Quenching Thirsts With Bud, Pepsi, And The Arch That Defines America

It turns out the Gateway to the West isn’t all that different from any other gateway. It allows travel in both directions. Whether heading in or out, all travelers seek the same thing: to quench their thirst.

The thirst they wish to slake can include many things. It can be physical, like food, drink, or air conditioning. It can be emotional, like happiness, a sense of belonging, or simply a good joke. Finally, it could be spiritual, like being closer to God, Country, or the Green Bay Packers.

Americans grew up trained to satisfy their thirsts. It doesn’t matter which part of the country you come from; the grass is always greener on the other side. Chances are, if Americans see a doorway, they’ll eagerly pass through it. Such a portal always signals a better place, a better future, a better life.

Perhaps that’s the purpose of the West. It symbolizes something new, a place where dreams can come true.

Or am I confusing the promise of the American frontier with Hollywood?

Wait—there’s a difference? A philosophical rabbit hole invited me to dive in.

Such were my thoughts as I glanced over my shoulder one last time at the Rockies. But before I had a chance to contemplate that rabbit hole, off we drove on a different highway. This one would take us from the spiritual highs of Colorado through the endless flat prairie into the heartland of America. Off we went into the eastern sun with Catarina at the helm of our trusty Ford Expedition, heading towards St. Louis—The Gateway to the West.

Now, in case you haven’t been paying attention, this meteorologist wannabe knew exactly what that meant. It meant driving straight into Tornado Alley. The good news: the extreme weather churned well beyond the northern horizon. The bad news: the isobars were tightly packed, implying a steep pressure gradient—and that meant high winds.

High winds on the plains mean something quite different from high winds in our neck of the woods. We have several things the plains don’t have, namely, undulating hills, thick forests, and housing neighborhoods galore. The plains are mainly farms. Hardly any trees—more wind turbines than anything else.

That makes sense. There’s nothing to stop the wind, so you might as well try to milk it for all the energy you can.

Of course, with no obstacles, there’s nothing to keep those crammed isobars from whipping up one heck of a windstorm.

And we were driving straight into it. In a relatively high-profile vehicle.

As we ventured further into the flatlands, the gusts increased. I monitored them, trying to determine if we could stay ahead of the worst of them. Catarina didn’t seem to mind the slight buffeting. I did. Then again, I knew the wind speed. She didn’t. I kept that information from her because there was no reason to alarm her. I told her to slow down—without mentioning we were heading into twenty miles of hurricane-force gusts.

It was a white-knuckle gauntlet. In the middle of nowhere. These weren’t tailwinds urging us home. No, they were stubborn headwinds, tugging relentlessly at us, trying to pull us back.

It was as if the West was urging us to stay. It clung to those who had tasted its freedom.

Why would the West resist our departure? Was it trying to trap us, hold us prisoner? Or was the West trying to protect us? It seemed to understand our destination, the so-called “Gateway to the West,” was a two-way street. Its side of the Mississippi held fresh soaring awe that compels our spiritual being ever upward. On the other side of that great river loomed the stale routine of treading water. It refused to have us trade the basilicas of nature for the cathedrals of commerce.

The howling winds reminded us that Kansas was no flyover state. They sought to hold you in their grasp. To keep you where nature intended, where freedom reigned, where tomorrow was forever another day.

Well, at least they weren’t a tornado. They were, on the other hand, a different musical.

We decided to quench our thirst for Kansas knowledge at the Welcome Center. It was most certainly a welcomeThe lighthearted fare within its walls generated smiles among our motley crew. In one of those tourist photo ops, Cesidia got to pose between the Wicked Witch of the West and Dorothy and company in a scene from The Wizard of Oz. If there’s one thing about Kansas, it definitely leans into the whole tornado thing.

Betsy discovered they made those orange Dala Horses in Lindsborg, Kansas. A Dala Horse is a traditional carved, painted wooden horse originating in the Swedish province of Dalarna. It’s long been considered a favorite among children’s toys and has become a symbol of Sweden. Lindsborg was too far off our route to visit, but Betsy was happy enough to get a picture by the Dala Horse display.

Peter picked up Gus the Gorilla Explores Southwest Kansas, a coloring book meant for elementary school-aged children. It featured a steam shovel on the front, so maybe he thought it was Mary Anne. Incidentally, Pittsburg State University helped make the book. No, not Pittsburgh with an “h,” but Pittsburg without an “h.” As in Pittsburg, Kansas. Gus is the school’s mascot.

Back in the car, for the next 20 miles, Peter read all fifty pages aloud. He’s not a slow reader—it just took that long to describe each picture in civil-engineer-style detail.

It’s funny, but the thirst for knowledge turned into a desire for memories. That unassuming rest stop humbly satisfied that desire.

But curiosity can never reach full satisfaction. For no sooner had Peter concluded the tale of the Kansas mascot than we found ourselves on the outskirts of Abilene. The sign approaching the city proclaimed it contained the boyhood home of Dwight Eisenhower. Curiosity got the better of us. Plus, we needed gas. We pulled off the highway and drove by the landmark.

It wasn’t hard to look around the plain white farmhouse flanked by several large trees (perhaps the only trees in the entire state of Kansas). For some reason, it reminded me of that quiet, small-town feeling evoked by that innocent, small-town feeling you find in Tom Sawyer. It’s a cauldron of discipline, simplicity, and grit—the ingredients of leadership and American resilience.

That’s Ike. And he satisfied two different types of thirst. First, he quenched the world’s thirst for victory in World War II. Next, he addressed America’s thirst for stability and unity following that war.

How often does America find greatness in those raised on ordinary thirsts? And how often do those homespun beginnings find a way to have a dramatic global impact?

What’s the difference between thirst, hunger, and craving? Is there a difference? I don’t know. What I do know is that since Cody, Wyoming, where Fat Racks BBQ ran out of brisket just as it was my turn to order, I had been craving the juicy morsel. I wasn’t necessarily hungry, and I wouldn’t describe it as a thirst, but I can attest that my mouth watered for it.

With that in mind, we set the GPS for Joe’s Kansas City Barbeque. There are three of them. We picked the closest one at 3002 West 47th Avenue, Kansas City, Kansas. Apparently, so did a lot of other people. We drove by the restaurant only to discover it had a line stretching well outside the door. And there were no parking spots available. I immediately thought, “The last time this happened, Fat Racks ran out of brisket.”

With that, my thirst (or hunger or craving or whatever you want to call it) for brisket fell victim to time constraints. And just like that, we weren’t in Kansas anymore.

Sometimes the road dictates your appetite. Sometimes you forsake one thirst because of a greater thirst. Sometimes progress demands forward motion. So you just keep driving.

And we did. Until Columbia, Missouri, about two hours from our next destination—St. Louis, the Gateway to the West.

We left the hotel at 8:45 the next morning for the historic Budweiser brewery. The classic 19th-century brick architecture stood as a chapel to industry. You could almost feel the legacy of the early Industrial Age in the air. Or was that just the smell of roasted hops? I half expected to see someone rush past us on a penny-farthing (one of those old-time high-wheel bikes).

Months earlier, we had booked the 11:15 AM Budweiser Tour. We wanted to arrive at least 30 minutes beforehand, just in case there was an elaborate check-in process. There wasn’t. We spent thirty minutes in the gift shop.

I was never keen on Budweiser beer. I’ve always preferred Labatt’s. Still, the gift shop had a nostalgic ring to it. After all, who doesn’t think “Super Bowl” when seeing images of Clydesdales? But then, a wonderful revelation appeared before our eyes. One shelf contained Bud Light koozies marking the year of the brand’s birth—1982. That they were also blue and white was a sign. A wonderful sign. I bought a dozen. Gifts for my Yale classmates, I planned to distribute at this year’s annual party.

The tour itself began in awkward fashion. Our guide was entertaining, sincere, and overzealous. The “free beer for all workers” routine quickly became dry. Worse, at the very start of the tour, she asked everyone their favorite beer. Wouldn’t you know it? I got to be first.

Now, mind you, I didn’t like Bud. But I didn’t want to admit that. And I felt it would be in poor taste (but not less filling) to name a competitor. So, when asked, I said, “Diet Pepsi.”

That got a good chuckle from everyone. (Spoiler alert: the last laugh would be on me.) The joke broke the ice and provided unexpected cover to the underage kids of the Wisconsin couple on the tour with us. In retrospect, they did look kind of nervous when the tour guide said she was going to ask everyone to name their favorite beer. One of the teens actually said, “Pepsi.” The twenty-year-old said she wasn’t old enough to drink.

That’s when the parents, both bartenders (were they writing this off as a business expense?), revealed a quirky Wisconsin drinking law. Did you know that in Wisconsin, parents can buy beer for their minor children, but they’re not allowed to purchase alcohol for their adult children who have not yet reached drinking age. If you’re under 18, you can legally drink beer with your parents. But if you’re between 18 and 20, you can’t: no longer a minor, not yet of age.

I looked it up. According to the State of Wisconsin Department of Revenue website, the Wisconsin Law states that anyone under 21 can drink beer as long as a parent, guardian, or spouse of legal age accompanies them. However, the exact application of this law is left to the licensee. The parents apparently worked at a bar that decided to interpret the law in its own way.

Such is the spirit of God, Country, and the Green Bay Packers. I guess.

The tour took us through history, manufacturing, and business nostalgia. (Yes, we got to see real, live, Clydesdale horses.) The tour walked through roasting rooms hotter than the 95° outside temperature. We spent little time in those rooms. The tour walked through freezing rooms that stored the beer. We spent more time in those rooms—and not only because that’s where they allowed us to drink straight from the vat.

Finally, we toured the bottling conveyor belts. If we felt all the more closer to Milwaukee’s Laverne & Shirley, imagine what the Wisconsin family felt.

The tour ended at the tasting room. That’s where the final laugh was mine to swallow. Set up like a bar, it featured a variety of Budweiser beers. You could taste as many as you want (up to a certain amount). Off to the side was a refrigerator containing drinks for underage tourists. In that fridge stood gleaming silver cans of Diet Pepsi.

I drank the Diet Pepsi.

The Wisconsin kids had regular Pepsi.

It’s just another example of where “thirst” can mean different things to different people. It’s a testament to American ingenuity. We call it “freedom,” but it really comes down to individual choice. Who would think of serving pop in a beer hall?

The juxtaposition between beer and Pepsi couldn’t be odder. Think of how advertising represents each product. Beer commercials show crowds of people sharing camaraderie in a traditional manner. Pepsi, on the other hand, symbolized individuality and the breaking of tradition. After all, the brand earned its advertising stripes with the tagline “the choice for a new generation.”

Some thirsts are communal. Some are personal. But both are quintessentially American.

Ironically, the “Pepsi Generation” theme started in 1963 as a result of a national slogan contest. The winner won a new car. Her name was Ellen M. Reimer. She lived in Appleton, Wisconsin.

St. Louis might be the Gateway to the West, but apparently, Wisconsin is the gateway to beverages.

Speaking of the Gateway to the West, the Gateway Arch loomed next before us. Well, not all of us. Betsy and I opted for a different path. We dropped off the kids at the Arch, then proceeded to take our chances and see what happens in the streets of St. Louis on a sizzling summer day. We also needed gas. That harrowing experience proved that not all gateways are easy crossings.

The kids had a better time. For kids, the Arch represented familiar territory. And it wasn’t because that same Wisconsin family from the beer tour rode the tram with them. Peter had ridden it earlier. Then he forced all of us to watch an old YouTube film about its construction. Repeatedly. It might’ve received an Academy Award nomination for Best Documentary Feature in 1966, but it still reminds you of those nails-on-the-chalkboard filmstrips they forced you to watch in school.

Designed by Eero Saarinen and completed in 1965, the Arch stands as a testament to the traditional starting point of Lewis and Clark’s grand expedition. The two explorers actually started their trip in nearby St. Charles, Missouri. More appropriate for our trip, the Lewis and Clark Expedition ended with their return to St. Louis. Once again, a gateway can be a way in or a way out.

In fact, Hubert Humphrey dedicated the Arch as “a soaring curve in the sky that links the rich heritage of yesterday with the richer future of tomorrow.”

High above the St. Louis sky, the kids peered out the window at Busch Stadium, where the St. Louis Cardinals were busy losing a game to the Cincinnati Reds. We got caught in stadium traffic when we picked up the kids.

Once again on the highway, I peered into the rearview mirror to see the arch slowly shrink in the distance. I recalled the howling winds on the prairie behind it. Those winds reminded me of Kansas City-born essayist Calvin Trillin: “I know you’re thinking that there are considerable differences between T.S. Eliot and me. Yes, it is true that he was from St. Louis, which started calling itself the Gateway to the West after Eero Saarinen’s Gateway Arch was erected, and I’m from Kansas City, where people think of St. Louis not as the Gateway to the West but as the Exit from the East.”

Beer, pop, and steel. St. Louis fills the cup with symbolism: Budweiser quenches appetite; Pepsi quenches individuality; the Arch quenches the nation’s longing for meaning—an icon linking past to future. But what thirst are we really trying to quench? Is it physical, cultural, or spiritual?

Budweiser satisfies us as the communal quencher of our desires. Rooted in the tradition of a sepia-toned, more industrial America, it satiates our literal thirst but also our need for physical companionship.

Pepsi puts the “pop” in pop culture. It possesses a dash of rebelliousness and a hint of humor. It emphasizes personal preferences and even a contrarian spirit. It’s America as the red, white, and blue in Pepsi’s logo.

The Arch stands tallest, addressing our monumental thirst for meaning, identity, and destiny. It answers America’s strong spiritual longing for new frontiers.

Together, these three intertwining layers—body, personality, and soul—intersect to define the very heart of the American spirit. Thirst—whether for drink, laughter, victory, or horizons—defines how we move forward as individuals and as a nation.

More than merely the Gateway to the West, St. Louis has become the Gateway to America’s thirst. Whether the awe and wonder of the West or the appetite and ambition of the East, St. Louis represents our central hub.

And therein lies the paradox of the Arch. We—as individuals and as a country—are always leaving one frontier behind to chase another thirst ahead. The Gateway Arch isn’t just a monument. Nor is it merely the Gateway to the West. It’s a stasis between past and present, between present and future. More than that, it’s a monument to hope, optimism, and the promise of a better tomorrow. An invitation to keep quenching our thirst for what’s next.

America’s true “gateway” isn’t a road or a monument—it’s the restless thirst that drives us west, east, and ever onward.