Tinkerbell in neon took me back. I had changed, but the roadside sign for the Pink Motel was just as it was when I was a kid being dragged to Cherokee, N.C.
My friends went to the beach. Two or three times a year, we went to the mountains. By the time I learned my multiplication tables, I thought I’d gag if I had to admire one more piece of high-altitude scenery.
Tacky shops sold official Indian trinkets, but I soon noticed the incongruity of having a beaded belt from North Carolina that was made in Japan.
We usually stayed at the Pink Motel. Every room was trimmed in pink and every room had a back door that opened on to the gurgling Oconaluftee River. The water never stopped moving, but to me time always stood still.
When we traveled U.S. 441 last week, it had been more than 15 years since I visited this part of North Carolina. And there was Tinkerbell, advertising a locally owned motel that had survived changing seasons and changing habits. It was just as I left it.
We were on a quest for snow. If you promise a toddler snow you’d better deliver. So, over the river and through the woods we went looking for snow.
We got to Cherokee on Thursday night. We shopped for a non-smoking, first-floor room and were given directions to a Holiday Inn Express. As we rounded a curve we saw the casino for the first time.
It was a kitschy monument to vulgarity. Our motel was across the road from Harrah’s Cherokee. It seemed appropriate that we were on the Trail of Tears, for the sight of this extravagant casino was enough to make you cry.
Gambling came to Cherokee in 1995 and is a work in progress. Construction continues but in place is a 1,008-room hotel that includes a Paula Deen restaurant. A jumbotron flashes images of coming attractions that are visible through the morning fog.
I don’t know why the sight of this casino surprised me, for there are more than 400 Native American gaming establishments across the country. Where there’s a tribe, there’s usually a craps table. It is a billion dollar industry.
As a child I recognized the poverty around Cherokee. I now know that the Native Americans worked in the tourist business during the summer and spent the winter on welfare. Hopefully, the transfusion of gambling dollars into the tribal economy has made life easier for those families in need.
We found drifts of snow on the road near Clingman’s Dome, enough to have a snowball fight but not enough to build a snowman. Maybe next time.
We didn’t go to sleep to the rhythm of an excited stream.
We had to pull the curtains tightly so the twinkling neon of the casino wouldn’t disturb us. It was hard to imagine that the Pink Motel was only a couple of miles away.
Richard Hyatt is an independent correspondent. He is also found at
www.richardhyatt columbus.com
