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The initial plan to cross the rust belt. It turns out that New York without tourists looks a lot like Indianapolis or Toledo. Maybe even better.
By Robert Simonson
We call it Rust Belt Honeymoon Travel Trip. The hope that the humour of the call would alleviate the misinterpretation of our plans. It never worked. People didn’t even pretend to understand what we were talking about.
Who would spend their honeymoon in Pittsburgh? Or Cleveland or Detroit? Who would want their love to stumble directly upon all of them in succession? The righteous user who was given was the adult son of my new wife, Mary Kate. He worked as an engine and travel to some cities. “I like it, ” he said. I said, “That’s great.”
These stalls have character and are great, however, it is a funky and stealthy place, hidden under decades of use. My wife and I love old things: old buildings, hotels, restaurants, bars. All these elements are discovered in the cities of the rust belt, the type of those who revel enough in fate and the non-solid indusattempt clung to its traditions by default. (We had enough time to expand those preferences; we didn’t get married until we were about 50 years old.)
We feel cheerful through brief remains in Rochester and Buffalo, two unique colossus advertisers. Both had lovely architecture and wide avenues. We were convinced that Toledo, Cincinnati and Indianapolis would have a similar charm. The concept of sunny apple beaches with dazzling wise appearance and monotonous uniformity left us speechless with boredom. A belt of honeymoon oxide the ticket.
We started at Binghamton, home of IBM and Rod Serling, near the Pennsylvania border. We despise my friend essentigreatest because my adult son almaximum frequents SUNY Binghamton. The 3 people dined at Oaks Inn, a time capsule from a red sauce stamp that comes straight out of a Scorsese movie. Light sweets, giant martinis and lamb spies, a native specialty of marinated meat cubes cooked with charcoal.
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