In March, 2008, I took a three-day excursion to James Betelle’s hometown of Wilmington, Delaware. My plan was to visit a few research libraries, see significant locations, and, well, just get a sense of where Betelle came from. What follows is a recreation of the trip presented in the dramatic diary format.
Thursday, March 13.
6:30 pm: After an early dinner, kissed the wife and boy and saddled up in the Volvo. I left like a sad-sack businessman trudging off to a shower curtain manufacturer’s convention in Boise—except it would be Delaware and a dead architect. Programmed my stops into the ludicrously indispensable GPS and headed down through the swamps of Jersey.
9 pm: Arrived at the outskirts of Wilmington on a US Route-type highway—the kind peppered with strip malls, theme restaurants and carpet stores. Taking in this bland vista I joked to myself, “no wonder Betelle left.” Yes, you tend to talk to yourself on long solo drives. My hotel, a Courtyard by Marriott, was down a short access road, flanked by two others like circling wagons.
As I pulled into the lot, I noticed across the road a TGI Fridays, a Lone Star Steakhouse and an Olive Garden—a culinary trove. A very tall, thin gentleman in a purple suit bearing the name tag “Stretch” checked me in. The room was decent and had internet access, but the view of the dumpsters was not particularly inspiring.
