Down and Out in Niagara Falls

By Keith Alan Robinson

When I meet new people who ask me what I do for a living, I tell them I’m a stay-at-home auto worker.  Most folks do not get the joke, so I eventually have to spit out that I am unemployed.  I used to tell my friends and neighbors proudly that I was the service coordinator at Scranton Pennsylvania’s oldest car dealership.  Emerson Pontiac had been open in the same location for 70 years and I had been working for the family for 21 of them.   Three months ago we were closed down by General Motors and I was suddenly out of a job.  My wife Jenifer quit being a homemaker and got work as a convenience store clerk to help make ends meet.  I feel sorry for her when acquaintances drop in and shoot quick little looks of pity and wonder why a woman with a college degree is working there.  It is a reflection, I suppose, of how bad things are now in Scranton.  It seems like everyone is just doing what they can to get by.  It was under these financial conditions last summer after school let out, that we fought over whether or not to cancel our long-planned family trip to Niagara Falls.  Making this trip; taking in this quintessential American experience with my wife and two sons was important to me so I finally had to exclaim, “I am the father and we are going on this trip whether you like it or not.” Slade, our 13 year old, and Gunnar, who just turned 10, did not need too much prodding, but Jenifer argued that this road trip did not make sense; the time and financial commitment for a family like ours….to make this trip a success, would be a huge burden.  So, I became very determined to prove to everyone that even a poor family can have a vacation; that even the down-and-out can see some history, can enjoy natural wonders and spend some nice family time together.  The trip was reorganized dramatically to fit in to our new budget and we packed the trunk of the old Grand Prix with our worn out, dusty camping equipment and set off on a hot and humid June morning, hoping to make it all the way to Niagara Falls in a single day.

            I drive fast all the way across New York State.  We have a few close calls with the State Troopers and a couple of close encounters with the Mormons and Amish while picnicking in Palmyra, but with plenty of daylight to spare, we pass through Buffalo (and our cancelled hotel rooms) and arrive in Lewiston.  Our KOA Campground is just eight miles away from Niagara Falls.       The campground is packed solid with dozens and dozens of trailers, campers and motor homes and they seem to fill every available space.   It turns out that tent campers, like us, have their own segregated space on the other side of the creek which runs along a long row of blackberry bushes. We pull the car around to set up camp and find the tent area of the KOA to be deserted– we have it all to ourselves.  Unfortunately, we find that this seclusion can also mean mosquitoes and they are out in force.  Such a conniving man was he — that red-faced, chubby owner of the campground.  That devil acted so pleasant and spoke so devoid of warning while we checked in and signed the credit card receipt for a two nights stay.  After the business was done however, his big smile, half hidden under his bushy grey mustache, became sinister and he laughed a sneering laugh.   He could barely ask us through his chuckles if we had mosquito repellent.  We try to pitch the tent, but we find the bugs here so large and so aggressive that we are forced to take refuge in the car.    Even inside the car, they are all over us and we are swatting and killing mosquitoes right and left.  They are engorged with our blood and it splatters on the windows, the seats and the dashboard as we crush them.  A police detective would have opened this car up and started a homicide investigation on the spot.  We are forced to discard our grocery store repellent and purchase several cans of the expensive KOA Brand, super-duty, deluxe, all-powerful repellent with 40% DEET (normal is 10%) and now finally, fortunately, the bugs not only leave us alone…. They have left our camp area completely. 

            With a couple of hours of daylight remaining, we change plans and go out to Niagara to see the falls this evening.  It is a good choice.  We park the car on the American side and after a short walk we take in magnificent Niagara Falls.  Jen and the boys get to see them for the first time.  We walk everywhere, making an effort to get the best, or just different, vantage point.  We snap dozens of photos as the sun sets over the Canadian horizon to the west.  As the sky darkens, we take some time in the gift shop to buy some postcards and gather information about some of the adventures available to us tomorrow.  By now, the bright lights from the opposite side have come on, illuminating the falls in a rainbow of color.  The graceful, visual beauty and the loud roar of the crashing water makes for a strong, yet harmonious dichotomy.  We walk over two bridges to Goat Island and continue down some nature trails with scant lighting and find ourselves on the precipice of Bridal Vail Falls.  Although this massive fall accounts for only 1% of all the falling water here at Niagara, it is a rousing experience.  Staring down a 180 foot drop is intense, but the feeling of something moving right at your feet and being pulled off that drop… well, suddenly you feel like you are on unstable ground.  It is unsettling and I feel a rush of adrenaline and fear, very much like riding a rollercoaster.  This time, however, I am not moving at all.  We drive back to our camp in the dark, rush through the flocks of mosquitoes and dive into the tent. We all fall asleep quickly.

            We take in Niagara Falls again today: first stop Canada.  Slade and Gunnar have not set foot off of US soil before and they are very intrigued with the border crossings we must make going both directions.  The tough post-911 questioning and procedures are a bit strange for them and they insist that I seem really nervous when questioned…. But, I tell them simply that they have confused the difference of showing respect to the agents and nervousness.  On the Canadian side, you really do get the best overall view of Niagara Falls, but it is much more expensive and much more commercial.  Parking in the main lot in Canada is $20.00 and because of our modest budget, I almost don’t pay it.  On the US side parking is $8.00 dollars and is very much like a preserve– national park uniforms, signage and atmosphere dominate.  The Canadian side, however – wow, what a difference a bridge can make.  The physical area along the gorge and falls is pleasant, but the feel of the place and the people are very different, very European, very Quebec.  This side is dominated by French Canadians, their cars display license plates with the tag line under the numbers which reads: “Je me souviens” ( I remember ) essentially saying that even though we are ruled by Canada and are an English Colony; I remember that I am French.  This separate and superior attitude is stamped defiantly right on the plates by the local Quebec government.  Here at Niagara Falls these visitors are a rude irritation; pushing forward to the railings and unwilling to wait their turn.  They are obtuse; and they bombard our ears with loud honking to each other.  The boys keep looking at us with bugged eyes…. They are not sure what to make of these people.  They push us around like we are sparrows trapped in their gaggle of geese; and knowing we cannot understand them, they indiscreetly make us endure their boisterous language, which seems to be spoken through both nostrils.  We are a bit puzzled why all of them are only on the Canadian side, but soon find the neighborhood they came for just a block into the town.  Picture the Las Vegas strip crammed into the tiny cobblestone streets of a European village:  streets too narrow for cars to pass; giant neon signs even larger than the stores they advertise; T-shirt shops; souvenir stands; ticket booths; adult bookstores; liquor stores and hair salons.  Renee calls it “Moulin Rouge”.  To me, it is a cartoon nightmare…. a carnival funhouse gone mad.  We can’t wait to get out of there.

            After crossing back to the US side and paying for parking – again, we lunch right in the parking lot on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  This road-trip delicacy has become a staple for us; it’s cheap, it’s fast and it does not require refrigeration.   You can easily pick out the down-and-out travelers everywhere we go.  On long road trip vacations, the rich are savoring the food in restaurants like Skylon Revolution Niagara, Wolfgang Pucks’ Grand Café and the Casa Mia Ristorante.  Families like us, the poor or unemployed, dine on PB and J’s in the parking lot.  We often share a nod or a wave with another family when we spot them spreading peanut butter.  It’s a small sign of solidarity and understanding between our families.  PB and J sandwiches, we learn, are a great conversation starter too.  Many times the more outgoing half of a couple with kids will jokingly say… “Hey, that looks good. Do you have enough for us?”  Before long, you know where this family is from, what they are going to visit next and how long they have been out on the road.  You will often get some unsolicited recommendations in these conversations too. “Oh, you just have to go to China Doll Factory National Monument….. We spent half the day.” Or, “Make sure you stop at the Bittersville Zoo…. They have real zebras there!”   They usually end the conversation with “well, we are going to go have some lunch ourselves.  Nice talkin’ to ya.”  Across the lot we spy their trunk opening and out pops the paper plates and sandwich bread.

            The highlight of Niagara Falls comes after lunch on the Cave of the Winds tour.  We discuss the possibility of doing the Maid of the Mist boat tour instead, or doing both tours, but after seeing the boats make their runs, with hundreds of rain-coated guests standing toe to toe, shoulder to shoulder; we opted out.  The boys decided it was too much like being sardines in a can.  Cave of the Winds tour, of course, is the walking tour down to the wood decks at the base of the falls.  This is not just a sight and sound adventure — you really feel the force of the falls here.  On this tour you get wet.  As a teenager here many years ago, I shared this experience with two of my brothers on the family trip.  We were issued heavy-duty, rubber hooded raincoats and felt lined fireman’s boots. I recall getting a bit wet, but not soaked.  Apparently, the tour operators gave up on that five years ago and started issuing yellow plastic kitchen-trash-bag-like ponchos and disposable sandals. The poncho we place over our heads today looks like it could be torn from you in a stiff breeze.  The heavy mist falls all over us during the tour, but in the far left corner of the Hurricane deck, as it is called, you can stand right under the full force of the falls.  Only a fully mature, large bodied male like me, can stand in this spot without getting blown off of the platform; hence the name hurricane deck.  I stand in the falls, feet firmly placed, my body braced against the railing for security.  The hard falling water is cold and almost painful; but, the violent deluge is exhilarating on this hot, humid day and we take advantage of it.  We return cooled off and completely soaked.  Our yellow trash bag ponchos do absolutely nothing. 

            Later in the day, we make a tour of Niagara County.  We go north at first, past colonial Fort Niagara and then turn to the east and follow the shoreline of Lake Ontario.  Beautiful homes with large well manicured acres of grassy yards flank the water’s edge.  The view of the lake and their boat moored on their own private dock must be very satisfying, I think to myself.  The scene is grand, and we envy it.  “This is middle class Americana at its’ finest!” I exclaim. “Look at the life they have…. and it is so affordable.”  We confirm this by reading the details of a few “for sale” and “for rent” signs and the prices displayed along the way.  My mind begins to wander from the road.  I see myself here, amongst the lake, big yards, boats, private beaches, fruit trees and a luxuriously long driveway leading to my own three car garage.  I imagine my new home here without a single beat up car parked in front of my home for weeks at a time like we have back in Scranton.  I picture nice, trustworthy neighbors who will give a pleasant “hello” to me and my children without a foreign accent and a recently home-pricked tattoo displayed on their neck.  And then, I remember that winter brutalizes the folks here on the shores of Lake Ontario for… well…probably about nine months of the year.  My little daydream ends and the road ahead comes back into focus.  I take a deep breath as I adjust my position in the leather driver’s seat.  Vacation, I remember, is vacation, it is not reality.  We continue through Niagara County, carefully winding our way in and out of little one cop towns.  Each little village, almost all the same, with weary looking grocery stores and city parks with rusted out playground equipment and a single tennis court sporting a tattered net and long, robust weeds sprouting up through cracks in the concrete.  We are later stopped at a drawbridge over the Erie Canal – surprised it is still filled with water and that a boat is crossing under the bridge in front of us.  Learning about the Erie Canal growing up in school and later singing the songs about the barges and oxen and weary, sweaty men, you get the impression that it is now only a forgotten part of our history…. extinct, like the telegraph and the pony express. But, here it is, transporting tourists upstream.

            It is late afternoon and we have put off eating again for so long that we are now starving.  We pass by a few suspect eateries along the way and eventually spot a lonely lunch truck in a small parking lot.  We creep up slowly; not fully committed, but then shrug our shoulders and put the car’s transmission in park.  Jenifer and I choose a hamburger and hotdog to share, but the boys have their eyes on a hotdog variety called a “white hot”.   They are both very hungry and so they munch down the strange white wieners as they pull sour faces.  I taste what remains of Gunnar’s dog and find it disgusting as well.  I suspect strongly that it must be made of intestines. The worker reveals’ to us that her white hot dog consists of veal, pork, beef, hot spices, powdered milk and a bunch of other crap.   I want to ask her…“Hell, why not shove some Nestle Quick and jelly beans in there too,” but, I hold back.  The lunch truck worker apologetically vouched for the popularity of the white hot, so I figure it must be a local thing.  Evening approaches back at camp, so we swim in the pool, do some laundry.  Our secluded campsite is still ours and ours alone.  Nothing but green beauty and 15 other unused campsites surround us.  Our camp is impervious to bugs now that we are using 40% DEET and the mosquitoes are forced to sit off in the distance, sulking, waiting, for the arrival of additional tent campers.  None come.  It is the weekend now and the other side of the campground is full; packed side-by-side down motor home row.  RV’s and the folks inside are like aliens in their spaceships to me.  Some of these rigs are larger than our little post-war home back in Scranton.  Even a giant motor home is not enough sometimes.  Several of these rigs tow long, double-axel trailers loaded with tuff sheds, riding lawn mowers, gas barbeque grills and enough wood to build a log cabin.  “Nothing like enjoying the great outdoors to the drone of a generator and a blaring television set,” I tell my wife.   We cannot see these admirals of the great land yachts, but we hear them distantly through the trees and the thick brush which lines both sides of a gentle stream.  We share the campground only when we cross over a footbridge, down a small forested path to the KOA office.  We make dinner and enjoy the campfire in peace and tranquility.  The quiet moments we share as a family on this night, as we cook over the fire and eat our savory foil dinners feels so unusual to me.  These moments are so cherished and rare at home, but they have been commonplace on this trip. 

            In the morning we leave camp in the rain; packing as fast as we can in a downpour.  All the while we are excitedly shouting and laughing at each other.  Thunder and lightning rolled into the Niagara area last night and even though we were dry in the tent, the world around us, including the many items we left out on the picnic table are soaked.  We stuff the Grand Prix with all our belongings and head for the New York Thruway.   I proved to myself and to my family that we could take a road trip vacation even though we could not really afford to go.  My family got to experience something new about America and we bonded in some subtle and wonderful ways. On the way home we are already discussing where we are going next year.