Twenty-odd years ago, I traveled with Sister #4, from near Toronto, to visit Sister #2 who lives in Ohio. She brought along her one-year-old son, and my seven-year-old daughter came with me. I drove.
I recall nothing about the visit until the return trip, when we were approaching Buffalo, NY and the Peace Bridge to Canada.
“Why don’t you stop for some cheap gas before we cross the border?” #4 wanted to know.
That didn’t sound like a bad plan, but it was long before GPS or smart phones and I knew I’d get lost if I turned off the I-90.
“I’ve gone to a station not far from here,” she told me. “I’ll give you directions.”
I took the exit she pointed out, but each turn seemed to take us deeper into a section of Buffalo that I’d only seen on the Channel 4 evening news. Although Cheektowaga and Tonawanda seemed to have continual car accidents and perpetual fires, downtown Buffalo is where the crimes happened, and we were getting deep into a shady-looking part of the city. Continue reading “A Trench Coat in Buffalo”