Hot or Not Springs

Hot Springs + National Park – what is there not to like?

At least that’s what I thought as we hurried to hit the road this morning.  While the breakfast in Oklahoma City was just fine, when I asked if their waffles were Oklahoma shaped the desk clerk just looked confused.

John and I sped away on the turnpike (toll $1.15) and were on our way to Arkansas in no time.  Now there are many things I would have liked to have seen in Oklahoma, but this road trip has purpose, and lest we keep daddy waiting forever some things will just have to wait.

Our first stop was Fort Smith Arkansas for lunch, which was …. pho.  That’s right, Vietnamese noodle soup. In Arkansas.

I found PHO Vietnam on Yelp during a brief rest stop, and, seeing its 14 four plus star ratings decided to give it a go.  But when we first approached the restaurant, I had my doubts.  It was definitely a hole-in-the-wall.  But the dingy tables were more or less occupied by young professionals and actual Vietnamese people, so we decided to give it a go.

When our pho finally arrived, and boy did it take forever, I was skeptical.  It didn’t look like any pho I’d ever had before – white onions?  A broth with some color?  So I didn’t take a picture before I tasted it.  Which is too bad, because by the time I decided that this was the best pho I had ever eaten, it was too late.  My bowl (and John’s) was empty.  Ah well.

Back to the road.  We drove through the Ozarks on twisting two lane roads lined with deep forests.  The occasional crystal rock shop or Baptist church beckoned, but we could not be tempted.  Hot Springs!  National Park!

And then we arrived.

Now my tendency is to try to see everything in its best light, but in this circumstance, I have to confess – I feel a little let down.

Yes, yes, Hot Springs National Park is the oldest of America’s protected areas (designated a reserve in 1832).  Yes, it was among the first places to use penicillin.  Yes it is where the first Park Ranger was killed in the line of duty (this is actually an official fact on the web site).   If you must know – bootleggers 1927.  But all this seems to be trying to hard.

The fact of the matter is that Hot Springs National Park was once a thriving site for wellness and now that doctors no longer prescribe bathing in hot springs (penicillin is an ungrateful mistress) it really is a tourist trap past its prime.

Aging and abandoned hotels line the main strip.  Most of the bathhouses have been turned into museums or malls.  Our hotel, circa 1920, I’m pretty sure is haunted.  

Whole floors are closed off by double hospital doors Shining-style.  

At least the water runs hot and heavy in our cast iron bathtub.

This is important because this is the only bathing we will get to do.  There are no more public baths in Hot Springs National Park, and children under the age of 10 are not welcome in the two spas available.  The sight of steaming 145-degree fountains on Central Ave does not comfort John. 

So we head off to the Alligator Farm and Petting Zoo.

As we enter this 80-year-old roadside attraction we are handed a half a loaf of white bread and told we can feed the goats and the deer but not the lemurs.  Lemurs?  We do feed the goats and the deer, but elect to stay outside their pens (although we are encouraged to go in).  I don’t think there are many tourists in November, and we come close enough to being trampled outside the chain link fence.

The winter quarters of the semi-hibernating alligators comes next on the tour.  As soon as we enter, a young man catches us a young alligator to pet.  He holds it by the snout while John strokes him.  “Don’t worry, we bleach them,” the handler says.  Great.

We pass a pool full of snapping turtles, and then the first of a series of alligators segregated by age.  (30-60, 12-30 “Perfect for purse and wallet making”, and assorted pools of 12 and under).  A sign proclaims, “Alligators don’t attack people, crocodiles do.”  That’s what they must tell the lemurs, sitting contentedly in the cage near the young crocodile pen.  I think if I spent the winter in that kind of alligator proximity I would be one stressed out primate.  

We didn’t stay and said goodbye to Charlie, the taking parrot at the entrance.  (And Charlie said goodbye back.)

Dinner.  Hot Springs National Park (this is the actual name of the town, just to make things confusing the residents changed it after the Park got its status) new claim to fame is that it’s the boyhood home of Bill Clinton.  As such, there are many places where the former president ate and, er, slept.  We stuck to the former and went to Bill’s favorite ribs place.

Say what you will about President Clinton, the man does know his barbeque.  

It was truly excellent, good enough, perhaps, to redeem Hot Springs in my eyes.  But I am looking forward to St. Louis tomorrow, even with the long drive ahead.