THERE'S A SMALL HOTEL

Our honeymoon trip lasted two weeks. This story describes it.02/29/2016

THERE’S A SMALL HOTEL

We spent our first evening together at the Waldorf Astoria. On Monday, we flew from LaGuardia, to San Francisco to begin our married life far from our old homesteads. Friends took us to the unfurnished apartment I had rented in September. All its rooms had been newly painted. The blue-and-yellow enamel walls and ceiling of the kitchen-dining room shone like a mirror. The living room and bedroom were large and newly carpeted. A large bathroom and numerous closets made the apartment a perfect nest for newlyweds. Angie will love the place. And she did.

FWC had agreed to pay the cost of hauling Angie’s furniture from her home in Queens to our new abode. However, it wouldn’t arrive for another two weeks. This fit our plans perfectly, as the following day we began our honeymoon trip, following an itinerary suggested by her boss, Archie Goodrich. It would take us through parts of California, Nevada and Arizona, including the Grand Canyon.

From San Mateo we drove toward Fresno and the entrance to the Yosemite National Park. We enjoyed perfect weather and found the park quite scenic. It seemed as though we had the entire place to ourselves, almost devoid of tourists. The next leg of our trip took us through Kings Canyon National Park, equally beautiful to see. We drove east to the desert community of Needles which borders Arizona on the Colorado River and then north to the Inyo National Park, site of Mount Whitney, the highest peak in California. We drove up the mountain as far as possible, stopping to take home movies of the beautiful fall colors of the foliage. The descent down the narrow winding mountain road unnerved Angie who slid low in her seat to avoid having to look out the window, foretelling what would happen at the Grand Canyon.

From Mt. Whitney, we crossed into Nevada, headed toward the Panamint Range and Death Valley, site of the Furnace Creek Inn, closed for business at this time of year. We both could have used a drink at that time.

At last, we arrived at Las Vegas, a relatively small, gaudy but exciting place to visit at this time. We stayed clear of the major hotels, opting to check in at a motel on the outskirts of town. Beginner’s luck did not apply, and my attempts to win a fortune playing craps ended when the house took my wagers. On this disappointing note, we left Sin City.

We drove across the Hoover Dam and arrived at the Grand Canyon just as all the park’s facilities were shutting down. As we had not made any hotel reservations, we had to turn around and drive back sixty miles to Williams to spend the night in a motel.

Early the next morning we were back at the Canyon where we signed up for the one-day ride on the mules down to the plateau that looks over the Colorado River. My weight, 175 pounds, matched the maximum allowed for riders. The prospect of being toted down the Canyon’s narrow trail astride a mule terrified Angie. The wrangler escorting our party of seven other sightseers assured her safety, remarking, “Lady, I've been takin’ tourists down this here trail for 25 years and I ain't never lost one of 'em yet, and I ain't gonna lose you." Then he placed her mule first in line behind him and dragged her down the narrow path. From my vantage point, last in the chain, I could see Angie hanging on for dear life at every hairpin turn, head held rigidly away from the canyon so as not to peek at the chasm below. I will always recall this thrill of a lifetime ride.

Take my word for it, we are in this photo, taken moments before we rode down the trail.

We returned to California by way of Las Vegas where I hoped to win back the money I had lost there on our first visit. My gambling style of cautiously betting no more than one buck at a time contrasted with that of a drunk who slouched over the table tossing chips on every one of my rolls. When he ran out of them, the casino had him swipe his name across a credit form and they reloaded him. I could not comprehend how anyone could be so willing to lose money that way. Before finally crapping out, Lady Luck allowed me to recover the amount lost previously.

In the morning, as we checked out, the motel desk clerk asked, “How’d you make out at the casino?’

“We broke even.”

“No, in that case you actually won.” 

That observation stuck with me. Gambling never attracted my interest afterwards.

We left the glitz of the Strip, did a one-hour tour of Palm Springs and sped off to Anaheim. Disneyland had opened a few months earlier. We found the park virtually empty. Hardly any tourists visited the park the day we arrived making it for us to explore every attraction. We had a great time.      

The next day, our travels took us north along the Pacific Coast highway toward the Mission at Carmel. Somewhere between Santa Cruz and San Jose, the Studebaker stalled. Another car pulled alongside and three young men got out, making me fearful.

“Need help?”

Those were the kindest words I had ever heard spoken.

They opened the hood, tightened a loose wire in the distributor, and had the car up and running in minutes.

“Where are you heading?”

“San Mateo.”

“We’ll follow behind in case you need more help.” And they did, all the way to our apartment. Talk about guardian angels.

Home movies captured many of the highlights of our memorable honeymoon trip. We thanked Archie Goodrich profusely for suggesting it. On the other hand, I wondered if we would have had just as much fun had we spent two weeks in Hawaii, an alternate consideration.

No mules?  No Missions?  No casinos? No Mickey Mouse? No way.     

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