ERIE

I’ve finally landed in Erie, Pennsylvania, after a mostly boring, 5-hour drive through western NY. It’s rained most of the day, but as I arrive the sun’s out and the air is breezy and fresh — blown in from the lake, no doubt. I’ve rented a “Private Room w/ Lots of Charm in Victorian Mansion.” It’s very large and painted green, as pictured in Airbnb, with questionable statuary stationed rather haphazardly in front.

My host, Chris, is dressed in smart slacks and blazer, greets me at the door and gives me a perhaps overly detailed description of the house’s history, owners, and rehabilitation schedule, and the disinfecting measures he’s taken to assure guest safety. I mostly nod and make approving noises, holding my tongue about the fact that Covid isn’t an infection spread by unsanitized linens. The owners have made an effort to make the place look “fancy,” though they seem to have run out of funds and brought in Ikea to fill in the rest. The bones are good, though, with original dark wood trim and floors. A lovely leaded glass window lights the foyer and throws rainbows through the foyer and up the stairs.

Chris leads me up to my room, curiously decorated with a large 1960s egg chair upholstered in red. C. clearly does not approve of this design choice, but “the guests love them.” I’m the only guest here, though 11 checked out this morning after graduation weekend. (Erie’s 21 colleges and universities include Mercyhurst, Bannon, and Penn State Erie.)

Chris offers to show me how to use the Firestick for the TV (“or are you not a TV-watching kind of girl?”), then gives me step-by-step instructions. I ask him how to get down to the harbor and he points to the left.

“Now we have three Communities of Caring" houses right next door, so, you know, the guys are … well they’re harmless, but you might want to cross the street — you’re a good-looking gal — you know, they’re harmless, and we’ve never had any trouble.” Which last phrase is not quite the reassurance perhaps he wants it to be. “This is a great neighborhood” is more what I was looking for, though I can clearly see that it isn’t quite. C. tells me they’ve got an excellent security system, and security lights all around the perimeter, and I can call him any time. Hmmm. Not getting better. I won’t be lingering outside after dark if I can help it.

It’s around 7 p.m. now, so I drop my stuff in my room and head out. A few blocks in, the wind starts blowing in a purposeful way, and it’s raining lightly. Soon, it’s pelting down, and I run under a restaurant awning just as it notches up more. I take this as a sign that I’ll be eating Tex-Mex tonight. The friendly bartender lets me know that the special is “blue margaritas,” and points to a slushy machine behind her. “Six dollars tonight,” she says.

I don’t remember having eaten a green vegetable in about a week, so I order the veggie quesadilla, and end up just eating the filling and leaving the requisite yellow rice and refried beans. I feel a little guilty leaving all that food. But eating it won’t help the starving, now, will it? I walk outside to a cleared sky that’s beginning to pinken. Sunset up here is at 8:35, and It’s only a little after 8, so I gallop the few blocks to the waterfront, where the sun is just sinking into the water. I take 5 or 6 thousand shots. It’s like I’m desperate to gobble up every scrap of orange and pink.

By the time I’m heading back, the sky is dark blue and all the lights are on. East 8th Avenue looks even more barren and broken-down than in the light, and I try to walk fast and tough, whatever that means. I do have on my Doc Martens, so that’s a start. When I get to the row of Communities of Caring homes — which seems to be a refuge for indigent men — it’s nearly dark. Several men are standing around the entrance to one of the houses. A scruffy young man in several layers of clothing says, “Hello miss,” and I say hello. Nice. But then a voice from a dark entryway yells, “Aaaaaaeeey baby, what’s up?” but doesn’t pursue it.

This must be what Chris means by, “We’ve never had any trouble.” And indeed, I’m up the steps of the manse and inside without incident. My egg chair awaits.

Downstairs at breakfast, my host opens up. Started his own ambulance service at 18. Certified as ambulance assistant at 16 (got out of high school at 11:45 3 days a week!). Eventually, he became a paramedic, then “after a lot of ups and downs,” bought the service at age 18 from the hospital that was running it then. His dream since he was very young was to go to the naval academy. With his Scandinavian blue eyes and white hair, he’s a Central Casting naval pilot. Well, when he was 14, his father had a heart attack at age 52. The ambulance at that time was run by the county coronor. They called and nobody came. Our hero Chris ran to get the (family doctor), but by the time they got there, he said, “I’m sorry son, he’s gone. They didn’t even bother to call an ambulance.” Right then, he says, he vowed to start an ambulance and help people, so they wouldn’t have to go through this.

[Personal note, my mother’s father, Ben Church, dropped dead in front of her of a heart attack as the family walked through a flood in Northern Nevada. She was 14, he was 48. His heart had been weakened by scarlet fever as a child.]

Back to Chris: The teenage do-gooder turned his ambulance service into a 3-county, multimillion dollar business over 3 years. Then was elected coroner, served for (20?) years. Somewhere in there he was a death investigator in LA. Now “retired” landed here in 2020 after selling his house and waiting to move to China to teach English in Geongchang. Well, we know what happened next. He ended up “stuck” here for 2 years, and there’s no telling when China will open again, thanks to Omicron. But he says he’s about over this job — he says he works 120 hours a week and “maybe (the owners) take me for granted a little bit.” He has an RV would like to travel, do something other than this, though he’s met interesting people from all over the world and the place has been very successful.

I remark that the second “b” has become (silent) in Airbnb — if it ever was a real thing. He says the owner wanted to do away with it, but he said, “No way, if it goes, I go.” He confides that he “just between us,” he pays for the breakfast himself (Keurig coffee, yogurt, bagels, muffins, eggs).

He grew up near here, in Punxatawney. His grandmother had “bad diabetes,” and he used to ride with her to the hospital here.

He recommends I got to Press Cow. I get out my phone to take notes. “Um … Press Cow?” He spells it for me. “Ohhhhh, Presque Isle.”

Chris shows me on his phone’s radar map: It is indeed presque (nearby), a crescent moon of land circling the Erie waterfront like a protective arm. There are 11 beaches (he tells me 6, 10 and 11 are the best), a Coast Guard station. In the winter, people love it for the cross-country skiing. One winter, the expanse of water between Erie and Port Stanley, Ontario froze over.

“Oh, so you could skate to Canada!” I say, (channeling Sarah Palin).

“Well yes, but coyotes and wolves actually started coming over too, and that created quite a problem for a while.”