My car has been my freedom ever since I got one to call my own, and deprivation of freedom prior to that or when unavailable to me. Periodically my father z"l would take us someplace relatively spontaneously, the World's Fair in Flushing Meadows a few times, once the airport, occasionally to Rockaway. But I like to get into my car and drive to different places a lot more, and mostly by myself. Sometimes I plan, but rarely more than a week in advance if no overnight stay is required.
I needed some Me Time, shuled out, Jewed out, still inappropriately resentful of a baalebos who mistreated me in his official synagogue capacity. Skip shabbos, visit someplace other than synagogue. In my weekly plan, I designated this a New Place, a place I'd not been to before.
And so at midmorning, after some coffee, I asked the Waze App to direct me to the Lancaster Central Market, which I had heard about as an historical site. Despite frequent outings to Amish Country, I'd never been there, though had been to the Central Market in York. I had visited Franklin & Marshall College and Wheatland, both in Lancaster, but never been to the central business district. Amish country is definitely separate from the seemingly robust mainstream economy of the town.
My GPS gave me the fastest route. I opted instead for the one I knew well, until a turnoff of minor familiarity, then followed the directions for the final half hour through some pretty seedy parts of the town until arriving at a few blocks far more filled with people than most mid-sized towns on a Saturday morning. Indeed, the leadership of Lancaster had made the area a gathering place, with the Central Market, open only Tues, Fri, Sat, as its centerpiece. Parking lots all had Full designations but driving two blocks beyond, I encountered the city's parking garage. For $2/hr I could take my time, walk around.
They gentrified the place. People of all ages. Complexions maybe less diverse, though not really to the exclusion of anyone. While the market originated as a farmers market where people could gather to obtain provisions, it now functions more as a food court with stands offering all sorts of options, though seating in the market itself was rather limited. It seemed far cleaner than the two farmer's markets near me that I frequent periodically, though those are more cheap merchandise oriented with food a secondary consideration and eating places relatively few.
I settled on a falafel from a transplanted Middle Eastern man with a friendly smile who custom-made my sandwich. A little mushy perhaps but tasty. Second choice would have been an open-faced gravlax sandwich from the Scandinavian place, much less filling for about the same price as the falafel. I took my sandwich outside, a dreary slightly chilly and misty afternoon but with a brick planter ledge to sit on. Then walked a few blocks. Then returned for dessert, opting for none.
Back to the car, still within the $2 parking ante. Decided to go to a winery. Pennsylvania allows its vineyards to set up a limited number of satellite tasting rooms but I really wanted to go to the vineyard itself, so I did. A little farther out of the way than anticipated but took me through some pleasant agricultural and dairy operations. The Waltz Winery has been open about twenty years. Their tasting offered a mixture of wines from estate grapes, blends, and an apple wine. I chose my five, sipped slowly, and enjoyed. Chat with the hostess prior to the selections. Considered wine glass purchase but more than I wanted to spend and I have ample winery stem and goblet glasses, enough for any reception I could ever host, milchig or fleishig.
GPS directed me home, kinda. Rejected the Turnpike with its tolls. Took the GPS directions, ultimately rejecting its transfer to the Lincoln Highway, in lieu of Rt 30. I thought I would take Rt 896 all the way to my state's university, and did until I came to a cross route, one whose name I recognized in its eastern segment but have never been on its full extent. I went there instead. Farmland, the New Bolton Center, eventually what looked like manors of the uber rich. Never made it through the town of West Chester as anticipated, though south of it. Having been to football games at their state college's stadium, I recognized the road that I take to get there, proceeding on to the pike that gets me home, which it did.
Tired when I got home, though satisfied.
No comments:
Post a Comment