Excavation of the Honeymoon Suite

The Pocono Mountains of Pennsylvania were once, I have read, a popular honeymoon destination. It's easy to see why. The scenery is pleasant (though somewhat short of breathtaking), and it is only a few hours from New York City and Philadelphia. While Paris and Hawaii might be nice for large-budgeted honeymoons, there is a large untapped market among frugal newlyweds. Some Pennsylvanian genius figured out a way to capitalize off of this fact, and started the trend of slowly filling the Poconos with cheaply decadent (read: tasteless and silly) "cabins" and "lodges." While this wave was in full motion through the seventies, humanity soon revised its standards of taste, and most of these buildings went out of fashion and of business. Repairs ceased, walls fell, and before long there was nothing left but crumbling, termite eaten wood structures. I have done a good deal of urban trespassing in my time, but these hollow halls (still reeking of imitation radiance) rank at the very top of the list.

I'm reminded of a favorite book of mine, David Macauley's "Motel of the Mysteries." In it, future archaeologists discover the ruins of a cheap motel, and in their attempts to analyze the lost culture mistake it for an elaborate tomb, attaching religious significance to commonplace objects like toilet bowls and televisions. This comes to mind for obvious reasons - digging through the wreckage of these ridiculous rooms, I can't help but concoct an elaborate prehistory of my own imagining.



Below: A toppled relic of the Cola Wars. Back in my youth these things were used to dispense flavored drugs. Now they only dispense insects.





Below: An exercise chamber, designed for the traditional honeymoon sport of basketball.









Below: All signs seem to indicate that the human race died partying.







I find the bedrooms. I suppose in this case "love chamber" is a more appropriate term. Everything about them, from the heart-shaped hot tubs to the round pancake bed, was once carefully plotted to increase romantic arousal and encourage intercourse among those who share a love of gaudiness.





Below: A scrawled warning on the wall, which we can assume came from the last member of this dying race. The mystery of how this culture met its demise has now been solved. I suppose, actually, that the solution was obvious.







Below: The front gates of Strickland, which we can assume was the Pocono kingdom's capitol city.



It's rumored that there are at least seven or eight abandoned resorts up here. It is unfortunate that I have found only two - although I'm pretty sure these are the largest. The second is pictured below: an accurate reconstruction of an ancient Roman honeymoon palace, patterned after a drawing on a Hallmark card.









I am digging through a room in this structure, patiently searching a cabinet of ancient supplies for the last plastic marquee letter I need to complete my name, when I hear two sets of footsteps approaching. I think about relocating to a distance further from the torn-down door, but decide instead to freeze, in avoidance of making another sound. The steps come closer and I know they are heading for this room, and here I stand, arms full of worthless-but-still-technically-stolen goods. I close my eyes and ready myself to be escorted towards the nearest police station. Is this where my long long voyage ends? With me being shipped back to California in a lead-lined prison truck? I unclench my eyes - if this is my fate I suppose I must accept it.

I open them just in time to see a head, two full feet closer to the ground than my own, poke around the corner and scream. "Oh shit!" his pre-pubescent voice cracks "There's a guy!" I am still instinctively motionless while his cohort screams "Run!" and the two of them speed away, sweating and glancing behind them. They must hear me laughing uncontrollably as they rapidly leave the premises, and I know that while for me this noise represents a feeling of good humor, for them it is just a noise to be echoed in their nightmares. I wonder in how many ghost stories to come will I play the monster's role, and what scary name they will concoct for me when telling their friends. "The Laughing Man?"











Scranton was never Pennsylvania's most populous city, but (I am told by some young, hip kids I befriend in a coffeeshop), it was at one point the most "happening" place in the whole Keystone state. It was originally the center of Pennsylvania's mining industry, and was a popular halfway point for trains running between New York and Philadelphia. Frank Sinatra and "all of those guys" used to hang out here, I am told. But gradually coal was replaced by newer fuels, the city's economy declined, jobs were lost, until a mining disaster finished nailing the coffin of Pennsylvania's coal industry. 80 people died in a hurricane, the railroads built a new line which bypassed the place completely, and the town died. I am walking through the streets of downtown at 7:00 on a Friday night, and signs of life are sparse. I pass by a music store, but I can't tell if it's closed for good, or just the night. A group of 5 suburban punkers loiter outside of an closed internet cafe, rebelliously trying to find something to keep them busy until it is safely past their curfew. Even the homeless have forsaken these streets - no money to be had here, in fact there doesn't even seem to be so much as a lucky nickel left haphazardly on the ground.

For the sake of irony, Scranton mantains the motto pictured below.