to Jim and I’d love to do what you’re doing someday. Just take off for thirty days on the road, with no compromises, nothing to tie me down, to meet interesting people and see America the way you’re seeing it. I’ve been dreaming about it for the past four or five years.” I say this is not my first such trip, that I just love to be out there on the road, it’s the best feeling when your mind is free, and you become someone else entirely, different from the one that society imposes on you. I add that this won’t probably be my last time either. That I need to get away every once in a while, to take stock of who I really am and the road is the best place for that. She’s been listening attentively and in the meantime her friend, Julia, comes back from the restroom and joins us at the counter. She’s also in her early thirties but a little less enthusiastic and interested in the conversation. Caroline is from near Coeur D’Alene, Idaho but she’s been living here since she can remember when her parents found jobs in the vicinity. Julia is from nearby Thompson Falls and could only find a job out here after dropping out of college. They seem to be the opposite of each other. Caroline the optimist who prides herself on getting asked out nearly every day on the restaurant and whose perfect slim body almost can’t be contained by her tight uniform. Julia whose shy ways probably didn’t get her that many prospects even in her twenties. Caroline seems to be only passing through while Julia seems to be reconciled to the fact that she’s probably gonna be stuck in here waitressing for a long time. I find myself thinking that Julia attracts me the most. There’s something about her ways that tells me that she has a great deal of love to give to the right person who can get through her shyness and barrier of silence. The bartender interrupts my thoughts and serves them the Gimlets and noticing I’m about finished with my beer asks if I’m having another one and I say I’m afraid I have to get back outside so I won’t miss my bus. “One for the road then” the bartender says to me. I say I’m on the end of my trip this time and have only 7 more days on the pass and I’m saving my money for the 3-day trip back to the east coast. Caroline signals to Jim that she will take care of my tab and he pours me another beer. I thank Caroline for the beer and we all toast to the open road, to the freedom it gives. I finish my beer and thank them. George Strait’s “Amarillo By Morning” starts playing on the jukebox as I leave the saloon singing about “Everything that I’ve got is just what I’ve got on” as  Caroline sings along in unison. I wave goodbye at Caroline, Julia and Jim and they wave back at me wishing me a good trip back home. Caroline calls out to me and says “Hope to catch up with you one of these days, out there on the road”. I nod in agreement and step out.

Outside the saloon my travel companions are already lining up to board the bus which is slowly coming down the road. At the next door casino I keep hearing the tilting of the slots and the angry yells of the gamblers at the machines. I walk towards the intersection where the bus is supposedly going to stop and I look past the gas station adjacent to the convenience store and I’m marvelled at the amount of pine trees ascending to the mountains as far as my eyes can see. And I’m suddenly made aware of a big beautiful yellow moon hanging over those endless pine trees. And even with the smell of diesel and gasoline from the gas station, I can still smell those pine trees and take a long deep breath looking at them. As I wait to board the bus, Caroline and Julia are heading home in separate cars. Waiting to board my bus, I see a semi coming off the ramp of I-90 and heading our way carrying a big load of logs. From the parking lot across from where I stand, the driver of one of the parked semis starts his engine, ready to hit the road. On the gas station sound system, Dan Seals is singing about those “Big Wheels In The Moonlight.”  I take my seat up front after everyone else has boarded the bus and find comfort in knowing that I still have a few more days out here on the road.

Drummond, Montana

It’s High Noon. I stand in the intersection of Front and Main Street. A big cluster of clouds line up on the horizon. The Greyhound has stopped here for lunch and at first I’m disappointed as I look around to find myself in the middle of another nowhere town, it seems. Looking in the direction of Main Street I can look both ways and almost see the whole town. There’s not a single store, as far as I can see, that looks like it might be opening anytime soon. All of them look like they’ve been closed for years and nobody ever cared to post a notice to that effect in the windows. A couple of them sport some advertising posters that I’m sure are at least twenty years old. Turning to Front street the first thing that catches my eye is the American flag flying high on top of the Fire Station house trying to fight this sudden sleet coming from the north. The local bank announces on its windows the upcoming Fourth of July parade, which is still more than two months away. On the other side of the railroad tracks, the water tower stands tall and proud as if trying to prove to any visitor or passer-by that this was once a thriving farming community. There’s only a couple of parked cars and pickup trucks but no sign of traffic anywhere. I get a sense I’m in a different time altogether, as if the town was frozen in the 1900’s and I’m about to see some real working cowboys on their horses coming down Main Street or cattle being driven to pasture.

The sleet has turned to snow and I head to where the bus is parked. The engine is still running and the smell of the diesel mixed with the cigarette smoke from some of my bus companions make me wish we were back on the road. Then the sudden smell of grease in the air raises my attention to the “Frosty Freeze” and a sign that announces the best burgers and fries in the state of Montana. From outside it looks like one of those places from the Depression captured by the photographers of the Farm Security Information. I step inside and I am overwhelmed by how even the smell of recently brewed coffee isn’t enough to subdue the strong smell of burgers and fries coming from the kitchen. At the counter sit two old men drinking coffee, the only costumers in the café. They both got John Deere caps on, faded jeans and cowboy boots that I’m sure have seen better days. They both look past their prime and judging from a long life of hard labour, they should be retired somewhere else where sunshine is prominent. But they don’t let a single air of disillusion for the life they chose and for the difficult times they’re certainly going through. Quite the contrary. They thrive in surviving despite all the setbacks. Right there I find the spirit of every single small town in America, stamped in their faces.

I sit at the counter a stool away from them and watch as Bill, the one closest to me keeps eating his bacon strips from a plate with his arthritis’ hands. He has an habit of touching the tip of his cap every once in a while that I’m certain is the result of years of tipping it to the ladies. Tom sits next to him and keeps reading the newspaper’s weather predictions over and over again as he’s sipping his coffee real slow. He wears suspenders that only highlight his slight hunchback. They talk about the weather and how if this snow doesn’t let up, they will soon have to dig up their snow plows. It’s the end of April and Bill says he hasn’t seen this much snow so late into spring in more than fifty years. They finally acknowledge me with a tip of their caps. I nod back and I can see tiny drops of bacon fat hanging in Bill’s thick grey moustache. They keep discussing the weather and how this constant sleet and snow will ruin the crops of hay pretty much for years to come. The owner/cook/waiter comes back from the kitchen and places an order of burger and fries in front of Tom. He then serves me coffee and asks if they’ll be something else. I say that famous burger and fries looks good to me and he goes back into the kitchen to prepare my order. I look around and notice a big clock on the wall with a pendulum that seems to be running slow. Not only that but both Bill and Tom seem to do everything to its slower rhythm. Bill is still eating his bacon strips and Tom sipping his coffee to the rhythm of that slow pendulum. I look outside and see the rest of my bus companions boarding the bus on the snow and only then remember hearing the driver announcing that this will only be a 15-minute cigarette break. I call out to the kitchen and say I’m terribly sorry but I need to get back on the bus so I only be having the coffee to go. Tom turns to me and says he’ll be glad to let me have his order to go. I thank him and finish my coffee and pay the owner who hands me a Styrofoam container with the burger and fries.

As I head to the exit I cannot help but notice a few used books by the door which are intended for trading by the townsfolk and travellers. I browse through them and find a very worn copy of Thomas McGuane’s “Nothing But Blue Skies” which I’ve been wanting to read ever since I read “Nobody’s Angel” years ago. I reach for my backpack and take out William Kittredge’s “The Willow Field” which I had just finished reading on the bus and trade it in for the McGuane novel. I look back at Bill, Tom and the owner and they give me an approving nod and a tip of their caps. I step outside and run for the bus as it’s ready to leave and take my seat up front just in time to see Tom reaching for the Kittredge book and taking it with him to the counter. I smile and look at the McGuane book as the bus roars by and tries to fight the sleet and snow that is starting to pour on down heavier now. The windshield wipers at full speed can hardly keep up with the snow falling in front of the bus. I can hardly see anything past a few feet in front of me as we keep rolling on I-90. I grab my burger and fries and eat the best burger I’ve had in the state of Montana without a doubt, looking straight ahead at the snow that is finally letting up. I open up the book and start reading as the slower methodical sound of the windshield wipers pushing the snow from the windows seem to be marking time.

Big Timber, Montana

Another small town early morning mist. Getting off the Greyhound for breakfast, the first thing you see are the mountains to the north which are still capped with snow altough it’s already early May. Flowers are blooming in the gardens of a few neighborhood houses. My vision is blurred by sleep but still I can hear the roosters crowing and the dogs barking in the distant farm houses to the east. Another day on the road for me and I’m already feeling vindicated by this life I chose. The Diner is another dive you have gotten used to on the road but the sizzling of frying bacon and the smell of fresh coffee is enough to convince me to sit down. The place is already packed at 6 in the morning. Farmers and old-timers each looking for their first morning pick-me-up. They all look at me the same way with enough curiosity followed by a welcoming nod. The waitresses are like a compilation of every single waitress I’ve encountered on the road. There’s Margie, the older one, who seems to be running the place. Shouting orders left and right to the younger waitress and to the cook. She sports a huge beehive hairdo that looks to me that it’s about to take off at any moment. Her wide broad smile and energy lights up the place and I’m sure by her out of place accent that she’s not originally from around here. I sit in a corner booth and the waitress who has that section is a pretty young thing by the name of Cathy. She clearly doesn’t want to be here, she is probably just saving enough money to get the first Greyhound out of here. Her eyes never meet the costumer’s, they just wander pass the windows, across the parking lot to I-90 and the cars speeding East and West without stopping. Her ways are casually distracted. She comes to take my order and I give her a smile but her stance is unperturbed. My eyes follow her for a moment but then begin to veer off to main street where the town is slowly waking up. Young kids with their backpacks waiting for the school bus. Dogs and thier owners taking their first morning stroll. Cars at a traffic light. The drivers not so anxiously as you’d expect, waiting for the light to change. Watching this makes me missmy hometown even more and I actually think that maybe one of these days I should just settle down in a place like this. Find a good woman, a job that pays enough to get by and just start again. My thoughts are interrupted by Cathy placing my plate on the table. I don’t even notice her at first, and only after she calls out to me, do I notice that she’s probably been standing there for a few seconds. I apologize by saying that I was only day dreaming. She responds by saying that that is her favorite hobby. I smile at her and this time she smiles back at me. I know that the nature of her day dreams are probably the opposite of mine but still I can’t help but think looking at her smile again, that I could settle here for awhile, knowing fully well that she has other plans than just hang around here for too long. I try to extend my smile towards her and she feels awkward about it, enough to excuse herself.  After I finish my meal I make my way to the exit. I stop before exiting the Diner and she catches me as she began to clear my table and says with a big smile on her face “Thank you and please come back again” and waves at me. I nod and wave goodbye back  at her and head to the bus who’s already ready to leave. And I’m thinking that I will be coming back again for sure when I’m ready to go home. 

Dickinson, North Dakota

For hours there was nothing but darkness. Crossing North Dakota in the middle of the night offers no relief from sleep. The landscape that adorns I-94 becomes invisible. All the way from Fargo where I boarded the bus at one in the morning the prairie has eluded me. Four hours later we arrived here and although the town seems to be asleep I can see as I step off the Greyhound a bright red sky taking shape in the horizon to the east.

The parking lot of the “Paragon Bowl” doubles as a bus depot and this cold October early morning wind is a nice change from the rarefied AC air of the bus. Across the road is the “Queen City Motel” with its parking lot packed with pickup trucks full of hunting gear. A street light flickers every once in a while above me and in the distance, howls of prairie dogs and coyotes echo through the grasslands. A couple of pickup trucks are parked outside the “Paragon Bowl”. Inside the cabs, waiting patiently for their owners to come back, sit a couple of Pointer dogs.

Inside the “Paragon Bowl”, the place is surprisingly packed at five in the morning. A mixture of late night partiers and early morning risers seem to fill the 24-hour restaurant and lounge. A group of hunters sit in the restaurant and talk to the bartender who is complaining about the meth addicts and the high school drop outs who are sipping their beers by the bowling lanes. The bartender takes the hunter’s orders for bacon and eggs and heads to the kitchen as the hunters each boast to one another about last year’s hunting season and predict a drop in number of game as this year’s waterfowl season is beginning. I sit by the exit door so I can check on the bus. The bartender comes back from the kitchen and serves the hunters their grub and asks me what I’ll have. I scan the menu and the smell of bacon and eggs has me tempted but I decide instead on coffee and a blueberry muffin. I still got a long way to go on the road and they’ll be plenty of chances to clog my arteries before I reach my destination.

At the lounge adjacent to the restaurant the lights are turned down real low. The lights of a TV set mounted in the wall keeps flickering and from afar I am almost certain I can see Sterling Hayden and Marilyn Monroe in “The Asphalt Jungle”, a favourite film of mine. The sound of the TV seems to be muted and I wonder if that TV set is ever turned off or if it keeps playing whether somebody’s watching or not. The dogs in the pickup trucks outside bark as an answer to the hungry howls of the prairie digs and the coyotes. The hunters have finished their breakfast pretty quickly and ask the bartender for the usual doggie bag. They pay and leave the restaurant, opening the front door which reveals the first signs of sunlight, still weak as it is. A commotion from the lanes has the bartender reaching for a baseball bat under the counter and threatening the meth addicts and the high school drop outs that this is their last warning. I look at them and among the six or seven that make up the group, all in their twenties, I see a young girl much younger than the rest, who seems to be out of place. Her behaviour is the opposite of the others and I wonder what she’s doing with them, the sole female of the group. I catch her looking at the TV in the lounge and then she catches me looking at her. I tip my cap at her and she just turns her attention back to the TV. They start laughing a little too loud and the bartender has no other option than to jump behind the counter, which seems to silence them for now. I take this as my exit sign, not wanting to be caught up in an awkward situation. I take my muffin and pay up on my way out.

Outside, in the parking lot of the “Queen City Motel”, hunters pack their hunting gears into their pickup trucks and their dogs are barking like crazy in anticipation. The street lights suddenly begin to be turned down one by one and are slowly being replaced by the first morning light. A block east down the road, the neon sign of the “Oasis Motel” is suddenly turned on which I find curious. Emerging from the parking lot are a group of men all geared up for oil drilling I’m sure, with their hard hats and work gloves on. I hear the Greyhound engine coming to life and the driver stepping out and heading to the “Paragon Bowl” with a coffee thermos. Inside the bus most of its occupants open their eyes and watch the sun starting to rise for a few seconds and then go back to sleep. The driver comes back from the “Paragon Bowl” with his thermos steaming with hot coffee and stands next to me by the door of the bus. Some of the high school drop outs emerge from the “Paragon Bowl” as well and stand by the parking lot acting drunk and talking loudly to each other. They head out each in a different direction. Looking at them the driver tells me, in between sipping his coffee, that he finds it ironic that this place was once dubbed the “Queen City of the Prairies”. In the “Queen City Motel” parking lot, the dogs keep barking as the hunters are ready to drive away. A yellow school bus stops just outside the “Oasis Motel”, picks up the oil drillers and drives away.

I board the Greyhound as the driver is announcing on the speaker that we should reach our next scheduled stop in Billings, on time. I look around the town one last time as we’re driving towards I-94 and at six in the morning it has finally quieted down, leaving it deserted it seems. At the intersection before entering the interstate, the bus stops at a stop sign and I look out the window and see the young girl from the “Paragon Bowl” standing at the crossroads seemingly doing nothing. She’s looking at the horizon to the northeast where the grassland starts. I look in the same direction and witness one of the most beautiful sunrises I ever saw. The bus drives off into I-94 and the arresting beauty of this North Dakota prairie sunrise keeps hovering over the oil fields and the farm lands and it seems to follow me for miles all the way through the Montana borderline.

Steele, North Dakota

You can see the world’s largest sandhill crane statue all the way from I-94 almost from a mile away. The first time you see it, it surprises you cause it’s so unexpected. It’s sundown on the prairie and on the horizon way  out west for as far as your eyes can see, and as the Greyhound pulls off the interstate and stops for supper, the sandhill crane statue up close feels iluminated by this burning orange prairie sunset sky which makes it an even more unexpected surprise. It seems to stand guard on this tiny place at the side of the interstate, so far away from anywhere, 60 miles to Jamestown to the east and 45 miles to Bismark to the west and nothing else in between. The statue faces the interstate and up there from its vantage point it seems to serve as a welcoming sign to the tired and hungry drivers as it stands on the same grounds as the “Lone Steer Cafe, Motel & Casino”.

I’ve seen quite a few places like this on the road, but none quite like the “Lone Steer”. I step into the cafe and the first thing that catches my attention are a couple of flies hovering over the apple pie display case.  That doesn’t help sell the place for me but this will be the last chance for a real meal before I reach Montana in the early morning. The waitresses seem to be more concerned with the local news gossip on the radio than to attend to the costumers. It seems Old Joe will spend another night in jail for riding his bicycle naked again. That is enough to have them laughing hysterically. I wonder how old Joe really is and how many times has he done it before or how senile or bored he must be to keep doing it. One of the waitress keeps chewing gum while the other is smoking a cigarette and they seem to me to be much older than they probably are. Only after my fellow patrons in the Greyhound come in after finishing smoking their cigarettes outside, and make a commotion, do the waitresses turn the radio low, drop the cigarette butt beyond the counter and the chewing gum under the grill and turn their attention to the costumers.

I’m still not sure what I’m having so I scan the menu for anything that catches my attention. One of the waitresses, Kitty, approaches my table and serves me coffee and asks what I’ll be having. I ask about their specials and if she will recommend anything. She recommends the blue-plate special with all the fixins and that actually sounds good to me. While I wait for my meal I look at the sandhill crane still hanging high over this place. The sunset has already been replaced by the first signs of dark outside but the sandhill crane still seems to cast the remains of that burning orange sky.  After I finish my blue-plate special I ask for the check and Kitty asks if there’ll be anything else. I say no, but she interrupts me by saying “Hone, you shouldn’t leave without trying our apple pie. It’s our specialty. We make it ourselves”. I can still hear the buzzing of those flies, even over the conversations, hanging over that display case, but can’t honestly have the nerve to say no to Kitty’s big smile. I say that I’m still full from the blue-plate special and ask her if she can wrap the pie for me to go. She says “Sure hone, I’ll put in an extra large slice for you.”  Kitty hands me the pie wrapped up in tin foil and I pay up at the counter leaving her a generous tip.

Outside the café it’s starting to get colder and darker. The lights of the motel office are on but there’s no other lights on in the place, which makes me wonder if anyone’s staying at the motel or if maybe they are at the next door casino. From the outside, I can’t even guess if the casino is open for business. In fairness, there’s a penetrating silence surrounding the parking lot that is only tempered by the distant traffic on I-94 and by a few rushes of wind every once in a while. I’m called in to board the bus and I take a long deep breath. The cold wind on my face invigorates me and I pass the sandhill crane statue on my way to the bus and finally take on the true measure of it. It seems to be so much bigger now than what I first realized when I arrived here. And as I take a final look at it from inside the bus as we’re already on our way to enter I-94, it still stands tall over the place and seems to irradiate light to the parking lot and the café. I fall asleep on the bus thinking who’d ever thought of putting such a thing in that place. I awake in the middle of the night. I look outside for a few minutes and all I see is the dark, interrupted from time to time by the headlights of oncoming buses and trucks going east in the opposite direction as our bus. I look around me and everyone is sleeping except the driver and me. It’s probably 3 or 4 in the morning and there’s at least another 3 hours before we stop again and I’m feeling hungry again. I remember the apple pie that still sits under the tin foil in the seat next to me. It’s still warm and I eat it without leaving any single crumb. The best damn apple pie I ever had, I think to myself, while looking outside the window at the dark cold American night.

Valley City, North Dakota

Beyond the valley and through the rolling country all is silent. A gentle wind brushes to life a few sunflowers standing between wheat fields, thus serving their purpose of safeguarding the crops. The sun has slowly begun to set over the distant dairy farms and grain fields as the bus gets off I-94. It winds through the sunset-lit empty streets and crosses an old narrow brick bridge to finally stop outside a café.

The Hilltop Café is a combination gas station/convenience store/restaurant. From the outside it looks like it’s been here for ages. The rusty wooden exterior needs a new coat of paint and the roof tiles have seen better days. An “Open” neon sign on the window keeps going on and off and the wooden floor just outside the entrance door creaks as I approach the double screen door.

Inside it’s actually cozy. The smell of burgers and fries invades my senses as I come in and I realize that I’m hungrier than I thought. A couple of regular patrons sit by the counter drinking beer and chatting over the loud sound of a hockey game on TV. There are only a few tables to sit at and I decide on the one closest to the door. I look around for a waitress. At a corner table opposite mine, a six-year old boy is sitting, knees perched on the chair, doing homework. Opposite him is his mother who’s helping him. The kid points at me and says something to his mother. When she realizes that there’s a new costumer she raises her finger to me, letting me know that she’ll be right over to take my order.

I look at the menu, but, before I have time to go through it, the waitress is standing next to me, welcoming me, asking if I already know what I’ll be having. The comforting smell of homemade burgers and fries coming from the kitchen makes my decision easy. She calls out for the special of the house and a voice from inside the kitchen yells back, “Alright, honey!” She fetches the pot of coffee from beyond the counter and pours me a cup.

Then she goes back to her kid. Her boy has stopped doing homework and is standing on his chair, scribbling on the steamy windows with the tip of his index finger. On TV someone has scored and it makes a ruckus loud enough to have the waitress call out to the men by the counter to turn the sound down a bit.

As I wait for the food I look outside the window. The sun has already set completely behind the valley and the town seems very much asleep already. No one is outside except a few of my fellow travelers who are smoking or coming out of the convenience store. I sip from my coffee cup when the cook, the waitress’s husband, sets my plate in front of me, a very generous serving of cheesy fries surrounding the very appetizing cheeseburger.

I break into the delicious food in front of me and look outside the window to ascertain how much time I have until my bus leaves. A brand new full moon seems to have propped up behind the old narrow brick bridge. It gives so much light that overpowers the dim street lights. From where I’m sitting I’m able to see almost the whole town. The Sheyenne River quietly streaming down, with such a strong bluish color that reflects the light of the moon perfectly. The succession of bridges, both small and big, that follow the trail of the river that crosses the town. Old standing bridges so beautifully nestled between the moon and the river that gives this town an unusual touch of old romance.

When I finish my cheeseburger and fries, I look back inside and the waitress is still helping her kid. Not wanting to interrupt, I locate the husband, who’s now keeping company with the two regular patrons and watching what seems to be the last quarter of a tied game. I order another coffee to go and ask him to make my bill. I head to the restrooms and when I come back, my bill and a Styrofoam cup steaming wit hot coffee is waiting for me at the table.  I pay up, leaving a $10 bill on the table to settle the $6.50 I owe and grab my coffee and head to the bus.

I settle in my front seat and look out the window at the “Hilltop Café” one more time. The waitress is now clearing my table and the kid is back on his knees perched on the chair. He begins again to scribble something on the steamy windows. The full moon is now hanging high over the town as the bus drives off the parking lot. The waitress is back with her kid trying to finish the homework and before the bus turns to leave I believe I can make out the words that the kid has written on the window, even from the disadvantage point of trying to read them backwards. “HOME” it reads. I smile as we leave the café parking lot behind and soon find enough courage to start believing again in something I thought I had lost forever out here on the road.

Little Falls, Minnesota

A Sunday main street sunset serenade. Standing in the corner of Broadway and 1^st Street I can feel this cold October breeze coming in. The mighty Mississippi river rolls sweetly close by. Sometimes it’s the only audible sound. Looking around I can imagine how this intersection would be bursting with people and cars if it was any other day of the week and the many businesses would be open. On Sunday I’m guessing people have taken early to their homes as soon as the sun started setting and the temperatures started dropping significantly. It’s early October and it feels like we’re deep into winter already. The sunset is spreading its vivid orange (colour) across the sky and it feels to illuminate everything in its path giving a glowing look to this street scene. I start walking around the block, not wanting to wander off too much, as the Greyhound bus has only stopped here for a 20 minute break. The sunset keeps hanging on in the air giving now a bright orange-red glow as I come to a building straight out of the old west it seems.

The Broadway Sports Bar is hardly noticeable except for a few signs on its tiny windows that advertise a game room, satellite TV and 75 cents beer specials. But what really draws my attention is the false front building that looks as old as the town itself. The kind of building I’m used to seeing further up west from here and in smaller towns or ghost towns. In fact, looking at the buildings that surround it, it’s easy to assume that this might be the oldest building still standing in this town. As I come in the smell of stale beer fills the air. Behind a big mahogany counter by the entrance, the bartender cleans beer glasses inattentively and seems to pay more attention to the three big screen TVs above him, broadcasting three different NFL games. He’s in his early fifties and can only hide his frown when he’s not self-conscious about it. I sit by the counter and wait for the bartender to notice me which takes him a few seconds. I notice a coffee pot behind the counter and when Bob, the bartender realizes I’m sitting there, he apologizes and introduces himself. I ask if the coffee is fresh and he says it’s from breakfast but he’ll be happy to make a new pot. I say it’s not necessary but he keeps insisting on it so I give in. While the coffee is brewing he asks where I’m from and I say I’m just passing through on the Greyhound heading west. At the end of the bar there are a couple of pool tables and a foosball table. Three men in their thirties play in one of the pool tables and only seem to divert their attention to the football games on TV when the announcer’s voice seem to indicate an imminent touchdown or a great defensive play. The smell of fresh coffee starts replacing the smell of stale beer and Bob serves me my coffee in a mug with the logo of the place. I ask Bob about the building and it says that it dates back to 1885, one of the oldest standing buildings in town. As far back as he can remember, this has always been the “Broadway Sports Bar”, but the people who sold him the place more than twenty years ago have told him that it used to house pretty much every business I can think of, from a whorehouse to a Chinese Laundromat to a law office. I notice an old Wurlitzer jukebox unplugged just sitting on a dark corner of the bar and wonder if it is just a reminder of better days. Bob sees me admiring the jukebox and tells me this used to be a music bar when he started running it with some live bands on weekends. Over the years the interest has waned down and the costumers started vanishing so he turned it into a sports bar which seems to pick the business side of it a little bit. Then came the no-smoking ordinance and that’s when things turned worse. I point out that it’s unusual on a Sunday afternoon with the NFL all over TV to see the bar almost empty. Bob says a few years ago business started shifting from Broadway when newer, bigger and modern bars opened across town. His wife Judy and him have been toying with the idea of selling the place but nowadays the return on the investment would be so small that it would render it almost obsolete. On the other hand, they’ve been late on paying the loan to the bank every month this year and things are not getting any better. I notice the time on the clock above the counter and rush to finish the coffee. I also notice that next to it there are lot of merchandising gathering dust on a display case. I ask Bob if they’re for sale and he says that he hasn’t sell any in ages that he almost forgot they were there. I pay for the coffee and ask if I can pay for the mug he served me coffee with. Bob takes a new clean mug from the display case and hands it to me saying it’s a gift to remember them by, hoping next time I come this way the doors will still be open. I thank him and head out the door.

Outside it has gotten dark and cold fast and a light snow is falling. A single streetlight lamp flickers just outside the bar. I hear roars from the small crowd of three inside the bar, so somebody must have scored. I run to catch the bus as it’s about to leave and take my seat upfront. I take the mug and store it safely in my backpack. The bus rolls on Broadway and passes the bar. Bob is just outside the door sweeping the first drops of snow that have gathered suddenly on the sidewalk. With just enough desperation on his face he stops sweeping and lights a cigarette and savours it like it’s the last one he’s gonna have. The bus crosses the bridge over the Mississippi river and heads into Highway 10. A big full moon hangs in the air above town and it seems to steal the crystalline bluish colour from the mighty river, illuminating the empty streets of town in such a way that it seems to be serenading it to sleep.