October 19, 2005:
Our drive to Salem, Massachusetts took over eight hours. The combination of heavy traffic and even heavier rain made a packed car ride all the more miserable especially for the three of us lined up in the crowded back seat, covered in all of the luggage that wouldn't fit in my friend's trunk. It was one of those drives that makes you swear to never vacation again, but when it was finally over when we finally arrived at our hotel with about an hour left in a day we paid in full for only one thing was on our mind: Drinking.
Talking about drinking on the Internet always feels stupid; you always assume that the people reading think you're trying to brag, as if you think getting drunk is some privilege reserved only for the elite. I understand why. Itz ez 2 taaahhype like this aand say EYE'M DRIUNK. I'm going to have to toss aside any reservations I have with this topic, because boy, we got fucking plowed.
Most, if not all the pics in the three-part Salem series were taken on Sunday morning, during the brief moments of peace when it wasn't raining. For the remainder of the trip for every last second of the remainder of the trip it was absolutely pouring. Only a small amount of attractions completely closed down due to the storm, because as the brunt of Salem's income arrives with the help of October, the town simply couldn't afford to throw a weekend away. So it wasn't so much a case of having nothing to do, but rather a case of not finding anything interesting enough to warrant getting goddamned soaking wet to do it. This wasn't the kind of rain that could be defeated with mere ponchos and umbrellas. If you wanted to go outside, you had to know how to swim.
Drinking was our only recourse. Sure, we'd endured a terribly long trip to get to Salem and were paying quite a bit of money to stay there, but if given the choice of either seeing all the sights wet or drinking all the spirits dry, we'll go with the latter almost every time. Especially when the spirits are all ghostly and shit
Peering through the wet window of our hotel room, we spotted a liquor shop called "The Bunghole." Whatever comedic value a name like that had was lost of us -- we just wanted happy liquid as soon as humanly possible. On Friday night, we arrived just in the nick of time before the establishment shut down for the evening, and thank God, because between the eight hour drive and a weather report that clearly indicated that our weekend excursion was doomed, the only chance for salvation was bottles of cheap wine marked "Vampire."
I've read about this Vampire wine for many years online. I was intrigued, what with all of the obvious excuses to pass off regular red wine as vampire blood meal and all. For reasons I am not capable of understanding, the wine's makers didn't go the obvious route. No puns, no jokes, no mock gothic meanderings. It's just plain old wine marked "Vampire." Upon closer inspection, the wine's said to be a Transylvanian import, and while I guess that gives it a pass, it's the cool labels that really guaranteed the purchase. We left Bunghole Liquors with two bottles of red Vampire wine (because really, if you're going to buy wine marked "Vampire," it's pretty stupid to get the white), downed 'em and passed out. You don't mind the rain so much if you've got the kind of headache that'd keep you from walking around even if was a perfect night out. I've got Vampire wine to thank for turning a bad case of ruined-vacation depression into a mere screaming headache.
On a second trip the following night (still raining, mind you), we picked up a box of Pumpkinhead Ale, which tasted pretty much like Budweiser save for the many psychosomatic effects that come with drinking from a bottle featuring a Headless Horseman sticker on it.
Finally, Sunday arrived, and with it, the sun. While we appreciated the short window of time to be outside and dry simultaneously, it felt a slap in the face since we had to get on the road for home shortly after. See? This is what happens when you deny God and buy a bunch of chocolate-covered pretzels in the shape of pentagrams. I curse you, Salem.
Whatever. We hit the Bizarre Bazaar, a special event featuring countless street vendors who hocked their wares from tents made of garbage bags supported by broomsticks. A couple of the stands were more intense, like those shown above. The holidays are half what you do with them, half what you eat. Thanksgiving and Christmas are easy for me -- I know what I have to eat to feel like I've accomplished my holiday duties. Halloween's tough. I don't like pumpkin pie, I don't like pumpkin seeds, I don't like anything that comes from and/or smells like pumpkins. (And yet, I like pumpkins.) Besides tiny Snickers bars, there's not much left, but if Salem considers apple cinnamon buns smothered with ice cream an October treat, I'm so there. Even better was the kettle corn, popped right in Ma & Pa's shack in a big, black, steaming kettle. I couldn't really figure out how the kettle worked, but it looked like a big witch's cauldron, and that's certainly the kind of thing I wanted to eat stuff out of. If you've only had kettle corn of the microwave variety, you're missing out. It's nowhere near as good. Sugary and salty, the fact that a bag of it made my lips swell to twice their normal size was a small price to pay for such goodness. Shit's filling, too -- I didn't even feel the need to fulfill a personal vow to eat four pounds of fried dough before leaving.
There are plenty of great restaurants in Salem. Old style inns where you dine on expensive meat from the luxury of fancy loveseats are easier to find than, say, a McDonald's. Still, the less schmaltzy Salem Beer Works is our eternal top choice, if for no other reason than the fact that they sell blueberry beer with real blueberries (as opposed to FAKE blueberries) swimming inside each pitcher. And they're okay with requests for "extra blueberries!" To be honest, it doesn't so much taste like "blueberry beer" as it does "regular beer that lets you eat blueberries when you're done," but God, you don't feel half as common drinking beer from dirty glasses when you see blueberries floating around in there. It's really something, and you can totally do this at home. Beer and blueberries are all you'll need. Recommendation: Use a beer that falls somewhere in the "amber ale" category. Reason For Recommendation: Wanted to score two points in the personal game of Scategories that perpetually plays in my head.
So concludes our three-part series of Salem-related articles, and I just don't feel like I've done the place any justice. If you like what I like, and you'd pretty much have to by this point, plan a trip. It's probably a bit late to make it happen for this year, but it's never to early to start planning for the next Halloween season, especially considering how quick these hotels fill up. GILES ROCKS.
