Kalamazoo-zoo-zoo

Back on the road.

And what a road. It is a minefield of speeding cars and signs and ramps and exits. We’re finding our way out of Chicago. Easier said than done, as it turns out. We get stuck in a ghastly industrial wasteland behind, of all things, a drawbridge that won’t come down. It is just sticking up in the air like a massive metal wall. We sit, queued in the blighted landscape looking for signs of movement. The movement we see is cars in front of us doing U-turns and abandoning the wait. Bruce checks with Dr Google and we follow suit. Zig zag the ragged backblocks.

The next thing we know, we’re in Indiana.

The road is shocking. The American interstate highway infrastructure is not what it was, Bruce says.

The landscape is interesting, however.

Marshes, swampy islands, herons - the tip of Lake Michigan, says Bruce.

Now it’s powerlines and railways, heavy industry. We cross the Calumet River. More powerlines. Great latticed giants striding across the landscape.

We’re on the outskirts of Gary.

Chimneys and steel mills.

We swing off the Interstate and onto Route 12 heading for Lake Dunes.

I spot a Farmer’s Market.

Why not?

It is hellish hot when we get out of the car. 100degF and flopsydopsy humid. There’s an avenue of canopied stalls at the end of which a singer is performing some quite good albeit over-amplifed Cat Stevens songs. Some of the stalls are selling huge rockmelons and corn, some tomatoes and other veggies which we can’t buy because we don’t have a kitchen.

But some of them are cooking. And it’s lunchtime.

There are two blokes with a classic American BBQ smoker, a huge domed thing that they tow behind cars. They are serving ribs. Yes, please.

We sit at a battered trestle table and chow down messily. They are sticky with BBQ sauce, tender, utterly scrumptious. I am in some sort of cultural reverie. This is the essence of the experience. Americana heartland fare in situ.

I’ve chummed up with a woman on a bead stall. She has some nice dendritic agate, my favourite thing. I buy a strand.

As we are leaving, I see people chomping on ears of corn.

Well, you can’t drive through weeks of cornfields without getting a yen to eat corn.

Where did you get that? Over there.

After the lad has overcome his fascination with my funny accent, he starts carving corn off the cob for me. Huh? It was not what I was expecting. He can give me straight corn if I like, but this is the way they like it around here.

OK, let’s do it then.

He proceeds to pile the sliced corn into a plastic cup and then add mayonnaise, butter, powdered parmesan and two sorts of spice powder. He hands it over with a spoon and advises me to mix it up well.

Oh, mercy!

This is heaven - not on a stick.

What a wonderful, serendipitous lunch.

Onwards on the Dunes Highway - to

the dunes.

These are lake dunes, huge sandhills around Lake Michigan, Indiana. It’s a national park. We pay and wend our way in. The dunes are beautiful and dotted with interesting vegetation, little pine trees and wild flowers. They have narrow trails up and around but these are well and truly fenced off. We join a flow of people following a well-marked path to a big cement building which is the access to the beach. They are carrying everything but the kitchen sink. Huge coolers, stacks of camp chairs, blowup beasties… Another

string of people comes towards us carrying similar loads but looking tired and sunburned.

Through the building which contains showers and loos and ---

Heavens alive.

There is the lake! It goes all the way to the horizon just like the sea.

It is lapping very softly onto a narrow sandy beach upon which thousands of people are crammed with sunshades and rugs and balls and buckets and the full beach regalia. A lifeguard lolls in a dune buggy.

A man is pushing an elderly woman through the crowd in a jumbo wheeled beach wheelchair.

Parents doze in picnic chairs as children dig sandcastles. They read. They sunbathe. People loll in the water on floaties. They toss beach balls. They are at intensive play, not quite cheek to jowl but one has to pick one’s way carefully to reach the water.

I have to put my feet into the freshwater ocean. Bruce does not. He does not even get sandy.

The water is a bit of a turnoff.

I see a steel mill on the horizon. Hmm. It’s a bit surreal.

Back on the road, we pass the mill with its huge chimneys pumping out steam. And more heavy industry. And the great course of power poles which still dominate our route.

This is a country at work.

There’s a stretch of big old trees, a stately forest of spruce and spreading oak and then, towering above them, a mighty cooling tower pumping and belching steam. Another huge power plant. And also a town, it turns out. Michigan City.

We swing in to have a look. Leafy streets lined with neat houses and manicured lawns are nestled in the shadow of this white pumping giant. It dominates the town.

We find the main street which is deathly quiet on this sweltering Sunday morning. A young black guy snoozing on a city bench opens one eye as I get out of the car to look at a massive bridal shop adorned with a glory of nuptial kitsch which has attracted my attention. I avert my

gaze from the street art, some of the most dire public sculpture I’ve seen.

On Route 12 out of town we pass a massive casino hotel and the usual sequence of strip shopping which accompanies most towns. Swingbelly’s Burgers raises a smile.

Condo developments and trailer parks, hoardings saying thank-you to Veterans. Tiny little drive-in motels, one simply called “Judy’s Motel”.

There are lots of petrol stations. Petrol is only 60 cents a litre.

Suddenly we’re in New Buffalo, Michigan, where Oink’s Ice Cream is doing a roaring business. Bud and Elsie’s Service Station, too.

Cute town alert, announces Bruce.

New Buffalo might take us by surprise, but clearly all of Indiana and Michigan knows about it. Huge, crowded marinas reveal that this is a mega popular lakeside resort. The housing is self-consciously gorgeous, clapboard classics and adventurously pretty designs tiered in many lovely, bright colours. There is a zany faux New England quality to it all but, of course, its expanse of water is lake water, not sea water. Seagulls don’t care. They wheel and wail. There are flocks of ducks, too. And swarms of holidaymakers eating gigantic ice creams. Had we known about this town, we might well have stayed here. We’re charmed to bits by it.

But off we go. The corn is taller in this neck of the woods. Yep. As tall as an elephant’s thigh. Bruce says it is because it is more advanced in its growth. We’ve been watching it growing across the country as we drive.

We’ve come 4500 miles.

Corn and soy, soy and corn. Now it is all frondy.

There’s a hand-written farm-stand sign advertising “Sweet Korn”. Hmm.

We pass Three Oaks with its sky blue water tower. There’re more than three oaks. They are everywhere. It is a sedate, prosperous little town. Massive silos evidence this - as do the vast expanses of crops which ensue as

we drive east. Just vistas of corn and soy. Vista. Vast. Vast Vista.

The silos get bigger. Agricultural machinery is gigantic. The sprinkler arms which irrigate the crops stretch way out into the fields. 100 metres?

Schoolcraft is an odd name for a town. It turns out to be in honour of a celebrated ethnographer. It’s an historic town with historic buildings and an official Historic Precinct. A big cemetery hints at just how many generations must have lived there. A funeral is underway as we pass.

And here comes Kalamazoo, a town that is more famous for its name than for anything else.

It is an Indian name, of course. Named after the beautiful Kalamazoo River. They changed the name from Bronson. Good move.

Kalamazoo has a huge cemetery, too. Really, really big. It goes up hill and down dale over rolling and beautifully groomed hill slopes beside the road into town. It is leafy and lovely with the most fascinating headstones. I would love to stop but

it is hot and we are keen to hit the Radisson.

Kalamazoo is bigger than first impression suggests. It is a low, squat city which seems to crouch on the landscape.

The broad main street features our very fancypants hotel. It is huge. Palatial. Opposite is a big blocky, dark and elderly building which brandishes a large sign “The Kalamazoo Building”. And there are banks. Oh, boy. What a lot of banks. Our instant favorite is the 5th 3rd Bank. True name. How numerical. But one wonders why? If it is the fifth third, why not call it the 15th?

The Radisson has the biggest foyer in the history

of the universe. It is a vast, towering, shiny wasteland of lonely glamour. The concierge behind a wee desk by the door looks tiny. The reception desk is three divided desks set way back to one side against an illuminated designer wall. It’s a bit lonely, too. But we get a charming reception and are allocated a room on the 4th floor. Miles away on another perimeter of this shiny marble empire is the lift whence we trundle the trolly heaving with our

road trip world.

It’s a beaut room with beaut beds and bedding. Classy telly. We unpack and go out for our usual exploratory walk. It’s hot out there. We’ve been given poor instructions by the concierge and end up heading in the wrong direction to find the mall. Bruce checks Google and we retrace our sweaty steps and check out the local shops and restaurants. There are some pleasant-looking restaurants. There is some lovely historic architectural aesthetic. But it is hot and we are just not feeling it. We toddle back to our glamour hotel and secure a lovely booth it its bar restaurant where we have a beaut meal.

A few hours later, we have a beaut breakfast,

too. Oh the toils of travel. This Radisson not only serves a stunning buffet brekky but also has a chef with a capricious way with watermelons. Watermelon art, no less.

I am thrilled to find the pool unoccupied when I try for a swim in the morning. This is a health club which means outsiders belong and use the facilities. But they were not there. Just me. And what a superb pool. Seventh heaven. A good aqua session means a good day.

And it is, albeit that I break a bead bracelet and find that under the hotel room sink is not the cleanest place in the world. Standards of cleanliness have been extremely high everywhere we have stayed. That this posh place is not up to the standard of some of the less prestigious chains is a surprise. I leave the room girl a lesser tip.

Before leaving town, we take an extensive tour to get a real feel for the place. Two things stand out. Lutherans and beer. There are lots of Lutheran churches and lots of breweries. The place is made for its beer. Gonzo’s Big Dog Brewing tickles my fancy.

Then there is the emphasis on senior housing and senior health. There is a massive nephrology centre.

And an immense teaching hospital and also a veterinary teaching establishment. There is also an impressive Mental Health and Substance Abuse centre. Kalamazoo, population 70,000, seems to be a very smart town, indeed.

We skim through the suburbs. The leafy upper crust area is highly manicured, beautifully tended houses in large grounds. Some of the houses are palatial. What’s with the roman columns on wooden houses? They do jar my sense architectural integrity.

We also find our way to the less comfortable suburbs where things are very different. They are not entirely black areas.

The population seems mixed.

But the people definitely don’t maintain their properties. Paint is peeling on the houses. Things are crumbing, rotting, boarded up here and there. Businesses are bust. Little shops have security bars on their windows. People sit on porches smoking. It is humid. They are indolent and possibly indigent.

Kalamazoo is a town of extreme contrasts.

As we leave town, I see a sign: Beer and Roadside Assistance.

Together? It sets the imagination at play.

Ah, America.