Plenty more to look at on the road to Pulaski. Large tracts of woodland subdivided into plots inhabited by cabins, trailers, caravans with d.i.y. pitched roofs, burner-out bungalows, prim timber-framed houses bedecked with a multitude of doo-dads (flags, toy windmills, welcome signs), houses that looked like the Creepy Coupe from the Wacky Races, all with lawns strewn with animal figurines (deer, bear, flamingos), broken-down cars, car-boot-sale junk, old tractors and engine parts, and creatively decorated mailboxes.
Our motel in Pulaski (pr. sky) had red carpet on the walls, sluggish a/c and the kind of look that only a total lack of care can produce. It would seem that people staying here aren’t too picky. In town we dined on sweet corn, beans and curly fries at a near-empty sports bar. Some guys were playing pool rather badly in the next room, but after our dismal performance at the Newcomb Bar & Grill we weren’t about to take them on. We’re almost at Lake Ontario, and I can’t figure out why this town exists, being so close to ports and rivers, yet removed from both. Maybe there’s some closed-down industry I don’t know about, but this place feels like a ghost-town.
