Somehow, this photo of a sleepy Lauren at an Ohio truck stop got lost in the shuffle of my close-in-proximity trip to Florida for Christmas. My bad, but the coffee wasn’t. I’ve rediscovered the cafe misto… fewer calories and lots of deliciousness in a cup than, say, a caramel brulee latte. What? That’s what I said too. Ohio is wise to have beautiful oases along the turnpike on the way to Cleveland, all equip with a Starbucks. Well played, Ohio.
When an occasional chance to get out of town for a minute presents itself, I have a “just say yes” policy. I love trips in the car… staring out at the world as it passes me by. I find it to be really peaceful.
Anyway, a day trip to Lafayette, IN was on the docket for Saturday. A shining star in the middle of a corn infested, flat-as-a-pancake, Wal-Mart-centric state, Lafayette is hilly, and decidedly hip – at least, for Indiana. So while I might have passed on, say, a trip to Hobart, I knew that Lafayette would be a nice treat.
While the gf attended a rehearsal I wandered around Purdue’s beautiful campus, in search of wifi and a cozy nook in which to get some work done. Apparently, if you want wifi anywhere on campus you have to request it weeks in advance. So, after twiddling my thumbs and running software updates on my computer for about half an hour, I walked into a little downtown-ish area and found the Greyhouse Cafe.
Wifi: check.
Nook: check.
Really big and delicious hot chocolate: check. check.
This is a serious college town coffee shop. Hipsters wearing bandanas make beautiful foam in enormous for-here mugs and there are easily 40 seats with their own power outlets. Apparently you can order a crepe, which I hear are good, and take about 45 minutes to prepare in the kitchen. It doesn’t matter, because Greyhouse is a place you want to stay for hours.
On the return trip, we stopped at the mysterious Fair Oaks Farm off of I-65 in Fair Oaks, IN. Having passed the self-proclaimed “Dairy Adventure” on numerous trips through Indiana, it’s a place that has always piqued my curiosity, though never enough to stop… until now.
After my recent up-close and personal day with a flock of turkeys, I wasn’t certain how this was going to measure up, but thought it could be interesting to see the birthing barn. When we found out it was twelve dollars each to board a black and white camouflaged school bus to see a cow or five, I thought better of it and ultimately passed on the whole Dairy Adventure. The cafe/gift shop was really enough for me to get the idea that a couple of midwestern dairy farmers likely got drunk one night and decided to transform their struggling farm into an over-commercialized Six Flags Over Fair Oaks, IN. I will say, however, that the grilled cheese was one of the best I’ve ever had, and I would go back again, if on I-65, simply for that reason.
I learned a lot about people on my trip to Sturgis. Traveling with a big group can present its challenges, but it can also make for a safe and enriching experience that you wouldn’t have otherwise had. Though not typically one for etiquette guides, these are the lessons I’ve picked up during my years of travel.
Disclaimer: Sturgis was a lovely trip. Big thank you’s go out to the fearless leaders who organized the trip, the gracious followers, and a big cheers that we all have come out of it with friendships in tact.
DO pick your battles. Traveling in large groups is a lesson in diplomacy. DON’T be that one chick who argues about everything. But, this is your vacation too. So if you’re not happy with a group decision to the point that it affects your good times, speak up. Otherwise, learn to let it go.
DO pick a leader, and
DON’T be a jerk if the leader is you. Check with the group and, if it comes down to it, take a vote, draw straws, play rock-paper-scissors. Again, group travel is a lesson in diplomacy. And democracy. Just because you’re the leader doesn’t mean that it’s your job to make all the decisions.
DO have an itinerary, and
DO share it with the ENTIRE group, but
DO let people stray from it. We’re all adults here. Establish meeting places and times, put them on printed out itineraries, and then divide and conquer. A group can get real hostile real fast if you spend too much time together, and many friendships have been broken up over a vacation. That’s lame.
DON’T forget to pitch in. Even if you’re not a leader or a naturally assertive person, don’t be afraid to put your hand in and help. Vacation is work, especially in a big group, and no one appreciates you coasting while we’re busy taking out the trash and washing dishes. If you can’t get anywhere verbally (e.g. “Can I help? Anything I can do?” doesn’t always get a task assigned to you… the leader will say, “No I got it”) just dive in and do something.
DO embrace the group experience. Be a joiner and recognize that your great lodging and awesome excursions might not have been possible without the support (financial, that is) of the group. It’s also way safer, especially when you’re traveling in places that are out of cell phone range.
That said, DON’T forget to create your own experience. This is your vacation too. If there’s something you want to see or do, do it.
The Belvidere Oasis was the VERY last pit stop on our 1,000 mile journey from Sturis, SD back to Chicago. Having travelled the high plains in severe cross-winds the first day and persistent rain the second, these tired bikers deserved nothing better the a high-priced premium coffee, and their amazing accomplishment (and fast baristas cranking out, like, 12 caramel macchiatos) earns a BIG thumbs up.
Rolling up to the Crazy Horse Memorial, knowing nothing about what I was here to see, my group looked around at each other confused and thought, uh, hmm, what exactly are we looking at here? I mean, it’s a big rock with a hole in the middle….
Wrong…
WAY wrong…
As we got closer, I realized what we were looking at, and now that I’ve seen Crazy Horse I don’t think many things can parallel that experience. After 100 years of dynamite blasts and the meticulous sculpting of a rocky face in the Black Hills, what is to become the Crazy Horse Memorial is not nearly finished, and likely won’t be within my lifetime. The family spearheading the project is carrying on the work of Korczak Ziolkowski, an apprentice to the guy who carved Mount Rushmore.
The way I understand it, Crazy Horse was the leader of the Lakota tribe, and as people and government moved Westward, he was instrumental in trying to protect Native American land. We all know how that turned out, but Crazy Horse is still considered one of the most iconic American Indians to ever live.
The carved outline of his face and hand pointing East toward his Land as he stoically says:
With an insufficient number of laborers and the continued refusal of the Ziolkowski family to accept government funds for the project, it may very well take another 100 years for to finish the Memorial, if ever. But to witness the process and the stick-to-it-iveness of the men and woman dedicated to this project is humbling, and grounding, and downright awesome. That’s one big rock with a hole in the middle that I could see over and over again.
Knowing that the entire Mount Rushmore Memorial fits in Crazy Horse’s hair, I was a little less excited to see four dead presidents carved out of stone, but nonetheless the crazy ride down Iron Mountain Road through tunnels and switchbacks presented ample “wow!” moments for glimpsing Mt. Rushmore. I wouldn’t bother to pay to get into the actual memorial… Go through Custer State Park and save your $10 bucks for Crazy Horse instead.
The weight and significance of some of the natural and man-made beauties I saw juxtaposed with the lunacy of the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally made for one hell of a trip. Traveling with a big group for the first time since, like, high school, and with such a jam-packed, diverse experience, in one week I witnessed the best and worst of America, and the best and worst in myself.
I don’t think I’d really change anything about my time in the Black Hills, other than to have a little more of it. When in Rome you throw a coin over your shoulder into the Trevi Fountain to guarantee you’ll some day return to Rome. Gazing up at the profile of Crazy Horse from the veranda of his museum, I threw a penny over my shoulder, hoping that the same holds true for the Black Hills of South Dakota.
The ride down to Devil’s Tower from our chateau in the Black Hills demonstrates one of the most dramatic changes in landscape I’ve witnessed in two hours of highway. One minute high in the trees and rocky hills, with the snap of a finger you find yourself on the barren plains of Cattle country almost immediately on crossing the South Dakota/Wyoming border.
But in the middle of the desolate and dry landscape of Eastern Wyoming, there’s an anomaly.
Unlike its fellow national monuments of bronze and stone depictions of dead presidents, Devil’s Tower is not contrived by men. There was a placard somewhere along the 2+ mile hike around it that said something about molten lava and volcanoes, but I like the Lakota legend better:
Seven sisters were out playing when a bear started to chase them. They climbed on a rock and the spirits rose the rock to the sky, where the sisters were turned into the constellation Pleiades. The bear scratched and clawed at the rock, but was unable to reach the top.
That’s way cooler than lava.
It’s hard to explain the gravity of a place like Devil’s Tower, but even more profound are the thoughts that come with a solid four days of moving Westward. People historically moved West for freedom, space, and opportunity. They were motivated by gold, coal, oil and land, and maybe they still are. Whether it’s gold or a job at Wal-Mart that pushes Americans Westward, I was starting to lose hope that there were still open spaces in this country, in spite of its size. I live in a constant state of claustrophobia, seeking Starbucks after Starbucks, with people living literally on top of one another and paying the highest prices for the least amount of space.
But after a pit stop at the first and last gas station on the way from Devil’s Tower to Gillette, WY, there wasn’t a Starbucks in sight. In fact, there wasn’t a single building – or even a vehicle for that matter – as far as the eye could see. In that moment I’ve never felt more vulnerable, or more free. I imagine it’s as close as you can get to witnessing what it was like for those first settlers moving West over the open prairie in search of, well, nothing…
…and actually finding it.
That pretty much sums up Sturgis, SD and the Black Hills Motorcycle Rally. The juxtaposition of sex and Christianity is confusing. The storefront windows with naked women getting their boobs painted is even more confusing.
It’s sort of like the Gay Pride Parade but with no parade and more bandanas. Oh, and a LOT more motorcycles. The Sturgis Motorcycle Rally is solid proof that the Wild West still exists. It’s a whooping good time is what it is…. a chance to completely let down all your defenses and, if you choose, get laid in almost any location or situation. And now that I’ve seen it, I can say that I have, and I probably don’t need to go back.
One of the reasons I like vintage pin-ups so much is the suggestion of sex without the reality of it. Let me be blunt: women in chaps, a beaded top, and a muffin top isn’t sexy, but Sturgis is a man’s game – that’s for sure – so what do I know…
The “welcome women riders” tent had pink studded t-shirts for sale, a bike on training wheels where “girls” can try what it feels like to ride a real motorcycle (!), and a tent selling low-calorie beer.
taking in the whole scene was WELL worth it, and all the vendors, purveyors, and even the attendees were actually really nice. I think Sturgis really wants its tough, Wild West persona, but it’s more like a bunch of dudes who love motorcycles and music, and are looking for an excuse to let their hair down with like-minded men (and a few women too).
The prices were cheaper than any other festival-type-thingey I’ve attended, the weather was fine, and if you find yourself near the Black Hills the Sturgis Motorcycle Rally is a must-do for your bucket list. Just don’t forget to bring cash and your ass-less chaps and beaded top.
Lauren Warnecke 
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