This is an archival story that predates current editorial management.
This archival content was written, edited, and published prior to LAist's acquisition by its current owner, Southern California Public Radio ("SCPR"). Content, such as language choice and subject matter, in archival articles therefore may not align with SCPR's current editorial standards. To learn more about those standards and why we make this distinction, please click here.
LAist is on a road trip around the country, so you dont have to.
There's a reason Plymouth Rock is hard to find. There's a reason why most of the signs off the highway lead you to the Plimouth Plantation, a living museum where "real native Americans" and white folk recreate what life was like when the pilgrims arrived (for the low price of $24 for adults, $21 for seniors, and $14 for kids under 13). And there's a reason why you don't see a lot of tshirts that say, "My parents went to Plymouth Rock and all I got was this t-shirt."
It's because the people of Plymouth are ashamed by their rock, and they should be. It's small, it's dumb, it's in a bizarre little cage within a grand columned structure.
Sometimes size does matter and sometimes presentation is everything, and pardon our French but we've seen turds bigger than Plymouth rock, which is an accurate way to describe this pathetic piece of so-called history.
Even according to the Pilgrim Hall Museum, which resides a few blocks from the Rock, there was no mention of this thing in the first two accounts of the pilgrims landing in New England; indeed, it was only believed to be of any importance over 100 years after the pilgrims arrived, and only because a crazy old man said it was important.
Our advice is to avoid this town and focus on the chowdah on the cahd.
More pictures after the jump.
