On the way back from our triumphant tour of Cleveland, we swung northward to see Niagara Falls. An almost inexcusable omission in my childrearing — we were only 90 or so minutes from it many times over the years — it is now at least partially corrected.
As unhappy as I look there, you’d think I’d never want to set foot in the place again. But the tour guide had just addressed me as “young lady.” Also, and I don’t remember if this was before or after the “cave of the winds” tour (that’s why the raincoats), but the spray and mist covered my glasses so I couldn’t see a thing. The entire trip I had to cling to my mother’s arm just to make sure I didn’t fall down the steps.