Street signs. Major themes in books and film (I watched Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy and was woefully confused because I kept getting distracted by Benedict Cumberbatch’s hair). And often, when I travel, I tend to miss precisely what it was I set out to see on that day.

This past summer, when I visited Florida, my friend Giselle took me to the beach so I could see a rocket launch from Cape Canaveral. Not as grand as a shuttle launch, mind you, but still something pretty cool to see, especially if you didn’t grow up with it.

As we waited, we got a little bored and one of us really wanted a snack (sigh. FINE. IT WAS ME), so we wandered into a Starbucks. We got drinks and chatted, and then the kid behind the counter started flirting with Giselle and I politely suggested that she “tap that”. She protested that he was too young and I argued that this meant she could teach him a thing or two, plus he was employed and probably smelled of cappuccino.

(I still think she should have gone for it. I once dated a guy for two months because he had a Smiths poster on his wall and one time, he made me a nice steak. That was it.)

So I sat, quietly planning her and coffee boy’s wedding while sipping an iced tea, when Giselle suddenly stood up and said, “The launch!”

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We ran outside just in time to see the exhaust plume fading in the blue sky. So I missed that, too. But I didn’t mind all that much, because I was having a nice time. Giselle didn’t seem to mind either, and the way I figured it, she had more to complain about: she had managed to miss both the launch and had to cut short her flirtation time with her future husband.

That’s the power of good company. When you miss something, it doesn’t leave you empty-handed: often times, you get a story out of it. And something to laugh about later.

It is why our failed outing to see the dancing fountain in Barcelona wasn’t a complete loss.

I remembered the Fuente Magica de Montjuic (“the magical fountain of Montjuic”) from a high school trip I took to Spain when I was 16. It was a technicolor marvel: the water was lit with an array of hues that left me craving Starburst candy, and the fountain bubbled and shot streams into the air in synch to music.

I couldn’t quite remember what time the show started, but I figured it would be around midnight, because the Spaniards have no problem doing all sorts of things while the rest of the world is fast asleep. If they were a more militaristic culture, I’d be alarmed that they were planning something. But while we’re vulnerably unconscious, they’re usually dancing to awful club music or eating toasts with cured ham on top, sipping wine, and yelling at each other. Clearly, they are a country with their priorities straight.

The four of us hailed a cab and told the driver to take us to Montjuic. We later discussed it and found that we all, at one point or another over the course of our brief car ride, thought we were going to die in that vehicle.

Rand suspected the driver was high. Joanna merely stared at the rest of us and raised her eyebrows from time to time, her subtle way of saying, “Um … guys?” I looked out the front window and stifled a giggle, which is apparently what I do when confronted with my own mortality. And Kenny, who sat in the front seat, held on to whatever he could until his knuckles were white.

Later, on terra firma, Kenny screamed, “HE WAS GOING TO KILL US. WE ALMOST DIED,” and we all laughed, because Kenny’s rage is hilarious and charming.

We made it to Montjuic in record time, which was pointless, because the show was long over. The fountains were dark and quiet, and except for a gaggle of drunk girls in mini skirts running to catch the cab we gratefully vacated, we were alone.

“Shit,” I said, looking at the darkened plaza before us. I began apologizing profusely, but Rand and Joanna and Kenny ran ahead, undeterred.

“It’s really awesome,” I said, trying in vain to explain how the fountain lit up. I remembered being 16 and enchanted and thinking that the world was bigger that I knew it to be. But my cohorts didn’t seem all that interested in how great the fountain had been an hour before. Nor were they that disappointed, really.

They seemed content to just run around and take a bunch of photos. So I perched my camera on my bag, set the timer, and obliged …

I ... I don't know. It made sense at the time, I swear.

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It is, for the record, remarkably difficult to capture everyone in the air at the same time while the camera is on auto-timer.

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Then they ran up to the now-quiet fountain, and barely noticed the cautionary sign nearby.

In all fairness, I'm not sure what this is supposed to be warning us of. Groundwater?

It was something about how you shouldn’t roll around in the grass because you’ll get electrocuted or something. To be honest, it wasn’t very clear (how does groundwater lead to electrocution? Can someone please explain?)

But at this point, we feared nothing. After all, we’d already cheated death once on the ride over. So this happened:

So ... yeah.

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Don’t worry: they were fine. Fate doesn’t kill beautiful people in their prime (with a few notable exceptions).

We were the only ones there at that late hour – running and shouting and goofing off against a quiet backdrop where a fantastic fountain show should have been. We were seemingly alone, until a booming, disembodied voice shook through the plaza.

I don’t know where it came from – the same PA system that plays music for the water show, perhaps – but it was deep and ominous, and had you told me it was the voice of god, I’d have almost believed you.

It leveled out a harsh warning, and I looked at everyone wide-eyed. I had temporarily forgotten no one but I spoke Spanish.

They stared at me, confused. In reply, I looked at them calmly, before screaming, “HAUL ASS!” and tearing down the stairs. For the record, this is a great way to freak out your travel buddies. Don’t translate, just start running. (Not recommended for family trips or when vacationing with the elderly,)

Seeing the looks on their faces, I laughed, stopped, and explained that the voice had announced that the park was closed, and we were trespassing. Amused by our own lawlessness, we continued our screaming run down the stairs, to find another cab, and to laugh in the face of death again.

In the car on the way back to the hotel, we chatted loudly about our previous stoned driver, the empty park, and disembodied voice that sent us running into the night. Our cabbie kept glancing at us in the rearview mirror, trying to decipher if we were completely nuts.

I tried, in my broken Spanish, to explain to him what had happened. How we had tried to see the show, how we had run around in the shadows, how we had, as Kenny was so keen on reminding us, almost died.

But it was pointless to try to describe it to the cab driver. It was one of those things, really, that he’d have to miss for himself.

On Halloween day, I headed to the Tribeca firestation made famous in Ghostbusters. That night, I channeled Margot Tennenbaum on the streets of midtown, eating stick after stick of candy cigarettes.

The next day, I realized I wasn’t yet done paying pilgrimage to movie locations or obsessing over Wes Anderson.

And so, on the first day of November, which was bright and clear and curiously warm, I left our hotel with a specific goal in mind: I was going to see the house on Archer Ave that Royal Tenenbaum bought in the winter of his thirty-fifth year.

The Royal Tenenbaums was the first movie I even saw in the theater with the boy I later married. I don’t know if that is part of the reason I can’t watch it without my heart hurting, without sighing longingly and thinking that life is beautiful and hilarious, even when it’s sad.

It might be something more – like the fact that my father has always sort of reminded me of Gene Hackman. That in a few early scenes of the film, Anjelica Huston‘s character speaks Italian. That weeks after it came out my brother called me and the first words out of his mouth were not “Hello” or “How are you?” but, “Have you seen The Royal Tenenbaums?” 

If you are unfamiliar with the film, please take a minute (or 109 minutes, to be exact) to watch it. I’ll wait. Really. (Seriously, go. This post will be waiting for you when you get back).

There. Good, yes? Your life is changed, isn’t it? Yes. I know.

Though Archer Avenue itself is fictional, the house that Wes Anderson used in The Royal Tenenbaums is not (his draw to the building was so strong, it actually influenced parts of the story). It stands on the corner of West 144th and Covent Ave in Harlem.

Harlem. Prior to that November day, I’d never been further than 112th street. I knew nothing of Harlem besides its eponymous globetrotters, and the fact that my husband’s mother had grown up there.

I looked at my map. Harlem sat at the very top, threatening to fall of the edge. I decided to take the 3 train. This was a mistake. The A, B, C, or D will place you around the corner from the house. The 3 will drop you off three-quarters of a mile away. But I’ve never been one to have much direction, in travel or in life, and it was a beautiful day. I stepped off the subway, learned of my mistake, and began trekking across a portion of Manhattan that I never knew existed.

It was like time had become undone. It may have been the 70s, the 80s, the 90s or now. Or perhaps all of those things at once.

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I crossed Malcolm X Avenue. I saw old churches made of stone and small, family-run restaurants with neon signs. I listed to men laughing loudly inside a barber shop, their chatter bouncing off the walls and onto the street. Everyone I saw was on their way somewhere. There were no tourists in this part of town, save for me.

And I, too, was on my way somewhere.

The sun lit up old, graffitied buildings, forever cementing the impression in my mind that Harlem is bright and beautiful.

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The house is in a wealthy little enclave called Hamilton Heights. It’s beautiful and somewhat disorienting, not just because you feel like you stepped onto a movie set, or because you need to remind yourself that this is, in fact, still Manhattan, but also because all the houses look like they could be the one where Richie, Chas, and Margot grew up.

Like this one, which sat across the street from my destination, and also had the telltale spire:

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Or this one, which was just down the road.

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Or even the church across the street.

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But I’d seen the movie enough times. I knew the spire I was looking for. The wrought-iron fence out front, the stairs Eli crashed into. The rooftop on which Margot and Richie shared an ancient cigarette. I knew it when I saw it, as if there had been tiny dalmatian mice hiding in the corners.

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It’s a beautiful house. I only saw it from the outside, but still, it was lovely.

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I spent far too much time capitivated by everything.

The leaves on the cement banister.

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The three stories of windows, out of which each of three Tenenbaum children stared.

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The scrolling metalwork on the fence out front.

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I went knowing I couldn’t go in. The house is a private residence, a discovery which caused me the same mixture of envy and pain that I get when I pass my childhood home here in Seattle. You simply hope that the current inhabitants who live there know how truly lucky they are. That they wake up every morning and think, “This is the greatest house in the world.”

And then you dream, quietly, of the day when your writing career will take off (because it is your dream, after all) and you are able to buy it. And every morning after, you’d open your eyes and sigh wistfully and think, “This is the greatest house in the world.”

But back in this reality, you have to say goodbye to the house and return to midtown.

As I walked through Harlem again, this time to a nearer subway stop, I began to wax poetic (the way one only can when they are wandering through uncharted parts of New York alone). I thought about how life isn’t a straight comedy or tragedy – how it’s all those things in one, and it leaves you wanting to laugh and cry at more or less the same time. It’s not unlike how I feel after watching a Wes Anderson movie. And perhaps that’s why he resonates so well with me.

And why I trekked all the way to Harlem. Just to look at a house, and only from the outside.

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The Essentials on the Tenenbaums House (West 144th and Covent Ave, Harlem):

• Verdict: Yes. If you saw the movie (and consequently loved it, because, really, HOW COULD YOU NOT?) it’s worth a visit. If you haven’t seen the movie, why didn’t you do so when I told you to 18 paragraphs ago?
• How to Get There: This should be easy for most people. You hop on the A, B, C, or D, and it will graciously drop you off around the corner. I’m just kind of an idiot.
• Ideal for: Wes Anderson fans; folks who have spent too much damn time in New York and have started roaming aimlessly into seldom-trekked sections of the city.
• Insider Tips: The house is a private residence, so banging on the front door while screaming, “I ALWAYS WANTED TO BE A TENENBAUM!” is ill-advised. True fans will also want to check out other filming locations from the movie.
• Good for Kids: Dear lord, no. The Tenenbaum house is not appropriate for children.

Guess where I am. Go ahead. Guess.

It’s rare that I have direction when I travel, in any sense of the word. I usually roam around the city, using my blessedly-large nose to seek out and follow the smell of baked goods, often to a happy end.

But during my trip to New York last October, I had, for one of the few times in my life, direction (and one that was not influenced by baked goods).

I needed to make a pilgrimage to Tribeca, and one that was a long time in coming. I had intended to go to 14 North Moore Street for years, but the other callings of New York (Ellis Island, shopping, and cupcakes) kept leading me astray. This time, though, there was nothing else on my schedule. The sun was shining, it was unseasonably warm, and it was, rather fittingly, Halloween Day.

And so it was a perfect occasion to visit the firehouse that served as headquarters for Ray, Peter, Winston, and Egon.

That’s right: I was going to Hook & Ladder 8. The New York fire station used in Ghostbusters.

My love for films of my childhood is no secret here on the blog (every few years I pop down to Astoria, OR, where The Goonies was filmed, just to see if anything has changed. It has not). Ghostbusters ranks high on my list of favorites, and even to this day, quotes from the movie pepper my vernacular.

My default outburst of choice is always, “Mother pus bucket!”. And at least once a week Rand will do something that will cause me to yell, “What did you do, RAY? WHAT DID YOU DO?”

Getting to Hook and Ladder 8 is surprisingly easy – the subway will drop you off just a few steps away. On the corner of N. Moore and Varick, you’ll see it.

I may have squee'd a little when I saw it, because that's what grown women do when their childhood dreams are realized.

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The station is still being used, so be careful when you approach it. The firefighters I encountered were incredibly polite, and no strangers to curious tourists, but you’ll still want to get the heck out of the way if they start to pull the truck out of the garage.

I felt some subtle disappointment when I saw that the vehicle which emerged, sirens blazing, was not in fact the Ecto-1.

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There’s a subtle tribute to the movie, painted on the ground near the station house – a rendition of the Ghostbusters logo that looks very little like the original, but may be just enough to communicate to a savvy passer-by as to what’s going on.

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Then again, perhaps it’s fitting that it doesn’t look like the movie logo. It’s a reminder that the beloved stories from our childhoods are merely that – stories – and that reality can be far grimer. Proving that point even further is this plaque on the wall of the station, commemorating Lt. Vincent G. Halloran, who died while on duty on September 11th. He left behind five sons and his wife, who was pregnant with a little girl he would never meet.

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It’s funny – all these years I’ve loved a movie about ghosts, and this was the first time I ever associated it with death. I had finally found reached a destination that I’d been trying to get to for years, and seeing it left me both fulfilled and saddened.

I suppose sometimes it doesn’t matter how well you plan – your life will get derailed for reasons you can’t anticipate. You plan to visit a place, and you’ll never get there, or you’ll end up somewhere you never imagined you’d be. In that respect, it was nothing short of miraculous that I had gotten to Hook and Ladder 8. Heck, it was nothing short of miraculous that any of us got anywhere.

I took a few more photos, stared a building for a bit longer, then turned and walked into the fading sun. It was autumn in New York, and once again I had no direction, but I knew that somewhere, someone was baking cupcakes.

—————

The Essentials on Hook and Ladder 8:

• Verdict: Visit, if you are in the area (the station is close to the SOHO shopping district and is by no means out of the way). But don’t expect anything particularly grand. If you loved the movie, you’ll get a kick out of seeing it.
• How to Get There: It’s a short walk from the subway. You can take the 1 or the 2 to Franklin Street, or the A, C, or E to Canal Street. From there, head over to 14 North Moore, and on the corner, you’ll find it.
• Ideal For: Movie buffs; children of the 80s
• Insider Tips: Since the station is still in operation, you can’t really tour it, but if you catch an obliging fire fighter on a slow day, they might let you peek inside. Supposedly the Ghostbusters II sign still hangs inside. Be sure to catch a glimpse of the customized insignia on the ground just outside the station.
• Nearby Food: Magnolia Bakery isn’t far from here, but for those of you who need something more substantial than a cupcake please consider getting out of my sight because I DON’T WAN T TO KNOW YOU walking to SOHO and NOHO, where you’ll find plenty of options.
• Good for Kids: Little ones who are fans of the movie and old enough to tell the difference between fiction and real-life might get a kick out of this. Otherwise, it will just be confusing (and possibly a little dull).

It's official: The Clink is not now, nor has it ever been, a good place to visit.

I am easily scared.

The first time I saw The Sixth Sense, even though I knew the twist thanks to a big-mouthed teacher of mine, I nearly peed my pants. Thankfully, as far as you know, I did not.  And once, years ago, Rand and I spent the night at a hotel near the Oregon Caves that was supposedly haunted. I literally spent the night with one eye open, convinced that if I closed it, I’d wake up dead (in the early morning hours, this logic made sense).

On occasion, I find myself at odds with my chicken-sh!t disposition, and my curiosity as a traveler wins out. Like our visit to Sleepy Hollow, New York, or the Old Operating Museum in London. Yes, these places are somewhat creepy, but they’re also downright fascinating.

This is what originally drew me to the Clink Prison Museum in London. The Clink Prison was in operation from the 1100s up to the 1700s, and was known for being a rather unpleasant place. All manner of torture and suffering happened there, usually to members of whichever religious group the reigning monarch at the time was not a part of. The jailers and guards were entrepreneurial in their corruption, accepting bribes and charging prisoners exorbinant amounts for food and other necessities. Prisoners were flogged, or strapped to the rack, or boiled in oil, which I understand makes for a lousy week.

I anticipated that the Clink would be a worthwhile visit – creepy and entertaining. The reviews were solid (edit: I don’t know where I got this idea. The reviews are awful and hilarious), and it sounded legit. Even when I saw a gentleman in a terrible period costume handing out fliers in front of it (which is a pretty clear sign that you should run in the opposite direction), I was still convinced it wasn’t going to be an awful tourist trap. After all, there were street signs pointing to this place. The civic planners for the city of London wouldn’t lead me astray, would they?

There should be a warning underneath that reads: "This place is so not worth your money."

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Spoiler: they totally would. Those bastards.

While plenty of genuinely horrifying things happened on this spot, the museum feels like a bad house of horrors at a county fair. In an effort to truly hammer home the atrocities that happened here, the purveyors somehow cheapen them. A few sharpened pikes are scary on their own, because of what our imaginations add to the scene. But with the addition of a couple of fake, bloodied heads, and it becomes absurd almost to the point of being funny. Part of the reason I think I didn’t love the Clink was because of my expectations – had I expected something ludicrous and funny, something that I could have ridiculed in the company of a friend, I suspect I might have gotten a kick out of it. Instead, I found the whole thing to be kitschy, and not in a good way.

The museum started out promisingly enough, with real, genuine artifacts! Scraps of shoes that had been uncovered at the site were on display. The different sizes and shapes made it clear: men, women, and children had all spent time in The Clink.

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But it soon descended into corniness.

In the background was audio of a man yelling in agony. Problem was he sounded like Bert from Mary Poppins.

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Want to know how to create your own authentic Clink Prison dummy? Take a regular dummy, add a Pilgrim costume, and smear the whole thing with blood. Done!

The idea that children were imprisoned along with their parents was incredibly disturbing. Fortunately, the zombie Pilgrim helped brighten the mood.

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Reproductions of implements of torture, like this metal mask, were genuinely frightening:

Though I bet wearing this is more comfortable than having to sit through the 1998 film version of "The Man in The Iron Mask."

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This, however, was not:

This looks less like death and more like la petite mort.

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Frightening:

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Not:

I see Curly and Moe, but I'm having trouble placing the other two.

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Creepy:

Chains and locks found at the site of the Clink Prison.

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Outtake from a Barbie bondage video:

It's meant to illustrate one of the torture devices, but I'm pretty sure it's a huge G.I. Joe. And he's not wearing pants.

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This next part of the museum was legitimately disturbing. It’s a recreation of a debtor’s cell.

This scene sent one poor little girl screaming out of the room.

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Notice how the bed is raised? Apparently the prison would often flood, filling with ice cold, putrid water and sewage, and the prisoners would struggle to not get soaked while they tried to sleep. Oh, and see the bowl of round, red things in front of him? Those are rats. Since he’s a debtor, and unable to procure any money to buy food, that’s what he’s going to feast on.

Now, considering all this talk of rat-eating, what, pray tell, do you think an appropriate mascot for the museum would be?

Soon, you will be eaten.

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That’s right! An adorable little rat!

He’s actually quite sweet, what with his buck teeth and bright-eyed demeanor. Shame, really, that he’ll end up skinned and eaten by some innovative debtor. But wait … what’s that on his foot?

Um ... he's attached to a ball and chain? Seriously?

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The idea that the rat is a Clink prisoner tells me that the early English legal system was far more thorough than I had previously imagined. Still, it’s cute, and probably plays well with younger visitors who haven’t yet run screaming from the museum. And I bet he’s sharing lots of kid-friendly facts!

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Or, you know, just facts about how former monarchs were really BIG on torture.

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Okay, you know what? That’s just messed up.

The Clink isn’t a particularly big museum – just a few rooms. Apparently it was once the basement of a warehouse, and it still largely feels like it – there are no windows, the lighting is dim, the air stale and hot. I guess that’s the one bit of authenticity about the Clink: when you’re there, you really do feel like you are imprisoned. When I left, my wallet ten dollars lighter than it had been, and stepped out into the bright, crisp London afternoon, I couldn’t help but breathe a little more deeply, walk a little more lightly, and enjoy the city just a little more.

My hard-earned lesson was this: Freedom has its merits, even if the Clink Prison Museum does not.

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The Everywhereist Essentials:

• Recommended: Nope. Unless you are a teenager looking for a few laughs on Halloween, this is one you can definitely skip.
• How to Get There: The museum is conveniently located on Clink Street, in South Bank. If you find yourself in the area, kindly walk past the museum and consider visiting the Tate Modern (which is free), Shakespeare’s Globe Theater (which I highly recommend), or one of my favorite spots in London – the Old Operating Theater Museum and Herb Garret.
• Ideal for: Morons, teenagers, people who rent horror movies and laugh when the heroine gets it.
• Insider tips: Don’t go here.
• Nearby food: There’s a Starbucks directly opposite, which really should have tipped me off. And the boardwalk near the water is full of chain cafes, including a Greek place that I think is better than the reviews suggest. If Borough Market is open, though, just head there and skip all this other nonsense.
• Good for kids: Absolutely not. I watched several little ones get carried out by their frantic mothers, including one little girl who was holding back tears and saying to herself, “I have to be brave. I have to be brave.” It was heartbreaking. Anyone between the ages of 13-17 might enjoy this place, though.

My husband occasionally has moments of brilliance. He has moments of utmost stupidity, too, but since I love him more than Seattle on a sunny day (a rare phenomenon that I can see outside my office window as I type this) I’d like to focus on the brilliance.

At the end of our trip to Peru, we were talking about our experiences in the country. I noted that Peru was much cheaper than Italy, yet seemed to be just as culturally rich. Even though we got ripped off a few times, it wasn’t nearly to the degree that we might have in Rome or Naples. It was far less costly to see Peru.

Rand nodded. And unleashed his occasional brilliance.

“Italy is the pretty girl who knows she pretty, and will make you pay for it. Peru is the pretty girl who has no idea that she’s beautiful.”

Boom. Brilliant.

And nothing we saw in Lima exemplified this more than the Larco Museum (or the Museo Larco, as it is known locally). Though we spent a good chunk of time online researching things to do in Peru’s capital, we found little information on the museum. Even the gals who worked there looked shocked when we walked through the door. One stared blankly at us – a group of pasty Americans, before asking, “How did you hear about us?”

I told her we had read about the museum online and that it came highly recommended from those who had visited it. She looked shocked.

Like the pretty girl who was just told that she’s stunning. And she had no idea.

The Larco Museum is privately owned. Having visited the Barnes in Pennsylvania, I know that this can usually make for fantastic (if unconventional) collections. This is true of the Larco, which isn’t particularly big, but is nevertheless home to the largest collection of pre-Columbian artifacts anywhere in the world. If you associate Ancient Peru with just the Incans, you are merely scratching the surface of the country’s history. There are pieces from the Moche, Nazca, Chimu, and Inca peoples. What’s that? You’ve not even heard of most of those groups? Well, that’s not really surprising. They had a habit of conquering and subsuming one another. The Incas were perhaps the most prominent group up until 1532, when the Spanish arrived.
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Notice how, in 1532, the reigning group over all territories became "Colonial."

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The impact of Colonialism seems (at least, in my opinion) to have left a lasting mark on the psyche of Peru. One of our tour guides – a native to a small village near Cuzco – told us that he had recently given a tour to a group of Spaniards that didn’t go particularly well. Whenever they asked him questions about native peoples, he always added at the end, “But then you guys showed up, and killed and raped everyone.”

I can see how that might make things a weensy bit awkward, no?

And while I don’t think that we can hold present-day members of an ethnic group accountable for what their forefathers did (I’m Italian, Russian, and Catholic. I’d have a lot to atone for), it’s hard not to feel anger on behalf on the native peoples. Their temples were torn down and desecrated, their homes destroyed, their children enslaved. Their culture was so devalued, that even today, when you enter a museum dedicated to it, the employees who working there look shocked that anyone would be interested.

“You … want to learn about what was here before the Conquistadors arrived?” they seemed to ask, wide-eyed. And we did.

We learned that in Ancient Peru, a few recurring symbols were used again and again. A condor represented the sky, a cat (or jaguar) represented the earth, and a snake represented the world underneath the soil. Used together, these three icons represented the world.

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Pitcher at left representing the cat/condor/snake trifecta. Look closely and see if you can spot all three.

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Rand peers at some pottery.

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We saw plenty of gold and silver – the former representing the sun (which, I am pleased to say, is still shining out my office window. Really, Seattle, WHAT ON EARTH IS GOING ON?), the latter representing the moon. While gold may be considered much more precious by today’s standards, in Ancient Peru they were valued equally.
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I know just the outfit that I would wear with this.

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Seriously, I'm beginning to think I don't own enough jewelry.

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The exhibits we saw weren’t terribly big – we covered that portion of the museum rather quickly, but there was still plenty left to see. The Larco is one of only a handful of museums worldwide that lets you browse their storage area (most museums only ever display about 20% of their collections at a time). We walked through large rooms lined with artifacts up to the ceiling.

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Megan checks out the storage area.

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There's a joke here. Something about the REAL Pottery Barn. I'll work on it.

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We didn’t have much context for many of the items in this part of the museum (after all, they weren’t officially on display) but it was nevertheless mesmerizing. We were kids in an archaeological candy store.
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After the Conquistadors arrived, the Incans depicted many of their gods in chains to symbolize the ravages of Colonialism.

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I kept expecting to see the Ark of the Covenant nestled in some corner Sadly, I did not, but I did see this guy, who was almost as cool:

In this instance, they've actually created a Conquistador (noted by the facial hair) in a submission position.

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But perhaps the most entertaining part of the Larco is the section of erotic pottery.

Yes, you read that right. EROTIC POTTERY: now no longer just a class at a community college in San Francisco! It was a real, permanent exhibit in the museum. And, all jokes aside, it was rather … extensive (hee).

Keep in mind, the following photos are solely of pottery – but for those of you who live or work in puritanical or conservative environments, you might want to skip the rest of this post. It features a lot of terra cotta genitalia.

Okay …

Don’t say I didn’t warn you …

Here we go …

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Someone add this to my Amazon wish list (GET IT? AMAZON?)

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SHAZAAM! That’s the money shot. Or money pot, as it were.

I have to say – I’m actually quite proud of us. We held it together pretty well, despite reading informative signs (in both Spanish and English) that said things like,  Water pot depicting couple in missionary position, or Fruit bowl featuring couple partaking in anal sex.

I imagine Ancient Incan dinner parties must have been a total trip.

“Sweetie, can you please get the nice pitcher out for me?” 

“Which one do you want? The one with the tiny dude wielding a penis as large as he is, or the one with the woman reluctantly performing fellatio on her husband?” 

“Honey, PLEASE. My parents are coming over! … The one with the woman performing reluctant fellatio. OBVIOUSLY.” 

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I bet you thought I was kidding before, huh?

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I suspect part of the reason we were able to behave so well was that we were in the company of a tour group of folks who were old enough to be my parents, and they were saying things that were positively raunchy. They were misbehaving for us – making cracks like, “Goodness, she doesn’t seem to be enjoying that at all,” and “We need to try that one at home.”
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I like this one, because everyone involved looks so darn happy.

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Keeping up with the Joneses.

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Looking for the perfect Christmas present for your boss? Look no further.

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Nothing to see here, folks. Just move along.

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The comments coming from the tour group were positively dirty. It was delightful. In a perfect world, I would get to hang out with those folks every day.

Having had our fill of erotic pottery (I know – I, too, was surprised such a thing was possible), we enjoyed the gardens of the museum before heading out.
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The hubby took this of me, and I think it's kind of cute. Like I said before - moments of occasional brilliance.

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This photo, like so many things we had seen that day, is overexposed.

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We’d spent the better part of an afternoon at the museum, seen priceless treasures, and stifled some serious giggles. The total price of admission? Roughly $12 U.S.

In Italy – or even in the states – we’d have paid twice that.

Rand really was right – Peru is the pretty girl who has no idea she’s pretty. Once you get to know her better, you’ll find that in addition to her loveliness, she’s truly entertaining and a lot of fun.

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Yowza.

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And she has one heck of a naughty side, to boot.

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The Essentials on the Larco Museum, Lima, Peru

• The Verdict: YES. Admission is only about $12 U.S., and the Larco has a collection which is literally unlike anything you will see anywhere in the world. If you are in Lima, it’s a must-visit.
• How to Get There: We cabbed it over. Check out my post on how to haggle for taxi cab rates in Peru if you want to go this route. And when you are leaving the museum, be sure to wander a few blocks away before hailing a cab: the ones waiting outside the Larco will try charging you much more.
• Ideal for: Anyone who loves archaeology or ancient cultures, or who’s interested in learning more about the pre-Colombian groups in Peru.
• Insider Tips: Give yourself at least an hour to visit the museum. Don’t forget to take a look at the erotic pottery section, the gardens, and the storage area. The gift shop was also quite reasonably priced compared to the ones you’d find in the U.S. or Europe. And keep an eye out for the Peruvian National Hairless Dog, which usually stands guard near the museum’s entrance.
• Nearby Food: The cafe at the museum is supposedly pretty decent, but we didn’t go there. Instead, we found ourselves at the Antigua Taberna Queirolo. It was a little hectic and our server spoke no English, but we got along fine (you will be okay – people are friendly in Peru, and the menu has photos).
• Good for kids: Children with some knowledge of the pre-Colombian civilizations of Peru would probably get a kick out of this (I was in fourth grade when we first started learning about South America), though there’s a risk that younger ones might get bored. Everything is behind glass, so there’s little that even the smallest guests can damage, and they can run around the gardens, too. Plus, a good section of the place is stroller-friendly.

The great pyramid of Huaca Pucllana.

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Heading down from the top of the great pyramid.

We did not know what Huaca Pucllana was before we got there.

That was one of the nice parts about Peru – on many days wandered aimlessly, and without fail, we found something to see. It turned out that Huaca Pucllana is a large collection of ruins in the posh Miraflores district of Lima. Admission was about $3, and includes a guided tour (which is the only way you can see the ruins).

The structures – which consists of a tiered pyramid and several large, walled rooms – were originally built sometime around the year 500 C.E. Over the centuries, many of the adobe bricks began to decay. Our guide (who in addition to speaking fantastic English was a bit of a pill) explained to us that the only reason the bricks had survived as long as they had was because Lima gets virtually no rainfall. The bricks are little more than clumps of dried mud – water washes them away.

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The indentations left from adobe bricks that have since washed away.

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I am, of course, positively dying to create an adobe structure similar to Huaca Pucllana in Seattle, to see how long it lasts. I’m guessing it would probably survive at least 30 or 40 minutes before turning into a puddle.

The ruins have been described repeatedly as an “important ceremonial and administrative center” for the early inhabitants of Lima. This description both baffles and delights me, and when I hear it I imagine a Dwight Schrute type character milling around the pyramid and filing paperwork while people built around him. I’ve taken to regarding Huaca Pucllana as one part church/holy ground and one part community center. Stuff happened here. Offerings, sacrifices, ceremonies, and budget meetings (probably). The mood is both humbling and somber.

Rand did not get the humbling/somber mood memo.

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As we walked around, we noticed groups of men working on the side of the pyramid. The guide explained to us that they were repairing areas that had eroded or been damaged. This was perhaps one of the most surprising things we discovered about Peru. Often, when artifacts are discovered in the states (or Europe) they’re left as is – damaged and worn. But in museums and archeological sites around Peru, we found repairs had been made. The guide pointed out to us where the old bricks met the new ones.

New and old.

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The old bricks are the right, the new ones at left.

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In the distance, you can see some construction workers wearing yellow shirts and hardhats. (You may need to squint.)

I cannot imagine this working in other parts of the world.

“What in GOD’S NAME are you doing?!”

“What? I’m reattaching the arms on the Venus de Milo. I thought she’d look cool giving a Vulcan salute.”

We climbed to the top of the Great Pyramid – the largest and most dominant structure at Huaca Pucllana. The guide showed us several tombs that had been unearthed in this section of the ruins. Human remains were found inside, along with offerings. Those pictured here are obviously reproductions:

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See the bundled packages on either side of the tomb? The guide explained that they found one like that on-site, and inside they discovered the remains of an infant.

The top of the pyramid unfortunately doesn’t offer great views of the city, but it does give you a great vantage point from which to appreciate the entirety of the ruins.

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And it makes a good back-drop for the obligatory kissy-face photo (in case you were wondering, no, nothing is sacred to me).

We're kinda heathens.

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The guide led us back down below for the end of the tour, to a small area that illustrated how the adobe bricks were originally made. There’s even a statue of what someone native to the Lima area would have looked like centuries ago.

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“He’s very handsome, like me,” our tour guide said (it was allowed. He was adorable.) He noted how people were much shorter back then.

"Notice how much taller and stronger I am."

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He explained to us how mud was mixed in baskets, and the bricks were formed by hand.

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And with that, our tour concluded. I found myself feeling conflicted. I’d more than gotten my money’s worth – the admission price of $3.50 had given us a 40-minute guided tour around Peruvian ruins. I haven’t found too many bargains like that in my travels. But I left wanting to know more. I felt like we’d only scratched the surface. Fortunately, our trip to Peru was only beginning.

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The Essentials on Huaca Pucllana:

Verdict: Recommended. While it pales in comparison to famous Incan ruins like Machu Picchu or Moray, if you are in Miraflores, the site is worth seeing.

How to Get There: We were able to walk from our hotel, but you can easily take a cab. Be ready to haggle – there are no meters, so you and your driver need to agree on the fare before you go (don’t worry – I’ll do an extensive post on this later). More seasoned travelers may want to try the Peruvian bus system, but I don’t recommend it. Unless you know the area very well, speak excellent Spanish, and are good at haggling, it’s best to leave this to the locals.

Ideal for: History and archaeology fans, and anyone interested in the indigenous cultures of Peru.

Insider Tips: Huaca Pucllana requires a lot of walking, so wear comfy shoes. Consider sunglass and sunscreen – even on an overcast day (of which Lima has many), it’s easy to get burned and there is ZERO shade. Bring cash to tip your tour guide – ours was incredibly knowledgeable and certainly earned it. And you might want to ask if the back gardens are open to visitors. We snuck a peek at them as we left, but they’re not part of the official tour:

Did I mention the back garden had llamas? It did.

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Nearby Food: There is a restaurant located on site at Huaca Pucllana, but it’s a wee bit fancy. Consider eating before you go to the site (if you are looking for a reliable, delicious chain, I recommend Pardos Chicken).

Good for kids: Yup (at least, according to this childless travel blogger, yes) – but do be careful. Keep an eye on very little ones, as there isn’t any railing at Huaca Pucllana, and they could be tempted to wander off the path or tumble over an edge. And some of the sacrificial stuff might spook them a little bit, but odds are they’ll be fascinated.

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One hot summer’s day, seemingly a lifetime ago, when I was in Kansas, we drove and drove.

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We drove through a part of the country most people only fly over. We drove until there was nothing but sky and grass. It didn’t take us long.

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Occasionally we’d encounter a spare tire by the side of the road. Or a bit of barbed wire, separating I don’t know what from I don’t know what else.

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It was quieter than any place I’ve been in my life. No hum of the freeway. No honking of horns. No distance sound of the waves crashing on the beach, of family members having the same argument they’ve had for decades. Not even a screeching crow, or the rapid beating of an insect’s wings. Nothing. I kind of liked it.

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We were heading to the Tallgrass Prairie National Preserve. There’s not much between there and Wichita. Just lots of road stretching out into nowhere, and the sort of landscape that I’ve always envisioned when I thought of Kansas. It didn’t disappoint.

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We stopped at the Pioneer Bluffs – a ranch house that’s now home to a community center and non-profit organization. It was a scorching hot day, and we were the only visitors.

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The inside of the farmhouse was comparably cooler, and impervious to the passage of time.

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On that afternoon, I learned that children do not suffer from heat, and that tractors are not merely ornamental. For this childless city girl, it was a revelation.

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From there, we headed to the town of Cottonwood Falls. It was 102 degrees out, and there was not another soul to be found on the streets. In the event that you do not believe me, here’s proof:

Missing: everyone but us.

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We had lunch there, at the Emma Chase Cafe. The food was good, but not great. The fried chicken was a little dry, the beans a little overdone, the mashed potatoes dished out with an ice cream scoop. But the service was polite and the proprietress was a patient yet formidable woman who you wouldn’t want to mess with.
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Though there were more options on the dessert menu that the actual menu, it was actually too hot for me to have much of an appetite. I know. I, too, was alarmed.

Raisin pie. Color me intrigued.

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Cottonwood Falls a beautiful place, even when the heat has driven everyone from the streets. The population hovers at just below 1,000, and with an attitude like mine, I’d be sure to alienate most of them within a day. I’m not cut out for small towns. I like to visit them, and then I like to go home. We left, and continued our journey towards the Tallgrass Prairie, stopping at a cemetery along the way.

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I’ll spare you the jokes about it being dead quiet.

Some of the tombstones were teeny tiny.

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We got back into the car, and after the wandering around the tombstones in the unrelenting heat, I was dizzy. By the time we arrived at the Tallgrass Prairie National Reserve, we had pretty much had it.

Amen, little brother.

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Some of us (ahem) weren’t even awake to see the tall grass in the distance, for which we’d driven all that way.

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The Tallgrass Prairie once covered more than 140 million acres of North America, but today less than 4% remains. Most of what’s left is under protection of the National Park Service. The visitors center is not yet constructed, and renovations are under way for some of the other buildings in the park. I’m sure it’s lovely to see on a cooler day, but we just didn’t have it in us. So we turned and headed back. I suspect we missed more of this:

On the plus side, now I have an excuse to go back to Kansas.

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I’m sad we didn’t get to explore more, but … did I mention it was 102 degrees? Besides, though I may have missed the Tallgrass Prairie that day, I got to see Kansas. Considering how many people merely fly over the state, that, I suppose, was enough.

Actually, let’s stick with that phrase. “Effed-up” works really well. It came to mind more than once when I visited the the Kansas Cosmosphere and Space Museum in Hutchinson. I’d stare blankly at an exhibit and think, “Man. That’s effed up.” (Only, you know, I actually said the word.)

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To its credit, the museum does not pull any punches. Not a one. The facts are these: Hitler played a big part in getting us to the moon. In his quest to build ballistic missiles, he brought together some of the finest engineers in Europe. After the war, the work of those German engineers was used by Americans to get to the moon. A feat which we probably would not have attempted had it not been a way to best the Soviet Union, who was racing us to get there. That’s the ugly historical truth: Nazis and the Cold War helped get us to space.

The exhibits are equally jarring. Behold:

One this is certain: the Cosmosphere is not subtle.

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We saw this when we first walked into the museum, and found ourselves staring blankly at it.

“Um … creepy.” I managed to mutter to Jason.

“So … yeah,” was his only reply, which summed up precisely how we were feeling.

The Treaty of Versailles (which ended World War I) forbid Germany to build any offensive weapons, but omitted mention of ballistic weapons. This loophole allowed Hitler to assemble a group of engineers and scientists to develop such weaponry. Countless Jews died working in factories while building the missiles. And yet … a giant swastika? Imagine the poor general contractor who had to drag that thing into the museum in the first place. Did he stop and chat with his colleagues on the way in? What if he spotted a neighbor – would he pause to say hello?

“Hey, Fred! How are your tomato plants growing? …What, this thing? Oh, it’s just an oversized Swastika. No, it’s not mine. They just pay me to hang it on a wall for a bunch of kids to see.”

Ugh. Naziism makes for such awkward small talk.

There was more, too:

I couldn't capture the entirety of this bomber, but here's a close-up on the decal on the tail fin.

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Nazi flag captured during the surrender of the German town of Chemnitz, days before the official end of the war. Donated by one of the U.S. soldiers who was there.

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We’d seen half of one exhibit, and we were already sufficiently shaken.

The museum followed the course of history, moving from the end of WWII to the Cold War. Apparently, after Hitler was defeated, a large number of his rocket engineers went on to work for the U.S. government – a fact which had Stalin infuriated. The Soviet leader had lost out on years of research and technology that had gone straight to the Americans. Despite this, the Russians would be the first to launch an animal into space. Laika would only live for a few hours after launch, but the New York Times nevertheless printed that the Soviet Union had bested the United States.

A recreation of Laika in her capsule.

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Laika’s capsule is a replica, obviously (her body and the original capsule burned up upon re-entry), as are most of the pieces in the collection as the Cosmosphere. Apparently the Smithsonian was purging many of their space-related artifacts during the 1970s, and city of Hutchinson, Kansas, in a rather brilliant move, offered to take the items off their hands. Though the location is unexpected (while plenty of planes and jets were built in Kansas, the state’s only real relationship to outer space is Clark Kent), the collection is worth seeing.

There’s an extensive exhibit that traces the history of the Space Race and the Cold War. This portion of the museum was was significantly more light-hearted than the other exhibits we’d seen up until then, in part because of the obvious biases prevalent, which made the whole thing inadvertently comical. Two huge statues, representing the dueling ideologies of Communism and Capitalism, faced off against one another. The statues were, I kid you not, of Lenin and UNCLE SAM.

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Forgive me, but I may have laughed at this pairing. It's like a themed wrestling match.

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Just for the record, Communism gets the head of the Bolsheviks, and Capitalism gets a fictional character who doesn’t even represent Capitalism. There were other more suitable match-ups further along in the exhibit, like Kennedy poised against Khrushchev. Considering that these two actually had an adversarial relationship, and neither was fictional, it seems slightly more appropos and slightly less WTF. The placement and staging of the statues is in no way impartial: check out Khrushchev, captured in a moment of anger and frustration as he waves his fist while suffering from a mild case of camel toe. That’s right- the statue looks like it’s been emasculated:

Incidentally, he's also standing next to a section of the Berlin wall, lest you forget that Communism failed.

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And here, by contrast, is Kennedy, sitting down, looking relaxed and happy, and no doubt more capable of pleasing a woman than his Russian counterpart.

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Adjacent to the statues was a huge portion of the Berlin wall. In the context of the museum, this wasn’t all that shocking until I remembered: we were in Kansas. Portions of the Berlin wall are sitting in a museum in Kansas. The state had proved to be nothing but surprises.

Jason touches history (yes, this was allowed).

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I was rather mesmerized by this sphere. A bit larger than a softball, it’s identical to one  that was launched into space by the Soviet Union in the late 1950s, designed to break apart into hundreds of little disks upon impact with the moon. Each disk is marked with the year (1959) and the name of the Soviet Union. It was supposedly a success, and when the disks were scattered across the lunar surface, the Soviets were able to claim that they had reached the moon first.

Naturally, the Americans were pissed.

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The Americans, though, would eventually feel vindicated.

It's roomier than most NYC apartments.

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It was interesting – once we reached the point in the exhibits’ timelines where man walked on the moon, the mood of the museum seemed to change. We’d done it! We had succeeded! No more thoughts of dead dogs, of concentration camps, of Nazis. Jason and I noticed this shift – it was when we started having fun and goofing off.

I pretend to be jettisoned in this ejection seat. Please ignore my thighs. They are not my best feature.

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What'll happen if I press this button?

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Ooh, nifty! Infrared.

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And rather amazingly, we did not make a single fart joke about this:

I KNOW. I'm surprised, too.

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There was little mention of more recent space tragedies. No real talk of Challenger or Columbia. I don’t think the museum’s curators were simply glossing over the unpleasant parts of history (clearly, they hadn’t in the exhibits pertaining to Nazis and the Cold War) – rather, I suspect it’s because the museums collection doesn’t extend too much past the mid-1970s. It ends on a happy note in NASA’s history, and given all the darkness that leads up to that point, and the eventual demise of the space program, it seems like a good place to stop.

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The Essentials on The Kansas Cosmosphere and Space Center:

Verdict: Recommended. Expect to spend at least 90 minutes in this Smithsonian-affiliated museum to really appreciate all it has to offer. If you have extra time, consider an IMAX show.

Ideal for: history buffs, space nerds. I particularly enjoyed it – it gave additional historical context to my visit to the Kennedy Museum and Library in Massachusetts (Wow. I’m a dork.)

Insider tips: we went on a weekday after lunch and found we had the museum mostly to ourselves. Unfortunately, we’d already been to the Salt Museum that day, so we were too tired to appreciate everything the Cosmosphere had to offer. Make sure you have ample time and energy, and consider getting an All-Day Mission Pass if you want to see multiple attractions (the Planetarium, an IMAX show, etc.) The gift shop is also worth a visit. Where else can you find astronaut ice cream, knock-off Lego building sets, and geeky t-shirts? I mean, besides my husband’s office.

Nearby food: We headed to Bogey’s, which is also in Hutchinson. The museum also offers food service.

Good for kids: The Cosmosphere would resonate best with slightly older children (ages 10 and up) who are interested in the Space Program. Younger ones may find certain exhibits (like the WWII-era artifacts) confusing or boring.

Update 10/04/11: The CEO of the Cosmosphere was kind enough to comment on the blog and let me know that a lot of the artifacts we saw were originals, and not replicas. Sweet! Also, it looks like their collection now spans past the 1970s (getting trapped in that era only works for Disco Stu).

After roaming around and TOTALLY NOT LICKING THE WALLS of the Kansas Underground Salt Museum, Jason and I decided to partake in some of the tours offered therein. We’d purchased the delightfully-named “Salt Blast Pass” which included the The Train Ride (which travels on the original rails once used to haul salt out of the mine) and The Dark Ride (a guided tram into the recesses of the mine, and its current operations).

Let me remind you that I am a travel writer, and consequently I pay the utmost attention to detail. I don’t roam around with a vague understanding of my surroundings! No, absolutely not. And yet, I got these two attractions utterly confused. It might be because they were both dark, and both involved us sitting down while someone else steered us around. Also, both were kind of creepy.

Jason and I took the train ride first (I think). When someone suggested we could sit on the same seat, we both screamed, “NO!”  and then had to explain that we’re both happily married to other people (and also, Jason probably has cooties.) Just one of the many delights of traveling with a friend of the opposite sex.

The train. Not pictured: the adorable, teensy-weensy engine car at front.

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Behold how not scared of the dark I was!

Though admittedly, this would be a really creepy picture if I didn't know Jason.

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The train ride took us into the recesses of the mine. There was a dim light at the front of the train, which struggled to cut through the darkness. A few points of interest were lit from above, but the rest of the track was unlit. It was unnerving. The Underground Salt Museum has fantastic potential as a setting for a horror movie.

Our train operator, in the darkness. He later gave us chunks of salt to take home.

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We passed relic after relic of the past. This is perhaps the most fascinating element of the museum: everything in it, at one time or another, had to be squeezed into the elevator in order to be brought down into the mine. Vehicles were sawed in half and later welded together. Huge excavating machines were disassembled and reassembled. It’s a conservationist’s dream – because of the hassle of bringing objects into the mine, things were repaired and kept running for as long as possible, rather than just chucking them and getting something new.

The carcasses of old machinery are everywhere.

One of the old carts used for hauling salt. In the 1930s, a worker would get paid roughly 50 cents for an hour and a half of work filling one of these up.

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When something broke, it was just left in the mine (and stripped for parts as the years went on).

Realizing that doors and windows would be unnecessary in the mine (and would add extra weight), they were removed from this vehicle.

This trash pile dated back to the 1940s and 50s. Notice that Hershey's logo has not changed much.

The old cans of peaches, the paper cones for water ... we literally marveled at old trash.

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Fun fact: I was weirdly fascinated with Hector of the Shining Helm after reading Homer in college. Because I was that much of a dork.

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It’s not that I’m above action films, mind you. It’s just that loud noises, chiseled abs, and actresses with button noses make me uncomfortable, and you apparently can’t have an action movie without those elements.

Fortunately, there was dorkery enough to appease even me.

He IS Kansan, after all.

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This would go GREAT with my life-size Keanu doll that I sleep with when Rand’s not around:

Remember when the Matrix franchise used to be awesome? Then the final film came out. Sigh.

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I never saw the Batman movie in which George Clooney played Bruce Wayne, on account of my aforementioned fear of sculpted abs. AND BECAUSE IT LOOKED AWFUL. But I did get to see the suit he wore.

Oh, the crazy halcyon decade that was the 90s, when this actually seemed like a good idea.

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And because I know my audience, here’s a close-up of the chestal region. Including, yes … NIPPLES.

ZOMG. MUSEUMS ARE AWESOME.

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I tried to not look directly at the abs. The human body should never resemble an insect’s thoracic region. But the molded nipples? AMAZING. They should add them to everything, including furniture and airplane seats.

UVS also held rows and rows of film reel canisters, with the names of movies written on the side. I’m fairly sure these were empty and for display only, but it was still kinda neat.

I was acutely aware of just how far we were from Hollywood at that moment.

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And then I saw something so ridiculously random and delightful, it proves that the universe is interconnected and wondrous and has one hell of a sense of humor. Remember when, a few weeks back, my mind hazy from jet-lag and love, I might have claimed that my husband resembled James Dean? And I went off for 600 words or so about my love for the ill-fated movie star? I even noted that I was so crazy about him, I watched Giant. Which, in my 15-year-old esteem WAS AWFUL. Well, in Underground Vaults and Storage, far below the Kansas prairie, I saw this:

I may have laughed maniacally.

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It’s JAMES DEAN’S SHIRT FROM GIANT. I positively lost it. It was not the red jacket from Rebel. No, of course not (the average person might actually be interested in seeing that). Nor was it the moth-eaten sweater he wore in East of Eden. No. Instead, it was that damn shirt from that damn movie that absolutely no one would care about but me BECAUSE I HATE THAT MOVIE BUT STILL WATCHED IT FOR JAMES DEAN. I derived no small amount of amusement from this.

In addition to the positively serendipitous collection of movie memorabilia, there was also a rather somber piece of history on display – the paper from the day after Lincoln was shot.

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"All theaters closed."

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After Jason and I got our fill of history, we concluded with the Dark Ride. Not constrained by the old train tracks inside the mine, it was able to weave between the old and newer parts of the mine. This made it decidedly less creepy.

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Right up until the driver drove deep into the mine, far from any of the overhead lights and noise of other museum-goers, and turned off the vehicle’s headlights. Someone gasped. Someone nervously giggled. I squinted. I waved my hand in front of my face. I could see absolutely nothing. I could have been in a huge mine, or in a coffin. There was no way of telling. She told us that supposedly your eyes never really adjust to it.

And then, blissfully, she turned the light back on and continued with the tour.

She explained how fresh air was once at a premium in the mine. Though it could be easily pumped in, it was hard to circulate it into the depths of the mine. The guide explained how walls made from leftover materials and debris were erected (heh) in parts of the mine in order to help channel the fresh air. Waste not, want not.

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The remains of an old fan, once used to circulate air in the mine in decades past.

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Eventually, they employed these large yellow tarps to close off portions of the mine and filter fresh air into the more-frequented parts.

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As the Dark Ride neared its end, I realized I, too, needed some fresh air. Jason and I took the next elevator up to the ground level. We fortunately didn’t have to wait long, but I suspect that a line might build towards the end of the day.

Jason, next to one of the enormous pipes that pumps in fresh air from the ground above.

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The elevator ride back up was just as dark as the ride down, except for obnoxious tourists who kept taking photos.

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We rode up with one woman who expressed her relief at returning to the surface.

“I don’t like the dark. If something’s gonna get me, I want to know what it is.”

Words to live by, sure. But for an afternoon, we ignored them, and had a rather nice time.

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A special thanks to Jason for taking me out to the museum and engaging in geekery with me (also, I totally assume no responsibility for the contents of his blog).

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The Essentials on The Kansas Underground Salt Museum

Verdict: Recommended. I’d go on a particularly hot, cold, or otherwise miserable day, since the weather inside is a constant 68 degrees.

How to get there: the museum is located at 3504 East Avenue G in Hutchinson, not far from Wichita. A rental car is an absolute must, and unfortunately the museum is not well marked from the road. Most folks in town should be able to point you in the right direction.

Ideal for: rainy days, hot days, fans of American history and industry, gemologist and amateur geologists.

Insider tips: Get the Salt Blast Pass so you can experience the Train and Dark Rides (and be sure to check the website for discounts and coupons). Hours of operation change seasonally. We saw positively everything in about 90 minutes. Reservations are recommended (and can only be taken by phone), but we didn’t have any trouble getting in without them. The museum is closed Mondays. Also, pee before taking the elevator down. Once inside the museum, there are only port-o-potties.

Nearby food: There’s no food or drink down in the museum, so you’ll need to eat before or after. For feel-good junk food, I suggest Bogey’s.

Good for kids: Children under 4 are not allowed, and kids who are very young or frightened of the dark might not get a kick out of it. But I’d say 3rd graders and up would have a complete blast (Jason and I did, and that’s about our maturity level.)

There are times is your life when you are asked questions to which there is only one correct answer. If someone, say, asks if you would like whipped cream on top, you say “yes”, regardless of what you’ve ordered. Really, there is never a time when “no” would be an appropriate response.

So naturally, when I was in Kansas a few weeks back, and Jason (my friend Christine‘s husband) asked me if I wanted to go to the Kansas Underground Salt Museum, I knew I had but one answer.

“UM, YES,” I said enthusiastically, and it was only after the words left my mouth that I realized I wasn’t entirely sure what an Underground Salt Museum was. I understood the individual elements involved, but was unclear on how they worked together. In this respect, it is not dissimilar to my understanding of the Spanish-American War. Or deep-fried ice cream (how does it not melt?). Anyway, I’m sure you’ll agree: both of those things would be improved with whipped cream.

Despite having no earthly clue as to what to expect at the Underground Salt Museum, I was giddy with excitement for several reasons:

• For someone as neurotic as I, museums are a godsend: clean and climate-controlled with pristine bathrooms.
• If potatoes, treasure chests, and gophers are any indication, everything found underground is necessarily wonderful.
• Salt is delicious. Sometimes I roll chocolate chips around in salt and eat them while standing in my kitchen.
• I am somewhat ashamed of that last admission.

What I did not carefully consider, and perhaps should have before agreeing (with such zeal!) to go to the Underground Salt Museum, was the fact that I am a bit of a claustrophobe, and spending an afternoon BENEATH THE SOIL LIKE A CORPSE might freak me out. But I soon convinced myself that everything would be fine – we’d probably just be a few feet below ground. It would be like spending the day in someone’s basement. Someone who really likes salt!

As with most things, I was woefully misinformed.

The museum, it turns out, is located 650 feet underground inside an actual working salt mine (in one of the largest rock salt deposits in the world). I realized this when were actually standing outside of the museum (which is located not far from Wichita, in Hutchinson – pop: 43,000). In other words, when it was waaaay too late to do anything about it. So I put on my best “I’m having fun” face, and vowed not to freak out.

The day was so hot, I managed to get sunburned through my shirt during the 20 seconds I was actually above ground.

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In the ground level lobby, we were ushered into a room to watch a brief safety video. The narrator explained that because we’d be entering a working mine, it was mandatory that we wear hardhats and carry breathing devices called “rescuers”. In the event of a cave-in, or release of noxious gases, we were instructed to activate the rescuer (by snapping a seal on the top) and hold it up to our lips. It would convert carbon monoxide to carbon dioxide, which is very thoughtful of it.

“The rescuer may become hot and burn your lips,” the video’s narrator said ominously, “but do not remove it from your mouth.”

Wait, WHAT? Rescuers and cave-ins were bad enough, BUT BURNED LIPS? I glared at Jason, and, ever the lady, delicately mouthed the words, “WHAT THE FUDGE?” (only, you know, I didn’t say fudge).

We soon found that the rescuers are a rather unnecessary precaution. There are no explosive or harmful gases in the mine, and no visitors or workers have been injured in its entire history. But after a few deadly cave-ins in coal mines, the laws on the books are that all visitors to any mine must wear a rescuer. Even if it’s a salt mine. The contraptions were about the size and weight of my camera (which is itself a beast). The trade-off of having to lug one around is that you know you’ll never have to use it (it’s the same reason I keep an inflatable raft and four cans of tuna in my car).

The elevator ride down to the museum is pitch-black, except for annoying tourists who keep taking photos and blinding everyone with their flash (HI!).

Pity this man. He was stuck in a mine. WITH ME.

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Once inside the mine, we were hit with a blast of cool air. It is, without fail, 68 degrees and 40% humidity in the salt mines at all times. The museum had record-high attendance this summer, and I have trouble imagining that the weather was not part of the reason. Though a heatwave was searing the earth above, it was downright pleasant, being entombed 65 stories below ground.

Everyone was staring at this sign, but in reality I suspect we were all just thinking, "Man, it is REFRESHING down here."

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Surprisingly, I did not freak out. Sure, it’s underground and windowless, but the place is positively huge, there’s ample lighting in parts, and there’s groups of schoolchildren running around (if they were keeping it together, so could I). It helps to know that the mine is incredibly secure, and that Kansas has no history of earthquakes. Plus, as Jason noted, it would be a great place to be in the event of a zombie apocalypse, provided zombies can’t use elevators.

There were three separate entities within the mine: The museum, a secure storage facility (Underground Vaults and Storage or UVS), and the Hutchinson Salt Company (which is still operational). The salt in the mine is full of impurities (mostly slate and shale) and can’t be used for human consumption. Consequently we were told, rather repeatedly and to my sheer delight, not to lick the walls.

Which is a pity, because now I’ll never learn if the snozzberries taste like snozzberries.

The majority of the salt harvested from the mine is used for de-icing roads in major U.S. cities (most of it went to Chicago) and a small portion of it was mixed into feed to provide nutrients to livestock (one of the guides took distinct pleasure in telling me this slowly and carefully, as though city life has made me ignorant to the eating habits of agricultural animals. Which it has. The last wildlife I encountered was a squirrel eating a french fry, which, to be fair, probably provided it with plenty of salt).

DO NOT LICK.

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But hey, please touch!

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The mine is huge, and guests are encouraged to explore at will, with the warning that the museum closes at 6pm during the summer, whether you are still down in the mine or not. The staff explained that they did a last minute sweep of the area, and that to their knowledge no one had ever been left down below overnight (“…yet”, I kept adding in my own mind.)

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And so, with this one guideline, we were free to do as we pleased, which turned out to be this:

Jason, me, and good-old hole-faced Roberta.

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And this:

Salt-Body Man: worst super-hero EVER.

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Thanks to the high ceilings, the lighting, and the inherent goofiness that is Jason, I was actually having fun. I, the woman who is still kinda-sorta afraid of the basement, was 65 stories below ground and was having a delightful time.

Creepy can be enjoyable!

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Of course, we’d only seen one small portion of the museum. The tours were next. Things were about to get exponentially spookier, far below the Kansas prairie.

Tune in tomorrow for the exciting conclusion of my visit to The Kansas Underground Salt Museum!