Hello Kansas – Part Two: Dodge City, Wichita, and some places in between
As I approach Dodge City, my mind is full of images of what was once “the wickedest little city” in the wild west. This was the “cowboy capital” where Wyatt Earp tried to keep order and his friend, the gunslinger, Doc Holliday, gunned down other men who lived by the gun. These illusions are shattered when I drive into a town overrun with fast food restaurants and chain hotels. There’s a Wal-mart. There’s a Dollar Store. It looks exactly like any other place.
Dear America, I hate to bother you on your birthday, but we have got to stop ruining our small towns. I know we all like convenient, cheap and quick, but it’s costing us our soul. Our countless little towns are all unique and each has its own history; we ought to embrace that. It is just no fun if every town looks exactly the same. Signed, Your Wayward, But Loving Son
I can see why my room was the last available. It reeks of stale smoke, there are cigarette holes in the comforter, I can tell they refill their old shampoo and conditioner bottles, and I don’t even want to think about where those dark stains on the chair came from. But it meets my bare minimum when I am traveling alone: the sheets are clean and so is the bathroom. I will only be here long enough to shower and sleep a few hours. I ask the girl at the front desk if they have a shuttle service. This is the same girl I talked to earlier and the poor thing is dumb as a fence post. She stares blankly at me. I repeat the question. More blank staring. Then she asks, “You mean like a taxi?”
“No.” I patiently explain the difference between a taxi and a shuttle and she says, “Oh. Well then, we don’t have shuttles. I think there is a taxi in town.”
“That will work,” I say. “Do you have a phone number?”
She tells me the hotel phone number.
“No, I mean the number of the taxi service.”
“Ahh…” she looks around for help, then says, “I don’t have that.”
Dear America, Me again. We need to do a better job educating our youth. We have a proud history and I really, really want to see it continue. I’m willing to go back to teaching English if you need me to. Signed Your Faithful, but Concerned Son
The lack of shuttle is disturbing because nothing is close to the hotel. The replica of the western town as it looked in the early 1880s is a mile east, the Boot Hill Casino is three miles northwest and tonight’s fireworks display can best be viewed two miles northeast.
To me, celebration and casino means having some drinks and having some drinks means not driving. Yes, I can walk all those miles but then I’d have to walk them all back and that doesn’t sound like much fun after being on the road all day.
While I am trying to decide my next move, I start walking in the direction of the museum. It is well done and a group of actors reenact a gunfight, complete with real guns firing blanks and staged fistfights. The kids in the crowd love it.
Since I am out, I stay out. I find some food. I find some drinks. I strike up a conversation here and there. The moment it gets dark every family in town is setting off their own fireworks. Everywhere I turn, there are bangs and pops and explosions in the sky. If you close your eyes, it sounds like…gun fire.
The next morning, I’m back on the road. I see a lot more of Kansas and arrive back in Wichita in time to walk to Old Town. The night is hot, but I enjoy walking among the old buildings and brick-lined streets. There many places to choose from for dinner. The town is clean and the people are friendly. I stop in at Mort’s Martini and Cigar Bar for a drink and live music.
As I listen to the band do a very good cover Bob Marley’s “Stir It Up,” the images of the day flash across my mind:
