It must be that the Garden State is a popular springtime destination, because let me tell you: this place is booked.
I tried Ramada, Red Roof, Fairfield, Days Inn, and several others, all within earshot of the I-287 corridor, and there’s nothing to be found. I ended up pulling in to some rat hole off Route 46 in Parsippany, NJ, paying the friendly (but spaced-out) Indian at the counter $60 for a warm bed and free wifi. The neighbors are blasting “American Idol,” so they’re probably harmless.
With the stressful driving day yesterday, I needed today to restore my faith in the Republic. Luckily, Old Town Philadelphia is a wonderful spot.
For American history, you can’t get closer to the epicenter than Philadelphia. And you can’t pick a better ambassador for the city than Mr. Ben Franklin. So that’s where I began: on Market Street, on Penny’s Landing, along the Delaware River, where Franklin himself arrived from Boston penniless. I started where he started, and I’m glad I did. Franklin’s home and courtyard where right off Market St. (his actual house long since demolished), but one whole block carried on his memory. Up Market to 5th St. and over to Arch St., and you’ll find his burial place. I paid my respects, and moved on to the Liberty Bell and Constitution Center.
There they had a pretty cool setup: a nice presentation on how cool our Constitution is (required for any future presidents), a lovely gift shop, and a chance to meet all 40-something signers of the document that ensures no one is born a ruler in America. I met Mr. Washington (above), who is a tall guy: six-two and probably growing.
I saw Independence Hall and the spot where the first presidential house rested, and I noticed foreigners probably outnumbered American citizens two to one. Meanwhile, the horse-drawn carriages were competing with the Duck, a water/land rover that provides tourists with an SUV-level of gawking. One of the Ducks passed us on 6th St. when the announcer told her group, “And this is Independence Hall, where the Constitution was signed.”
“No it wasn’t,” said one of the carriage pilots. “It was signed at the bottom.”
I’m sure the rest of Philly is a wonderful town, but I had learned enough. Escaping Philly, however, would be its own adventure. Let’s just say I got lost in the not-so-nice part of town, but it’s not like this hasn’t happened before. I kept my wits, and found my way to Route 1 past Temple University and on to Morrisville, PA, an idyllic small town if there ever was one. You know those Rockwell-esque paintings of American flags and small-town doctor’s offices and kids eating ice cream while skipping down the sidewalk? That was Morrisville. It was a beautiful town, and I found my way past it to Washington’s Crossing – the spot where the good General led several thousand troops across the Delaware on a frozen Christmas Night to whip the Prussians in Trenton, NJ.
It’s a spectacular feeling to look across the river in the spring time and try to imagine what it was like in a sleet storm. The park, on both sides of the river, is very peaceful, and there are tons of trails with bikers and families.
And get ready for this: New Jersey is a beautiful state. At least the south-western section is. Rolling hills, dense forests, and every town is like one long Stonewall Rd. in Jackson: million dollar home everywhere. Everywhere! I haven’t seen a run-down modular yet. And the cars? The VW Beetle contingent is alive and well in the state of New Jersey. Plus Lexus and BMW and Audi. They’re all here in spades, with chrome to spare.
I climbed to Washington Rock, a vista that lets you see 30-plus miles in each direction, and it was a spot that helped the General plan his army’s next move during the Revolution. To the left, I could spot the skyscrapers of New York City, which is pretty friggin’ amazing considering I was still dead-center in New Jersey.
From there it was on to Morristown National Park, a settlement and farm that helped the colonials. Another great park with trails and scenery, and beyond that was something called the Great Swamp. But I wasn’t brave enough to stop and find out what the heck it was.
Let me tell you about Morristown: imagine a Royal Oak, but with hills and forests and no Detroit nearby. That was Morristown. One main drag, South St., held tons of posh restaurants and hangouts. I chose – and get this – The Office for dinner. It was the only standard bar and grill on the street, but the Crab Burger was amazing. I asked my waiter, Leo, about his lovely hometown.
“Yeah, it’s pretty chill,” he said.
Well I couldn’t argue with that, but I did ask him if he knew of any places to stay. He led me on a hour-long search, as described above, but somehow I found a place still open. And that, friends, is where I’m typing this entry.
Tomorrow night will have to be a night in the car, so you’ll have to excuse my absence. But if I can’t find a plug and a connection, I’ll update as soon as I can.
So far I’ve logged 777 miles on my car this trip. Lucky? Perhaps. I know I’ll need it.
Tomorrow is the Big Apple.
Tags: constitution, delaware river, franklin, hotel, liberty bell, market street, morristown, morrisville, new jersey, philadelphia, washington, yungling
