Travel Bloopers

When Bob wrote me a note about the highlights of his trip to San Diego which included a near miss with a hooker hotel, I got to thinking about similar near misses of my own. Like when Jerry and I wandered around the streets of Paris and unaccountably found ourselves in the red light district. Or when I was visiting Tom in New Haven. He went to work, leaving me his car to explore the area.
Northeast USA doesn't really have towns. It is more like continuous, densely populated rural areas. After driving around taking in the sights, and getting honked at for no particular reason, I decided to stop, buy some postcards, and explore the place on foot.
I went into a book store, which just as I had supposed, had post cards. I chose a few standard ones from a rack, then stood in line to pay, and noticed that most of the material in this book store could only be purchased by people over twenty-one. Slightly embarrassing, but still, it was a book store and it had post cards.
I walked down the street towards a sign that read 'Valentino's Cafe.' It was an odd looking cafe, being a windowless red brick building, but everything in Connecticut looks odd except for their 'mountains' that really look like hills if you notice them at all. So I went into the cafe expecting to have a cup of coffee while I filled out a post card or two.
Inside was as dark as a cocktail lounge. The aisle led downward like maybe the place used to be a movie theater. About fifty feet downhill was a stage where a woman (I presume) dressed in scarves twirled ceaselessly in a circle. I stepped back outside the door. Yes, it did say cafe. So I went back in, chose a table near the door, and waited for someone to take my order. No cocktails, thank you, I'm driving my brother's car.
Whatever kind of a show it was continued with no change in the dancer or dance so I started to write a notes to the folks back home. No waitress appeared, but there was just that one table down in front so maybe business was so slow that the waitress was on break. Once finished with my post cards, I reluctantly got up and left. I really wanted a cup of coffee, but apparently the place was closed for the afternoon. When I told Tom about the experience he informed me that in Connecticut, cafes are strip clubs because citizens prefer not to be reminded of them.
I have another, even better story about Pike Place Market in Seattle, but this is getting too long. I often promise that I will tell the tale, but I always get distracted by that Connecticut cafe. Even if it was a strip club, you'd think I could have got a cup of coffee.

Nancy Sherer