Tiring of this crush of people, we stagger back to the car, the same way we came, through the cramped, crowded visitor’s center where a pair of besieged rangers sit in their tiny circular fortress of a desk, being questioned by all manner of visitor in more tongues than were found at the Tower of Babel. They point to the colorful but inadequately done maps, to try to move these curious tourists away from the desk to the proper cash-extraction attractions, and make way for the next bewildered soul to ask how to find the huge falls hidden somewhere behind this ornate obstruction.
With that, we drive off. By some quirk of navigation, we are taken on a southward route, which gives us a chance to view the Niagara River, and the columns of fine mist rising from the mighty falls at a save distance far from the rumbling hordes of people.
Grand Island sits in the center of the Niagara River, and is connected by two enormous bridges on each side, barely two lanes wide. That doesn’t stop people from driving like maniacs despite the sharp curves and access ramps that were perfectly well suited for the Model T. We manage to escape serious injury, and make our way to the turnpike, pausing at the first rest stop to get a proper lunch since we had skimped on breakfast.