I don’t know what I expected — in fact, I’m not sure I even had a preconceived notion of how Gettysburg would look — but the actual place surprised me. The battlefield is huge, for one thing, probably several square miles across (although I admit to being lousy at estimating distances; my dad has long been frustrated by my tendency to think three inches look like one of them). I guess I must’ve imagined it as a modest hay field like the ones I remember growing up. It turned out to be a fan-shaped plain bounded by two ridges (well, they call them ridges, but they’re not dramatic vanes of rock bursting out of the earth like the ridges around here; they’re actually more like grassy linear hills). And I also figured it would be empty and solemn, with nothing but strands of grass to catch the fickle breeze. Instead, the place is lousy with monuments, statues, and cannons, and every rock where a general sat or rested a boot has a marker on it.

But that gives the wrong impression, makes the place sound vulgar or crass, and it’s really not. It is, in fact, beautiful. The whole area is, with rolling hills and thick woodsy patches and more green than Utah will ever see, short of an atomic explosion in a local paint factory. I found it quite soothing, actually, even with the knowledge of what happened on that field 145 years ago, of how many men lost their lives in three days of brutal fighting and how much blood must have soaked into that soil.

I’ve been wracking my brain trying to figure out how to shape a narrative out of my quickie Pennsylvania adventure, but the fact is, there just wasn’t much of a story there, so I think what I’ll do instead of telling a story is just offer up a few highlights. In bullet-point form! Because everyone loves bullet-points…

• It was cold and rainy on Friday and Sunday, the days I was in Pittsburgh, but Saturday was just perfect for eight hours of wandering around a former battlefield, with mellow temperatures and drifting clouds that alternately veiled the sun and opened up every few minutes. Conditions were comfortable for hiking, good for photographs, and wonderfully moody.
• To reach Gettysburg from Pittsburgh, Cranky Robert and I ended up driving for a time on U.S. Route 30, a.k.a. the Lincoln Highway. This was the first transcontinental road designed for automobiles, running from New York City to San Francisco… and passing right through the town of Gettysburg. A year ago, I attended a book signing with author Michael Wallis, who was promoting his book on the subject, so it was kind of a thrill to realize what road I was traveling on. The stretch Robert and I explored is a lovely two-lane bordered in most places by thick woods, with the occasional cleared spot occupied by a lone farm house, gas stop, or small village. When we found ourselves behind a Model T pickup, it was almost like we’d broken through the time barrier…
• At some point, I noticed that many of the trees along the Lincoln had these weird globby things filling in all the crotches between branches, like cobwebs made of epoxy. I figured they must be cocoons, or possibly egg sacs for some kind of spider. I then learned that Robert, ahem, dislikes spiders almost as much as Indy Jones dislikes snakes, as he declared in all seriousness that we had to get the hell out of that area before Shelob or those giant arachnids from the Harry Potter-verse emerged looking for a nice rented Kia to snack on.
  (A co-worker who hails from those regions tells me they were likely locust cocoons… which isn’t much better than the spiders, to be honest.)
• All of Gettysburg was fascinating, but the site that both I and Cranky Robert found the most inspiring was atop a dome-shaped hill called Little Round Top, which is located at the narrow end of the fan-shaped field. There, the 20th Maine Infantry under the command of a college professor named Joshua Chamberlain successfully defended the vital high ground from waves of Confederate attackers. When they ran out of ammunition, Chamberlain gave the order to fix bayonets and charge; the enemy scattered, the Union Army reinforcements soon arrived, and the Little Round Top never fell into Southern hands. Today, a monument to the 20th Maine lies at the end of a dirt trail, a short distance from the road that brings carloads of tourists to the top of the hill. It’s back up under a canopy of trees, and standing there with the call of a half-dozen types of birds around us and a soft, caressing breeze blowing, it was difficult to imagine this place echoing with gunfire and the clash of steel. After all the bloodshed, peace reigns.
• The Gettysburg National Military Park Visitor’s Center (which has replaced an older facility and is new enough to still smell of fresh carpet glue) is simply fabulous, with a world-class museum filled with authentic artifacts, clothing, and recreations of a period camp and hospital. Video screens deliver the story of what happened on the field in easily digestible chunks as you roam from room to room. Don’t miss the movie A New Birth of Freedom, narrated by the ever-dignified Morgan Freeman and featuring Sam Waterston as the voice of Abraham Lincoln. (Robert reminded me he also voiced Lincoln in Ken Burns’ awesome documentary The Civil War, and in a few other films as well, and we surmise that he’s becoming The Voice of Lincoln, just as Hal Holbrook’s Mark Twain is the one people now know.) It’s about 30 minutes long and provides a concise overview of the events leading up to the war and the war itself to the time of the Battle of Gettysburg.
• We didn’t get to see much of the actual town of Gettysburg due to limited time, but what we did see seemed pleasant enough, if almost entirely centered around the tourist trade. (Lots of antique shops and re-enactors about; we were particularly amused by the sight of a corpulent Confederate heading into KFC.) If you find yourself there in need of a bite, I recommend The Pub and Restaurant right in the middle of town; the New Orleans Bourbon St. Pecan Pie is amazing, although a slice of it is roughly the size of your average human head. I ended up taking half of it home and having it for breakfast. Mmmmmmmm…. bourbon pecan pie for breakfast… droool…
• Pittsburgh is something of a dream city for fans of older architecture — everywhere you look, it seems, there is something interesting, especially in the residential areas, which are built on the steep hillsides overlooking the downtown area and the three rivers that border it. The city is rather claustrophobic, however, with narrow streets and row houses crammed tightly together. It’s also, I’m sorry to say, a bit shabby and run-down looking, at least in the areas we explored. That said, it seemed like a nice enough place to live. Well, it did to me, anyway… Robert was a bit put off by how quiet it was, how everything was closed on Sunday and the fact that he couldn’t locate anything resembling the diverse, vibrant, artsy district he lives in back in LA. Makes me wonder what he really thinks of my hometown…
• Three interesting places to eat in Pittsburgh, should you find yourself there and feeling peckish: the first is the Church Brew Works, a brew pub and restaurant located inside a deconsecrated church. It’s wonderfully blasphemous, with the big brewing tanks and vats situated on the former altar and all the stained glass still in place and even the organ in its loft. Good food, wonderful beer. (Powerful beer, too, compared to the weak stuff I’m used to drinking here in Utah.)
  Just off the campus of Carnegie-Mellon University, a place called the Union Grill offers excellent sandwiches, made in what is apparently the traditional Pittsburgh style (the fries and slaw are conveniently tucked right into the sandwich itself instead of on the plate). And the final spot we liked is a neighborhood coffee house called The Quiet Storm. Robert and I dropped by this place twice; I’m not a big fan of vegetarian food, personally, but the breakfast I had there was tasty, the coffee is good and cheap, and the ambiance is homey and welcoming, even though we were obviously not from around those part.
• For this next item, you have to know a little of my history with Robert, particularly our nickname for each other. Long story made short: we met at Cambridge University in England some 15 years ago and immediately hit it off. One night, our dinnertime joking apparently got under the skin of a dining companion, as he abruptly stood up and declared that we were, without a doubt, the two most blasphemous bastards he’d ever had the misfortune of meeting. Ever since, we’ve proudly referred to ourselves as “the blasphemous bastards.”
  I’d just like to state for the record that we continued to live up to our titles on this particular trip. In fact, we may even have set a new record for blasphemy, and no, it wasn’t because we drank beer in an old church. I’m afraid I can’t share with you exactly what I’m talking about — it’s kind of like the first rule of Fight Club, you see — but I will say that after we stopped laughing, Robert said he thought he may have actually offended himself. Now that’s good conversation!
• And finally… the next time I come up with the brilliant idea of taking a red-eye somewhere, somebody please talk me out of it. I usually have little difficulty sleeping on planes, but this flight was just a long series of ten-minute cat naps. Absolutely horrible…

And now, back to the regularly scheduled programming…