The Lost Continent - Bill Bryson [90]
In the early evening I reached Mackinaw City, on the tip of the oven mitt, the point where the shorelines of southern and northern Michigan pinch together to form the Straits of Mackinac, which separate Lake Michigan from Lake Huron. A suspension bridge, five miles long, spans the gap. Mackinaw City – they are fairly casual about how they spell the word up this way – was a scattered and unsightly little town, full of gift shops, motels, ice-cream parlours, pizzerias, carparks, and firms operating ferries to Mackinac Island. Almost every place of business, including the motels, was boarded up for the winter. The Holiday Motel, on the shore of Lake Huron, seemed to be open so I went inside and rang the desk bell. The young guy who came out looked surprised to have a customer. ‘We were just about to close up for the season,’ he said. ‘In fact, everybody’s gone out to dinner to celebrate. But we’ve got rooms if you want one.’
‘How much?’ I asked.
He seemed to snatch a figure from the air. ‘Twenty dollars?’ he said.
‘Sounds good to me,’ I said and signed in. The room was small but nice and it had heating, which was a good thing. I went out and had a walk around, to look for something to eat. It was only a little after seven, but it was dark already and the chill air felt more like December than October. I could see my breath. It was odd to be in a place so full of buildings and yet so dead. Even the McDonald’s was closed, with a sign in the window telling me to have a good winter.
I walked down to the Shepler’s Ferry terminal – really just a big parking lot with a shed – to see what time the ferry to Mackinac Island would depart in the morning. That was my reason for being here. There was one at eleven. I stood beside the pier, facing into the wind, and gazed for a long time out across Lake Huron. Mackinac Island was berthed a couple of miles out in the lake like a glittering cruiseship. Nearby, even larger but with no lights, was Bois Blanc Island, dark and round. Off to the left, Mackinac Bridge, lit up like a Christmas decoration, spanned the strait. Everywhere the lights shimmered on the water. It was odd that such a nothing little town could have such a wonderful view.
I ate dinner in a practically empty restaurant and then had some beers in a practically empty bar. Both places had turned on the heating. It felt good, cosy. Outside the wind beat against the plate glass windows, making a woppa-woppa sound. I liked the quiet bar. Most bars in America are dark and full of moody characters – people drinking alone and staring ahead. There’s none of that agreeable coffee-house atmosphere that you find in bars in Europe. American bars are, by and large, just dark places to get drunk in. I don’t like them much, but this one was OK. It was snug and quiet and well lit, so I could sit and read. Before too long I was fairly well lit myself. This was also OK.
In the morning I woke early and gave the steamy window a wipe with my hand to see what kind of day it was. The answer was: not a good one. The world was full of sleety snow, dancing about in the wind like a plague of white insects. I switched on the TV and crept back into the warm bed. The local PBS station came on. PBS is the Public Broadcasting System, what we used to call educational TV. It is supposed to show quality stuff, though because it is always strapped for funds this consists mostly of BBC melodramas starring Susan Hampshire and domestically-produced programmes that cost about $12 to make – cookery programmes, religious discussions, local high school wrestling matches. It’s pretty well unwatchable most of the time, and it’s getting worse. In fact, the station I was watching was holding a telethon to raise funds for itself. Two middle-aged men in casual clothes