Places to Go, People to See

This entry is going to be slightly different from those before. Instead of recounting a trip I have made in the past, I am going to highlight a few places I have yet to visit, yet desperately want to see.

When we visited Tennessee, we basically crisscrossed the state and saw attractions located in each corner, yet we missed a big one. Now when I say we missed a big one, I am referring to the 228.0 by 101.4 foot structure commemorating classical architecture that eluded our attention. We missed the Parthenon. I know what you are thinking, “The Parthenon, isn’t that the Greek Temple built for the goddess Athena?” Well, you are right, there is a Parthenon built in Greece, but its twin is located in the Volunteer State. More precisely, the Nashville Parthenon, a full-scale replica of the original Parthenon in Athena, was built in 1897 as part of the Tennessee Centennial Exposition. Today, the Parthenon, standing in Nashville’s Centennial Park, serves as an art museum.

Another stop we, regrettable, failed to make was in Tupelo, Mississippi. “What could this city have to offer?” you might ask. Well, it certainly isn’t the largest city in the state of Mississippi; it is in fact the eighth. I mean, Krusty the Clown, from The Simpsons, is credited with starting his career as a street mime in Tupelo, but that is rather insignificant. So what is the attraction of this place? Simply stated, royalty came from Tupelo, Mississippi. On January 8, 1935, in a two-room home constructed using merely $180, the King of Rock & Roll, Elvis Presley, was born.

Everyone loves the beach. But, as much as I like soaking up sun rays, that is not the reason I want to visit Nantucket Sound off of Cape Cod, Massachusetts. It is off Nantucket Sound that, in my opinion, one of the most beautiful sky-scapes can be seen. It is there that Cape Wind has established America’s first offshore wind farm, thereby speckling the sky with the rotating blades of wing turbines. A demonstration of clean, inexhaustible, responsible energy surely constitutes a stop I wish to make.

Even exploring a state as thoroughly as my family does, there is always more to see. Experience has shown me that it is not necessarily the attractions that tourism agencies push that are most memorable. Equally, if not exceedingly, entertaining and educational are those stops made when you accidentally take the wrong turn off the highway and wander aimlessly down that long, dirt road.

The Nashville Parthenon, located in Centennial Park (top)
Photo from:http://forum.belmont.edu/students/800px-Parthenon.at.Nashville.Tenenssee.01.jpg

Tupelo, Mississippi, home of Elvis Presley, is designated as a historic landmark (middle)
Photo from: http://www.destination360.com/north-america/us/mississippi/images/s/tupelo.jpg

Wind Turbines speckle the offshore coastline of Cape Cod (bottom)
Photo from: http://www.treehugger.com/cape-wind-power-farm-b1.jpg

Double, double toil and trouble; Fire burn, and caldron bubble

An cinematic image capturing the drama of the courtroom during the Salem Witch Trails, located in Salem, Massachusetts

Photo from: http://www.vulcannonibird.de/noni/films/crucible/court.jpg

Witchcraft. It is a seemingly antiquated notion. The majority of people alive today do not believe in disembodied spirits, potions, and magical incantations. Yet, in the late 1600s, hysteria broke out in the Essex, Suffolk, and Middlesex counties of colonial Massachusetts. See, these people not only believed in the existence of witchcraft, they were horrified by it.

My trip to Salem, Massachusetts was eye-opening. Everyone is somewhat familiar with the story behind the legendary Salem Witch Trials. Essentially, what began as the hysterical, and probably attention-seeking, cries of teenagers evolved into the accusation and imprisonment of 180 townspeople – not to mention the execution, via hanging, of 19 villagers, and the pressing to death of an additional one. From an outsider’s perspective, it is difficult to understand how the nonsensical ranting of bored girls could turn into a large-scale witch-hunt. However, being immersed in the Puritan environment brings the society, driven by superstition and fear, to life once again.

I had the privilege of visiting Salem twice – once as part of a scheduled visit to Massachusetts, and another time as a trip specifically designed to investigate the historic city more thoroughly. See, I find the history behind Salem intriguing. In my opinion, it is unbelievable how far suspicious minds are willing and able to carry unfounded accusation. And Salem demonstrates this so well.

One of the predominate sources of information on the Salem Witch Trials is, appropriately, the Salem Witch Museum, located right at the heart of Salem, Massachusetts. What is so great about this museum is the sense of horror it invokes. As a visitor, you step back into historic Salem during that fateful year of 1692. Via life-size figures placed on stages with lighting and narration, you experience the Witch Trials of 1692. You witness the hysterical girls calling out the names of their victims. You sense the level of drama in the courtroom as an accused witch tries to defend him or herself again subjective evidence. You see the amount of havoc that a community wreaks upon itself.

What I find so fascinating about the history behind the Salem Witch Trials is how willing people are to believe the worse in one another. Equally interesting is how quickly a person will turn the finger on another, just to avoid being pointed at him or herself. I mean, honestly, the Puritan were so ridden with terror and distrust that they actually sent two dogs to death as the supposed accomplices of witches. As an exhibit at the Salem Witch Museum says, the equation for a witch-hunt is as follows: fear + trigger = scapegoat.

Tennessee Homesick Blues

Dolly Parton's mission statement for Dollywood
Photo from: http://reneeashleybaker.files.wordpress.com/2007/10/dolly-parton.jpg

New York City ain't no kind of place

For a country girl with a friendly face
If you smile people look at you funny
They take it wrong
The greenest state in the land of the free
And the home of the Grand Ole Opry
Is calling me back to my Smoky Mountain home
- “Tennessee Homesick Blues,” Dolly Parton

Dolly Parton’s roots cling strongly to the soil of the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee. Growing up in “dirt poor” conditions, Parton gained an appreciation for rustic living and country music. These early lessons contributed to making her the most successful female country artist in the history of the genre. And, being the philanthropist that she is, Dolly Parton made sure to give back to the community that raised her.

Dolly Parton has invested much of her earnings into business endeavors located in Pigeon Forge, in the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee. Notably, in 1986, Dolly Parton became co-owner of the amusement park that she would later rename “Dollywood.” Dollywood, like any amusement park, features rides, but what makes this park different from others are the attractions. Dollywood pays tribute to country life, in the form of traditional crafts and music from the Smoky Mountains.

When we visited Dollywood, it was not for the roller coasters or water rides, it was predominantly for the shows and live performances. What makes this park really distinctive is the emphasis it places on music. Each year, Dollywood hosts musical performances from local artists, international famed musicians, and even Dolly Parton herself. While at the park, I was not lucky enough to see the place’s namesake herself, but I did see a performance by her family. I think it is wonderful that Dollywood, in a sense, remains a family business, yet appeals to a larger audience as well.

And music is not the only item of interest at Dollywood, there are also artesian demonstrations and a memorandum museum. Every day at the park, there are displays put on by glass blowers, wagon makers, candle crafters, woodcarvers, etc. These presentations appealed to me because they are seemingly outdated crafts, yet, one will soon realize, they require an exceptional level of dexterity and talent. It is impressive. Also on the premises is “Rags to Riches: The Dolly Parton Story.” This museum features articles, photographs, awards, and keepsakes from Dolly Parton’s life and career. Walking through the showroom, I was flabbergasting by the transformation this small-town southern girl had gone through in order to arrive at the level of stardom that she currently assumes. It is a true under-dog story.

My visit to Dollywood provided me with a greater appreciation for life in the Smoky Mountains. Dolly Parton’s amusement park helps me understand the sentiment behind her singing, “Good Lord have mercy on a country girl, tryin' to make a living in a rhinestone world. It's hard to be a diamond in a rhinestone world, with Tennessee homesick blues runnin' through my head.”

Venice-in-America, in Indiana?

“For You From Me,” Jon McLaughlin

Music video from Indiana native, Jon McLaughlin, paying tribute to Indiana as a whole, with specific footage from the Indiana State Museum and The Canal and White River State Park

On our way to the Indiana State Museum I was busy recounting the number of state museums we had previously visited. There was the New York State Museum with its long houses and woolly mammoth. Also there was the Alabama State Museum with all its natural history relics. Then there was the Massachusetts State Museum that satisfied every scientific curiosity. Having visited all these museums, I was unsure what another trip to a museum could provide me. Would it simply play tribute to the state’s agriculture? What would make this museum any different from the rest? Well, the answer resided not necessarily in what was inside the museum, but rather what was outside of it.

The State Museum of Indiana is located in the bustling hubbub of Indianapolis. (I know, I too was surprised that, amongst the sea of grain that is Indiana, there happens to be a city.) And yes, the museum is nice. It pays its respects to the Native Americans that lived on the land. It details the state’s specific history. It includes energy and sustainability displays and interactive exhibits. But what is truly captivating is the Canal and White River State Park that encompasses the museum.

The Canal and White River State Park have been a work-in-progress for approximately two decades. It is honestly what I would envision as a Venice-in-America. The Park follows the winding path of a canal, a canal speckled with pedal boats being operated by eager participants. And yes, there have even been gondolas placed on the canal that offer rides to patrons. Flanking the waterway are sidewalks that feature not only tandem bikes, but also four-seater canopy bicycles. Further outward there are shaded benches, flowers flowing over latticework, and sweeping green lawns.

I had such an extraordinary time in Indianapolis that day. Following our visit to the museum, we simply had a leisurely, lazy afternoon. My parents and I munched on lunch while lounging outside on a terrace, one that provided a gorgeous view of the city skyline. We then ambled along the pathway and waved cheerfully to the other visitors enjoyed their springtime activities. When it got warm we reclined under the covered benches and took a break from the sunlight. We stayed at the park until nightfall, when it started to get chilly and the nighttime insects began buzzing around us. Even then, we were reluctant to leave.

Art of Play

Interactive footage from "Niki in the Garden" exhibit in Chicago's Garfield Park

In an effort to tailor our vacations more to each family member’s interests, my mom asked us all to look at brochures featuring Chicago attractions. Flipping through the pages of about a dozen pamphlets, the item that caught my attention featured shiny objects and bright colors. I cast my vote and insisted we visit the seasonal outdoor art display, “Niki in the Garden.”

“Niki in the Garden” was a roaming outdoor art display that, in the summer of 2007, was being featured in Chicago’s Garfield Park. In order to arrive at the park, we took the Green Line to Central Park Avenue. I was hesitant about stepping off the train, because what greeted us on the other side of the door was lurking shadows and what could only be described as a sketchy rail stop. However, we continued onward towards the Conservatory, the start of the art display.

After each paying our $5 suggested entry donation, we began to stroll through the conservatory. What was neat about “Niki in the Garden” was that the sculptures were intertwined between plants, ferns, trees, and flowers of botanical significance. Also, as part of the “Art of Play” series, visitors were encouraged to touch and interact with the pieces. Given the shear scale of the sculptures, as well as the subject matter, I found that children and adults alike enjoyed this privilege.

The sculptures I saw that day were, without a doubt, some of the most bizarre art forms I have seen, and this is the opinion of someone who was schooled in odd classical art like Dying Gaul. I mean, picture this: the tallest sculpture was 18 feet tall, and the longest piece stretched 25 feet. The sculptures encompassed gigantic totem poles, iconic sports figures, neon skulls, etc. Oh, and for the kicker, the artist’s topic of choice was voluptuous women with bodacious bodies.

“Nanas,” a French term standing for “babes” or “chicks,” decorated the landscape at every turn. These curvy women were sculpted in angelic poses and always displayed technicolored bosoms with mix-matched patterns and uneven sizing. Upon seeing these “Nanas,” I was convinced that the artist was yet another male sculptor with a seemingly unhealthy fetish. Well, turns out I was wrong in every aspect of that generalization.

The artist was actually French-American painter and sculptor, Niki de Saint Phalle. The artist was a woman. An ex-fashion model, as it turns out. That insight caused me to eat my words about the “Nanas” being the renderings of a chauvinistic, male mind. It turns about that these portrayals of women were actually Niki de Saint Phalle’s way of expressing the archetypical role women in society. Quite the opposite.

My stay at Garfield Park was so enjoyable because it was so different. Something about strolling through a city park on a gorgeous summer day, all while looking at art, just appealed to me. It was casual, it was unique, and it was most definitely entertaining.

Island in the Stream, or rather River

The ferry ride to Block Island, lasting less than an hour, made me queasy. I have even been known to express “sea-sickness” while traveling though the lock system on the Eric Canal. So, in no way, was I excited to embark upon a 135-minute boat tour of the Thousand Islands, straddling the United States-Canada border. I mean, the name itself indicated a certain level of redundancy – certainly the first hundred islands would give me a good enough impression of the place that I could get off the boat and back on solid ground.

As stated in its title, the Thousand Islands is an archipelago of islands, numbering over 1,793. The archipelago stretches between New York and Ontario, along the Saint Lawrence River. The included islands vary greatly in size, maxing out around 40 square miles, and in their level of inhabitance.

Do to the shear number of land outcropping located in the Saint Lawrence River, certain guidelines have been set up to determine which landforms count as “islands.” As a general rule, to be considered an island, the piece of land has to be above water level for the entire year, have an area larger than one square foot, and play host to at least one living tree. This criterion offerssome basic similarities between the islands, but aside from this, they differ greatly.

For example, on Heart Island there is the Boldt Castle. This 120-rooom grandiose gift that was commissioned to be built by millionaire George C Boldt out of love for his wife, Louise. However, during construction, Louise died and George ceased all construction. It was not until 73 years later when the Thousand Islands Bridge Authority acquired the property that restorations were made. And, as for a little tidbit of information, is was Boldt’s personal chef that invented what was later to be known as Thousand Island dressing.

The island closest to Boldt Castle is “Just Room Enough.”

This island, as the name would imply, is merely large enough to fit a single house. However, when water levels are low enough, the house is also embellished with a few outdoor lounge chairs.

Another point of interest along the tour is the Zavikon Island. This stop is actually a pairing of islands. As the amusing antidotal story goes, the bigger island in located in Canada and the smaller one in the United States. Supposedly, when the husband was “in the doghouse,” the wife would send her spouse to another country via the “shortest international bridge in the world.” Unfortunately, both islands are actually located in Canadian territory and belong to the Leeds and Grenville municipal unit. Yet the story remains amusing.

The Thousand Island boat tour I partook in was infused with so much information and humorous history that I forgot about the fact that I was on a boat. Plus, as it turns out, the Saint Lawrence River isn’t exactly turbid water, so sea-legs really aren’t a necessity. This should be a relief to anyone like me who didn’t inherit the nautical gene.

Heart Island, home of the Boldt Castle (top)

Photo from:http://www.andrewcusack.com/bolc1.jpg

One of the Thousand Islands with "Just Room Enough" for a single house (middle)

Photo from: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/6/6f/Thousand_Islands_single_house.jpg

Contrary to legend, these islands do not span the international border (bottom)

Photo from: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/a/a8/ZavikonIslandBridge.jpg

Myst-ifying Experience

One of the most impressive, forgive the pun, places I have visited is Niagara Falls. For lack of a better description, the Falls are just awe-inspiring. I vividly recall my reaction upon initially seeing them. It was, “Wow!”

Now Niagara Falls is such a grandiose attraction that it actually straddles the international border between the Canadian province of Ontario and the U.S. state of New York. Even though I have been a native New Yorker for the greater part of my life, I had never seen Niagara Falls prior to about three or four years ago when I made this trip. And, at that rate, I had never been out-of-country before making the hop, skip, jump over the border to see the Falls from the Canadian point-of-view.

One of the attractions we participated in was the Maid of the Mist boat ride, named after an ancient Ongiara Indian mythical character that carried passengers into the whirlpools underneath the Falls since 1846. Now, I thought the directors of the ride were just being overly precautions when they advised all riders to “Hang on to your hats and small children.” Well, they weren’t. Before we even reached the turn-around place at the bottom of the waterfalls, I counted at least six caps that went flying off. Luckily though, no children were carried away. But those crashing waves certainly are powerful, which, as it turns out, is what makes them such prime candidates for the generation of hydroelectricity.

Another truly breathtaking event that is held at Niagara Falls is the nigh lightshow. Once the sun has set and it is dark enough for the lighthouses to begin operation, the show starts. For approximately 30 minutes, different colors bathe the Falls in a rainbow array. It blew my mind that such a simple illumination show could be so captivating. Yet it was. Without an ounce of shame, I made myself the “stereotypical tourist.” I whipped out my camera and took so many pictures, in rapid succession, that a flip book or film strip could be made from the negatives. It was just so beautiful that I wanted to record its grandeur. And that I did.

Panoramic view of Niagara Falls from the Canadian side (top)
Photo from: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/55/NiagaraFallsPanorama.jpg

Maid of the Mist Boat ride below the Falls (bottom)
Photo from: http://z.about.com/d/gocanada/1/0/y/2/-/-/Maid_of_the_Mist_courtesy_embassysuites.JPG

New Yorker goes to the country

We were going to see a Christian group perform. At a venue with the word “Opry” in the title. In a building that has interior decorations resembling a barn. Where many a-banjos had been strum and acoustic guitars picked. The location being the heart of country music, Nashville, Tennessee. I was horrified.

In an attempt to brace myself for the ordeal that was sure to occur that Tuesday night, I must have asked my mom at least ten times, “Who are we seeing?” Yet, despite her repetitive attempts, the name of the group would not stick in my head. To this day, I could not tell you who headlined that night.

Nothing could have prepared me for what was in store for us that night at the Grand Ole Opry. After all, I was about to attend a show from the oldest continuous radio program in the United States, one that has been broadcasted on WSM since October 5, 1925. See, nothing could have prepared me, because it exceedingly surpassed any and all of my expectations.

I positively loved the antiquated atmosphere of the venue. It was a Tuesday night, yet it seemed like everybody dressed up, in their Sunday –best, and came out for a night of good music. It truly seemed like everybody attending the show knew one another (they likely were season ticket holders and did know one another), yet we, clear outsiders from New York, were welcomed whole-heartedly by smiling faces.

We found our seats in the auditorium, and I was astounded that we were merely 10 rows from the stage, for the low ticket price of about $30. And then the music began. The Christian group came on the stage. Let me tell you, any preconceived notions I had about Christian music were thrown out the window upon hearing these singers. What I experienced was less “Christian” as I would define it, and much more so “Rock.” Following this group were about three or four other acts, all falling under the category of “Country.”

Now I had never liked country music. I am a product of the boy-band era and loved my pop music hand-me-downs like Britney Spears, Smash Mouth, and the such. But my time as the Grand Ole Opry changed that. Although I don’t drink, have never so much as milked a cow, and don’t harbor an undying love for pick-up trucks, this music spoke to me. I loved the blatant honest and in-your-face humor that country music presents.

And as for humor, the night was infused with it. Being that the concert was recorded live and broadcasted over the radio, it was only natural that commercials be included in the program. And the commercials were the funniest, corniest advertisements ever. I am convinced that the products that were being pushed were the same ones that had been advertised the Opry’s entire history. I mean, where else is bar soap, belonging to a company other than Dial, spoken about six times in the courses of two hours? It was hilarious, because, by the end of the show, the announcer that was reading the commercials had to say to the audience, “I know guys, we just need to read this once more,” in reference to the bar soap dialogue.

In retrospect, what is so incredible about the Grand Ole Opry is the history that is engrained in the floorboards and recorded in the microphone of that sacred stage. Those planks have had all the famed country musicians walk across them. That microphone has captured the vocals of everybody who has ever made it big in Nashville. It serves as a living museum of all country artists come and gone.

My night at the Grand Ole Opry was simply an enjoyable, kick-back-your-heels sort of evening. After that night I began my intense love for country music. A very out-of-place love given I’m a New Yorker. How is that for irony?

Little Jimmy Dickens, beloved member of the Grand Ole Opry for 60 years

Photo from: http://www.morethings.com/music/little_jimmy_dickens/grand_ole_opry-jimmy_dickens.jpg

Slowed Down City Life

Even though we didn’t arrive in New Orleans in time for “Fat Tuesday,” the city still offered ample entertainment. Without flailing bodies and distracting garb to steal our attention that April 2005 day, we were able to take in the exquisiteness of Jackson Square, which in many ways resembled a typical town square, but on a larger scale.

Jackson Square, known up until 1814 as Place d'Armes, is historic park located in the French Quarter of New Orleans, Louisiana. In the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, the Place d’Armes’ bleak claim-to-fame was that is served as the preferred site for the public execution of disobedient slaves. Luckily, the dismembered bodies of slaves no longer serve as decorations for the city gates.

Currently, the plaza has, at its heart, a castle-like cathedral, the Saint Louis Cathedral. Coincidently, we were in New Orleans on the day that the new pope, Pope Benedict XVI, was being ordained. To honor this event, chiming church bells echoed through the district for nearly an hour. In front of the church, there is a great lawn with bordering gardens, all of which emphasize the monumental statue paying tribute to the Square’s new namesake, General Andrew Jackson.

The side-streets of New Orleans were equally as active as the Square itself. The walkways were speckled with local artists selling masterpieces, seeking inspiration from the metropolitan hubbub, and soliciting shoppers to sit for portraits. In spite of the fact that New Orleans is a municipality, it avoids many of the excesses that characterize other great cities. I found it refreshing that Jackson Square was remarkably clean, beggars weren’t prevalent, and people didn’t seem to be in a hurry.

Jackson Square, complete with Saint Louis Cathedral and Jackson statue

Photo from: www.inetours.com/New_Orleans/images/Tours/Jackson_Square_0466.jpg

"Tastes like Chicken"?

Four years ago, my family ventured to Louisiana to explore its hidden grandeur. Much to my brother’s dismay, we opted to schedule our vacation for April – two months after confetti speckled the sky and fluorescent masks roamed the streets – in hopes of bypassing tourist traffic. One of the first stops on our journey was the Bayou Pierre Alligator Park.

Blindsided by how simple the directions appeared on MapQuest, we were under the impression that to get to the Park we would just exit the highway and take a few turns. How wrong we were.

After leaving the reassuring blacktop of the express lane, we found ourselves in what only could be described as “backcountry.” With wide eyes, we observed houses peel away on either side of the street until there was only a scattering left. We became even more disconcerted when our car lurched and we discovered that we had left the paved street and entered, not a cobblestone lane or stone path, but a dirt road.

We were ready to turn back when we glimpsed a sign indicating the distance to our desired destination. Relief rolled over us as we entered the asphalt parking lot and noted the existence of other out-of-staters. Little did we know that we had entered the Crocodile Hunter’s greatest fantasy.

We found ourselves surrounded by ponds of turbid water that rippled when a swishing tail threaded its way closer to the wire mesh separating itself from visitors. A head would then appear above the water and glossy, narrow eyes would dare us to approach. As if these grimaces were not enough to cause us to retreat several steps, the agility with which the creatures attacked food thrown into their enclosures did.

Despite our initial anxiety, we meandered around the pens and found that the alligators weren’t as aggressive as they appeared. We even discovered one reptile sunbathing on a rock with a broad grin across its face.

We concluded our trip with a stop at the in-house café. The kitchen was serving everything from salad to salamander, or rather its cousin, alligator. My father was feeling daring and decided to try alligator-on-a-stick. The order arrived deep fried and brown. Despite his fervent appraisal, I found it hard to believe that it “tastes like chicken!”

The Mountain Has Eyes

Every once in a while it is the natural things in life, things that have not been tainted or compromised by the hand of man, that take your breath away. One such natural wonder, if you will, is the Old Man of the Mountain located in the White Mountains of New Hampshire.

This Old Man, the resulting image of series of five granite cliff ledges, has served as the icon of New Hampshire in many ways. It has spent time on stamps, in short stories, and on the state’s commemorative quarter.

The Old Man made it so that if you are staring off into the distance, there was something staring back. But, alas, it stares no more. The Great Stone Face collapsed on May 3, 2003. But, while it lasted, the Old Man of the Mountain certainly was a rock with some character!

Composite image of the Old Man of the Mountain, as he stood

Photo from: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/2/28/Old_Man_of_the_Mountain_overlay_2.jpg

Don’t Forget the Flavor

Graveyards are supposed to be areas of somber reflection. They are hallowed grounds. They contain gravestones dedicated to the departed. This being said, why would a graveyard ring with chuckles, feature smiling faces, and be home to laughing voices? Because it is the Flavor Graveyard at the Ben & Jerry’s Factory in Vermont, that is why.

The Flavor Graveyard is, innately, an original attraction. This “graveyard” is the final resting place of flavors from days-gone-by. When select flavors (ranging from “Peanut Butter & Jelly” to “Miz Jelena's Sweet Potato Pie” to “Bovinity Divinity”) are retired by Ben & Jerry’s, they have a poem written about their lifespan, which is then placed on a gravestone. This gravestone serves as a lasting memento of the flavor’s time in circulation.

The Flavor Graveyard is only one of the many featured attractions at the Ben & Jerry’s Factory. The Factory also offers an informational movie in the “Cow Over the Moon Theater,” factory floor tour, and, the highly-anticipated finale, tasting booth.

I know that after my trip to the factory I will not think of Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream the same. I mean, the history, as well as statistics, are startling. Ben & Jerry’s turns out 110 pints per minute. All milk and cream comes from family cows in Vermont. Unbleached paperboard containers are used to package the ice cream. And, did I mention, employees at Ben & Jerry’s are allowed to take home 3 pints of ice cream per day! Yep, the factory is that cool!

Two gravestones in the Flavor Graveyard
Photo from: http://littlebayroot.files.wordpress.com/2009/02/flavor-graveyard-ben-jerrys.jpg

Who needs fun in the sun, when you can experience the shocking pulse of the electric chair?

Don’t misconstrue the facts; I am not a masochist. That being said, one of my favorite and, needless to say, most memorable vacation destinations has been the West Virginia Penitentiary, located in Moundsville, West Virginia.

Everything about this building is cold. The Gothic, citadel-styled structure of the prison casts a shadow so large that it cloaks the entire property. The stone façade is so menacing that the building appears impenetrable from the outside. Gun mounts visible on the turrets, pointing outward instead of inward, cause a chill to run down your spine. So much as looking at the prison will cause you to quiver and hastily back away. Yet, on that August 2006 day, I could not wait to enter.

The Penitentiary is stuck in a moment in time. A moment when high-security inmates, that lovingly termed themselves “The Alamo,” inhabited the halls. A moment when prison guards dodged fecal matter being thrown at them as they patrolled the cells of criminals. A moment when the flip of a switch would determine whether or not you went home a killer that day. A moment when riots, fires, fights, and escapes threaten your life on a daily basis. A moment when a “high-security” prison was not too secure at all.

A tour of this now-historic-landmark is sickening and intriguing. I was disgusted when shown the electric chair, but felt compelled by the history behind it. I mean, honestly, who wouldn’t find it interesting that the chair was actually designed by an inmate? Doesn’t it cause you to wonder how that individual’s popularity must have gone downhill, and fast?

The West Virginia Penitentiary was something I had never experienced before (and not something I would necessarily like to repeat), yet it caused me to think. And the primary thought running across my mind was, “I will NEVER commit a crime. I’d be too terrified of the repercussions.”

West Virginia State Penitentiary
Photo from: www.marshallcountrytourism.com/wvpen-1.jpg