On that trip from Chicago to Vermont in 2002, we had no hotel reservations, would drive until we hit an interesting area or were ready for dinner. We passed Buffalo to go just a bit further East which put us in Rochester, New York. As a musician, I knew the area for the famous Eastman School of Music. I was excited to see it, maybe hear a concert and just be there.
Around noon, we stopped at a gas station pay phone to call ahead to make a reservation. They said they were booked but we knew there is always a room available on the floor reserved for Starwood members only. I asked for one of those rooms. Done, reservation made.
Hours later, as we were on the interstate, we pulled off then headed north. It clearly was just a small connector freeway to Rochester. We were rather shocked at our first view of the city. It was filthy. It was old. It looked very depressed. It looked very unfriendly.
We found the hotel. We then learned why they were sold out. There was a Jehovah’s Witness convention at the hotel. Enough said.
In the elevator on the way to the room, we asked the bellhop where we could walk for a nice dinner. I will never forget his reply: “It’s not safe to go out there.” He then reached into his jacket to give us coupons and a menu from a local pizza place. “Have delivery,” he said. Peering out the window, we decided to take his suggestion, as there was nothing around the hotel.
Because the flight arrived so late the night before, all the restaurants for dinner near our hotel at Midway Airport were closed. We had a very small breakfast at the hotel in the morning then skipped lunch in anticipation of a really nice dinner that evening. Forget a nice dinner. Forget a concert. Forget leaving the room. Pizza. Not what we had wanted or planned. Not a good dinner.
We fled Rochester early the next morning and drove to find a suburb for a good cup of coffee and breakfast. We pulled off the connector freeway at a random exit only to discover Americana. It was a very old town lined with Victorian homes all dressed up for the 4th of July. Each house was more decorated than the next. It was just picture perfect.
Then, almost as an oasis, there appeared a Starbucks. Remember, this was 2002. A Starbucks was still a rare sight. Nirvana. Nothing ever tasted better. We chatted with everyone around us. They were all rather shocked that we had spent the night in Rochester. No one, except maybe for the Jehovah’s Witnesses, stayed in Rochester.
Now they tell us.
We should have shuffled off at Buffalo.
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