Leaving Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania on Friday morning, I decided to follow Route 11 west for a while. Busy but not too busy two-laners that pass through towns long past their prime are where you can spot some of the aging Americana that I love so much. The riding isn’t so hot, but the gems that cling to life tucked within the folds of a city are often something to write home about. A fading Main Street can hold many old secrets.
When I saw the facade of the Max L. Fainberg & Son furniture store in the town of Plymouth, I pulled a quick u-turn to get a better look. It was like being transported into a Wes Anderson movie.
Gorgeous, right? Looking at it gives me a strange melancholic yet nostalgic tickle inside.
You see, there are still faint glimmers of civilization left in this barbaric slaughterhouse that was once known as humanity. Indeed that’s what we provide in our own modest, humble, insignificant… oh, fuck it.
– The Grand Budapest Hotel
Hang in there, Fainberg’s.