 |
It's been too long, but we've defrosted our
intrepid
travel correspondent, Robert F. Scott, and sent him to check out that
bastion of small-time [Surely,
town? – Ed.] values and the home away from
home (according to her travel vouchers) of the well-spoken if not
-traveled Governor of Alaska, Sarah "Grandma" Palin.
10:00
a.m.
After a
long fatiguing flight I arrive at Ted Stevens International Airport,
pick up my rented pickup, put $200 worth of gas in it and head north on
the Ted Stevens Highway, across the Ted Stevens Bridge and through the
Ted Stevens National Toxic Sludge Preserve. Presently I
arrive in a wide part of the road, bordered by strip halls [Surely, malls? –
Ed.], bars and
used-truck lots. This, I am told by my GPS, is downtown Wasilla. I park my
truck with the idea of strolling through the town on foot. As
Wasilla lacks sidewalks, I find this is a hazardous
undertaking.
You
never know whom you might run over [Surely,
into? – Ed.] in downtown Wasilla!
10:08
a.m.
In the
absence of a tourist information office, I stop in at the local
Wal-Mart, where I am greeted by a cheerful old woman paying off the
second mortgage on her trailer by greeting customers for $6.25 an hour. I ask her
what to do in Wasilla. She asks me if I like to hunt. I
say no. Then she asks me if I like to
drink. I say no once again. Then she says, "Sounds like
you're f****ed."
10:14
a.m.
Back on
the street, I pass what looks to be a warehouse.
However, the cross seems to indicate that it is
a church. A solidly built man emerges and introduces himself
as the Pastor. He asks me if I have accepted Jesus Christ as
my personal savior. I tell him that the question is impertinent.
He starts yelling and screaming and pressing down my head,
beseeching the witches that infest my soul to depart in the same of
Jesus and Sarah. I run for my life.
10:27
a.m.
Feeling
a sudden need to visit a public convenience, I pass what appears to be
a rundown privy. However, the sign over its door reads
"Wasilla Public Library." | | There's
so much to see in Wasilla the visitor hardly knows where to begin!
I accost a
young man walking down the street
clutching a can of beer and a hockey stick. He introduces
himself to me as Levi. I ask him where I might find a public
facility. He says the "best sh***ers in town are at the
hockey rink. They always flush, no matter how rainy it gets!"
He
pulls on
his beer and says, "Why don't you do what we all do? Just
whip it out wherever you want. It's not like anyone
notices!" He pushes me off the road to avoid our being run down
by a mammoth lorry laden with huge logs barreling through town at about
70 miles per hour.
10:32
a.m.
I come
upon an establishment with the name of "The Wasted Moose."
I enter. It is a public house. There is a long bar
at which a number of locals are slaking their midmorning thirst.
A counter in front sells souvenirs such as a "Liberal Hunting
License. No Fee, Always in Season." A nervous
young woman who had been tending bar walks over to me and says,
"Well?" I reply
noncommittally. She persists: "Do you have the crank?
I'm going nuts here." I tell her there must be some
confusion and that I am not a mechanic. She then offers to
perform a variety of sexual acts for $100 "in the same pickup where
Willow and Bristol were conceived." I decline.
 The young bartender apparently thought
I was there to repair
some sort of equipment. A
heavy-set man with a large beard and a
larger shotgun comes up to me and says: "What are you doing here?" I
introduce myself as a correspondent for The Massachusetts Spy. He tells me
that he and his fellow Wasillians are sick to death of effete Eastern
journalists sniffing around trying to dig up dirt on Sarah. He said
that he never had an affair with her and even if he
did it didn't mean anything because he was drunk, or she was. He then
advised me that if I
didn't want an "assful of buckshot," I'd get the hell out of town. I have no
difficulty in taking his advice.
Next week: 36
minutes on the Road to Nowhere in Ketchikan
| |
