One of the things I’ve regretted about not being able to drive—besides not having an ID, or being a capable designated driver (back in my straight-edge days)—was my inability to participate in road trips. For instance, in college I went on a road trip to visit a friend in Ohio; but if I ever talk about it, I’d have to say I “drove” to Ohio with some college friends—they took turns driving, but I merely rode along. My family has gone on cross-country trips, but I have no sense what it actually means to drive those miles or how it feels to cross the landscape behind the wheel. But in my lessons with Walter, as I’ve outgrown Jersey City, we have had to drive farther and farther for new experiences and sights.
First, I had to encounter the, uh, thrills of highway driving. Now, my aunt likes to regale me with the story of her first day of driving when, immediately after passing the exam, she had to drive on I-95. Well, I at least had some miles under my belt before Walter and I took a drive out to the Meadowlands and the new stadium. Still, I was not prepared to finally discover what aspect I hate most about driving. Now, this had changed with every lesson, as I undertook learning, mastering, and adding another facet to my skill set. But somewhere out in East Rutherford I first attempted to change lanes on a highway, and have yet cross this off my list of things I despise. Partly, it has to do with the speed of the traffic, and partly, it has to do with judging the distance and timing of the cars in that situation. But if I ever want to drive in this area, or drive home, or drive on any kind of road trip—I will need to drive on a highway, and sure enough, change lanes.
Our second road trip, two weeks later, was far more scenic and enjoyable. After grinding our way through downtown Hoboken (no jokin'!), we drove north along the Hudson River until we came near the George Washington Bridge. In its shadow, along the Palisade cliffs, I learned, silent films were made. The epic cliff faces seen in adventure pictures were these very rocks, and to house the production crews near the shooting location, they established a community high above the river. After the film production industry split for the more pleasant and consistent weather of southern California, the homes remained and became a private residential community known as the Colony. Of course, I learned all this from Walter as I maneuvered through the warren of narrow roads and homes precariously perched on the cliffs so as to equally afford each a river view. (New homes built in the Colony are constructed below the others, and in some cases, only their roof-top garages are visible from the street.) Somehow, I emerged from this hilly maze of alleys and dead ends, and we drove off toward the vistas and cliffside roads of Palisade State Park. Climbing up, down, and along the igneous rock walls was of course a thrill for a geology buff such as myself. Remember those family road trips I mentioned? Yeah, I organized those to tour the most impressive geologic sites in the West—and yet I still can’t get enough of rocks. But unlike then, I was the one actually driving these roads, and thus had to split my time looking out at the Hudson to my right and the rocks to my left with the road ahead of me—a new experience. And when we reached the riverside picnic area at the base of the park, Walter regaled me with yet another story, involving an unregistered motorcycle and a high-speed escape from the police officers who’d noticed.
After I drove us up and out of the park, Walter revealed his real intention for driving up this way: hot dogs, and not just any hot dogs, but the best in the area. Okay, so this wasn’t entirely true. In the Fort Lee area sixty years ago, an employee of Hiram’s Roadstand, having learned the hot dog trade from the best, opened his own establishment, Callahan’s—right across the street. And thus, a friendly rivalry ensued, stretching over the decades until the newer (relatively) purveyors of hot dog, burgers and fries decided to pack up the business and yield the corner along Palisade Avenue to Hiram’s. Now, Walter is among those locals who will say that Callahan’s had the better hot dog—but not among those locals too partisan to enjoy dog at Hiram’s. That is, if he can remember where it is.
We drove all over Fort Lee, back and forth past the George Washington Bridge, in search of this legendary corner of hot dog heaven—going on Walter’s memory of landmarks, unaided by the fact that he wasn’t in the driver’s seat. Hoping that Hiram’s hadn’t gone the way of Callahan’s, we stopped at a diner to inquire as to its whereabouts. On his way to the door he stopped a pair of old women, apparently a mother and daughter, coming out after an early-bird dinner. Of course they knew where Hiram’s was. The daughter remarked on how tasty she remembered their hot dogs are, while the mother (presumably born before the invention of the hot dog) dismissed the idea of a hot dog in general, just some fad for the kids, or something. Okay, maybe she didn’t say something like that, but pair definitely reminded me of a certain scene from a certain episode of SpongeBob Squarepants.
With directions and the news of Hiram’s enduring existence, we set off, eventually pulling into a crowded parking lot beside a rough-hewn roadstand. Walter had told me I would like this place, and I immediately did. I don’t know why, but I am irrevocably drawn to good bad food, places that drip with authenticity, and charming characters who breathe an atmosphere of nostalgia for a past I’ll never know. That’s Hiram’s, the kind of place I’d love to set a play or a scene of a novel just so others may get to know it, so I can get to know it better, and so that it will remain captured in art. But perhaps experiences like this are ephemeral, and meant to be just that, an experience lived. You just have to go get a hot dog and fries and a beer yourself, with a ball game on in the background, and Jersey accents, gossip, and laughter filling the air. Naturally, Walter and I got seconds (no beer for me, of course), and with guts full and a mission accomplished, I drove us back on home down the road.
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