Wednesday 23rd December 2009 - A Town with no Beer

          Down to Kentucky is a bit of a dawdle from here, so I'm in no great hurry to start this time.  I check the local TV station for weather.  As I turn it on, I manage a rather odd conversation with the newcaster: "A semi has crashed on the interstate, and ... ".  "Which Interstate?"  "It's on I-64 and ... ". "Oh no, that's my road!  Where is it?"  "It's at the intersection with highway 35 and ... ".

          So I get up the google maps and find out where I-64 and US-35 cross.  It's quite close to town, and I can instruct Dulcie to take in a "via point" to avoid it.  I cut through town, fairly slowly, but pleased with my luck.   As soon as we're past the junction, I'm back onto 64 and away.  Except, closer study would have revealed that 35 crosses 64 again, much further out of town.  There are huge "Road closed" signs, and an equally huge traffic jam.  We're two miles from the junction, but the obedient American drivers all pull into the inside lane and wait their turn.  I zoom up the outside lane, get someone to let me in, and it's over the junction exit and entry ramps, and off again.  Don't you just hate people like that?

 

          I stop for brunch at Mt Sterling, just east of Lexington.  Kentucky has virtually no snow, just a dusting on north-facing slopes.  It's also very neat, especially round Lexington.  It's all "Hollywood" farms and newly-painted white fences.  And all the grass is cut.  It's not the lawns here which are "manicured", it's the entire countryside.  It takes me a while to work out that grass and hay must be quite a valuable commodity round here.

          The sun is getting quite hot as we strike out west along the Bluegrass Highway, then south on 65.  And in what seems like no-time-at-all,

[n0649]

          I've got my planning wrong again, and I'm about two miles from town, not the one I was expecting.  And there don't seem to be any local bars.  I decide it's time to replenish Rozzie's cellar.  At the local supermarket, I find a grown-up lady and ask here where the beer is.  "We don't sell beer", she says, and waits, expectantly, with her punchline.  "Where", I ask, "is the nearest place which does?"  Out comes the punchline: "Bowling Green" she says.  "That's thirty miles away!"  She can see I don't believe her.  She nods her head vigorously: "It's true", she says, "you can get drink in restaurants, but there are no shops".

          It suddenly occurs to me, not having seen any bars, that Glasgow, profaning it's name, might actually be dry.  The holidays are about to start.  I'd better get to Bowling Green in case everywhere shuts for two days.

 

          Actually, later that night, I found a bar.  But it's not walking distance, so moderation will be required.  It styles itself as a "SW Mequite" restaurant.  As far as I can gather, that means cooking on mesquite wood, which flavours the food very distinctly.  I had a steak and it was exceptionally delicious.

         They had a notice over the bar saying that drinking alcoholic beverages before conception, or during pregnancy can cause birth defects.  I tried to tell the barmaid that I couldn't see how it was possible to drink before conception, even if only because of the "carding" id rules.  She didn't see my silly point, and got into a long discussion of how her cousin's brother-in-law's wife's sister had done just that, and had had problems.  Of course, it should have said "conceiving". But it had been produced by the state department of human resources.  What more could you expect.