Little Time in Le Petit Roche

May just roared to a close. Two more 5Ks (Portland's Strawberry Stride and a humid Memorial Day run in Antioch) supplied the exercise; a surprisingly solid concert from Lee Ranaldo, the quiet member of Sonic Youth, became the soundtrack; and we took plenty of other excursions.

Once again, I found myself on the move for Memorial Day. At least this one didn’t involve a wedding and any drama. In fact, for the first time since 2009, it involved neither.

After an early-morning 5K in Antioch sponsored by a church I would never attend, I worked a brief Grand Cru shift. Nancy met me and we departed for Little Rock. With less traffic than we would have met on Friday, we breezed along to Memphis, stopping only to switch drivers. Through a mix of David Bowie, Neil Young and Johnny Cash, we reached the Great Airstrip of Memphis as dusk began to fade. Splinters of blue twilight lingered in the clouds, walling off the western horizon until nearly 9:30, when we already rolled deep into Arkansas' farm fields.

The trip would have gone without a hitch were it not for 10 miles of Interstate 40 reduced to a single lane. The truck in front of us decided to go 40 mph in a 60 mph zone. The guy behind us wanted to go 90 mph and spent most of the trip so close we could barely see his headlights. A courtesy tap of the breaks would have caused an accident. Once the construction ended, I gave a flash of the brights to the maniac behind us, and we had no further incidents.

Just after 11 p.m., we turned past the small skyline of Little Rock along the Arkansas River, the capitol dome lurking behind a cluster of mid-rise towers. Jon woke from a nap just as we arrived after his apartment in an old Victorian mansion. Across the street sat the MacArthur Military Museum, which once housed the military barracks where the famous general was born. We had a few gin and tonics on the porch before sleep beckoned.

Morning came as it always does in Jon’s house, with coffee and a solid breakfast. Soon we hit the road for Hot Springs, the famed resort town just down the road. The hilly drive passed quickly, and soon we emerged at Hot Springs, the fabled resort town turned national park.

The Quapaw Bathhouse, the row's most distinguished structure.

There was a Niagara Falls vibe that was hard to shake. One side of the street preserved the ornate bathhouses cover springs releasing water at 140 degrees. The other side, crowded with people, sold the ugly wares common to every American tourist trap - T-shirt and trinket shops, grungy restaurants and everything else I want to avoid on vacation.

Of course we stuck to the Bathhouse Row side of the street. Fewer people and more attractive architecture made all the difference.

We toured the Fordyce Bathhouse, the only one open to the public. Marble fixtures were everywhere, and the male bath facilities were superior to the women’s. Stained glass ceilings highlight some of the social parlors. On the top floor sat a gymnasium filled with vintage workout equipment, for much of which it was tough to discern a purpose.The facilities were well-preserved. In the basement, a window looked down upon the Fordyce Spring, which still steams up from the earth.

Elsewhere, the bathhouse hosted early 20th century plans for a much grander Hot Springs National Park were presented. Looking out at the row of shops across the street, I wished the grand boulevard had been realized.

Outside we visited the few open springs remaining on the boulevard. The water came out warm but not scalding. The steamy spring water originally fell as rainwater around the time of the Egyptian pharaohs. I wished I had brought a bottle water for a souvenir from the public foundations along the street.

Fourth-floor gyms don't have Stairmasters.

Jon asked the ranger why the hot springs faded in popularity and got a simple answer: Penicillin. Hot water had no answer for modern medicine.

At the end of the bathhouse row sat a couple of elegant hotels that hearkened to the early days of Las Vegas. They belonged to an era when the bathhouses were a getaway for the wealthy (you can spy them to the . Now, they had an egalitarian feel; anyone could come and soak in their waters. Most stuck to the tourist traps, but anyone could take a therapeutic plunger where Al Capone and other organized crime figures ventured for recreation.

On a recommendation, we checked out Rolando's, a Mexican joint with a patio built into the rock face behind the restaurant. The stone patio was the perfect refuge for a hot day and the food was excellent, actual Mexican cuisine and not the Tex-Mex to which most restaurants subject us.

Full on Mexican, we drove the one-way mountain loop to the Hot Springs overlook tower. A rapid elevator ride put us 200 feet over the mountain and more than 1,500 feet above the main drag of Hot Springs. The angle hid good views of the historic district save the hotels and the state hospital.

Towering above Hot Springs

But the view still amazed. The hills and mountains seemed to roll into Missouri, and the clouds cast them in a delicate blue haze. Walking around the open-air deck revealed new dimensions of central Arkansas. The air was fresh, the crowds sucked in by the tourist traps did not venture up here, and we could see for dozens of miles in every direction.

The wind pushed at us, but it didn’t bother too much. Two hundred feet above a mountaintop, we expected some turbulence. Indeed, the height was not a problem until we walked down a story to the enclosed deck with interpretative displays, including a big one about Hot Springs High School’s most graduate. Putting a hand on one of the displays, I noticed how violently it shook from the Ozark winds streaming by the tower. At that, we decided to descend and finish the hour return trip to Little Rock.

Jon cooked again for dinner, roasting a pork tenderloin stuffed with panacetta and some delightful herbs. For dinner, Jon invited his friend Tucker, a former Arkansas newspaperman. He was quite an entertaining man, and willing to let us pick his brain about Arkansas politics. We talked about the Clintons, the Huckabees and other facets that showed how different Arkansas was from its fellow Southern states. Soon enough, Tucker departed and we returned to the porch for a nightcap, a cigarette and my hilariously long fight with hiccups.

The next morning we drank coffee and decided to leave early to beat a nation of travelers returning from the holiday. The Clinton library didn’t open till 9, so we walked the nearby pedestrian bridge spanning the Arkansas River before a trip to the capitol grounds.

Nancy at sunrise, Clinton Library

Unlike other capitols in recent visits, we passed through a vibrant riverfront district on our way to the far end of downtown. This was still Clinton Country. To extent, it was still Huckabee Country as well. When we arrived at Jon’s house late Saturday, Little Rock’s Riverfest still occupied the riverfront. This seemed like a Southern city that understood its assets and flaunted them (insert Bill Clinton joke here).

The Arkansas capitol has an interesting history. Originally, the design was selected for the Montana state capitol but later deemed too expensive (their copper domed seat of government better suits that state anyway). But the white dome shone with the rising sun. Lettered windows above the main entrance spelled “peace.” We had the grounds to ourselves, save for the Arkansas Vietnam Memorial. The stone soldier standing guard over the memorial wall for the state’s Vietnam veterans has been decorated with flowers and other tributes.

Quiet capitol on Memorial Day

 Even the section of I-40 under construction flew by – this time, the truck in front of us maintained a steady clip of 70 mph. We crossed the farmlands and rice fields of Arkansas in no time. Crossing the White River, the terrain changed. Forest crept in as farmland backed away. Soon enough, the vestigial pyramid announcing Memphis cropped up from the landscape.


Some people cross the Mississippi every day. Having crossed it less than a dozen times in 34-plus years, it still captivates me. The division it represents in our country is not political or anything like that. Considering I was 21 when I first crossed it by car (on the same I-40 bridge, no less), its ribbon of water adds a dose of mystery to the lands beyond. Few might consider Arkansas a land of mystery, but our brief time in Little Rock and Hot Springs peeled away a few layers yet many unearthed.