(note: the galleries take a long time to load, but it’s fun including them. Shouldn’t affect the text and other pics.)
About three weeks earlier, Gerry was telling me about Acadia. Bar Harbor Campgrounds is just a 15 minute drive from the park.
Now, despite a complete lack of planning on a trip to Maine during its busiest season, here I was.
But.
Turns out Acadia National Park is much more like Yosemite and Yellowstone than it is Arches or Splinters. Acadia gets a lot of the business from Maine’s busiest season.
The parking lot was a madhouse and within five minutes I knew the Park would have to wait for another day. Way too crowded. It took me 20 minutes just to find a parking space. Still, I walked up to the main office, which was outside (pandemic season, which I thought was on its tailend, but alas). The park officer was very helpful, giving me a list of activities and advising me that the best time to come was before 11 and after 4. Sunday would be extremely crowded, and she advised against it.
Well, hey, that was perfect! I could do Acadia’s Greatest Hits before and after school from, as it happens, 11 to 4 on Monday and Tuesday. Tomorrow, Sunday, I could drive up the north coast as I’d been wanting to.
So that’s what I did. The rest of Saturday, I just found a place to eat lunch and download my pictures. Then I went back to the campground to plan my drive tomorrow. I knew I wanted to go farther north, so I used the mapping function to find a four or five hour round trip drive. Machias, ME, seemed the perfect spot.
Sunday:
If you have access to my facebook albums, you know I never made it to Machias, because after an hour or so I realized what was bothering me: I wasn’t on the coast. The road was lovely, but I wanted to see wild and rugged coastlines! So in Columbia Falls, I stopped to force google to give me some interesting routes. Once again, I pulled out that paper device Jimmy turned me onto and looked for coastline points, then punched them back into google. My final plan looked something like this:
Here’s my modified route.
My trip was now taking me down some serious back roads, but with some gorgeous views.
Now there’s some wild Maine coast. And a wild Maine cat!
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Monday:
I got up early and went to Acadia National Park before teaching to see Sand Beach. Even at 7:30 in the morning, the parking lot was overflowing and people were parked up on the road half a mile up. It was a lovely hike, though. Otter Creek was much less crowded.
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Monday afternoon after school was done, came another spectacular drive through Mount Desert, which I believe is the island on which Acadia is located–I’m not sure if I was in the park or not. The Bass Harbor Lighthouse was the highlight, but every moment was exciting and beautiful.
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That night was the first of the heatwave that hit the Northeast, which is when I first learned of the downside of sleeping in cars. I anticipated the possibility of heat, but not the unbearable humidity that we just don’t get in my area of California. I can’t upload videos to my webpage, but I have a hilarious video that’s just me, talking in pitch black. Unable to sleep, I decided suddenly I may as well book a trip up Acadia’s Cadillac Mountain. I’d just put down my phone when suddenly the car lit up for a nanosecond.
LIGHTNING!
It’s a sign of how hot it was that I didn’t instantly panic about getting electrocuted. All I could think was “Will the rain get here?”
So I turned on my phone and recorded the pitch black of my Explorer, narrating my hopes. It’s hilariously nuts. But I was convinced I could catch another flash.
“Hey. Did you see that?”
It goes on for 15 minutes. Then I put away my phone.
Then I start recording again because….thunder! I start counting between the flash of lightning and the thunder and….they get closer!
I do this for at least two hours on and off, although thank god I think I only have about 4 minutes of pitch black video with my narration, interspersed with the occasional flash of light.
Finally, glory be! It rains. Mugginess is gone. I sleep. One of these days I’ll put all my “lightning videos” on youtube. They’re kind of hilarious. as a stream of consciousness yammer.
Last day in Maine, I get up early and drive up Cadillac Mountain with my brand-new reservation. It was ok, but not mindblowing. More fun as a hike, I think.
I much preferred Bar Harbor Trail, a path to the island that can only be accessed at low tide. No charge and a nice hike. But watch the tide, or you’re stuck on the island all day!
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Back to the coffee shop for a day of teaching.
Next up: back to Cape Cod to visit Aunt Joan for Fourth of July weekend and be with her on her big 90. I planned on getting to south New Hampshire before bedtime, then take a roundabout path to mark Plymouth Rock, tourist spot though it may be. A friend had mentioned Booth Bay, plus I had a gravesite to find.
I’m not a huge horse fan, but one of my earlier school memories is my teacher reading Marguerite Henry’s King of the Wind aloud in class. Mrs. Poole, my second grade teacher, tells me it wasn’t her–and how cool is that, by the way, being able to fact check with your second grade teacher?–and I just don’t think it was third grade Mrs. Beeman. It must have been first grade and Mrs. Wright. Normal girls back then loved Misty of Chincoteague, but Misty and her adoption were weak gruel compared to Agba, Grimalkin the cat, and Sham the small, unfashionable stallion as they travelled from Morocco to France to England.
I kept my copy of the book; it’s either around here somewhere or I gave it to Kerry. Wesley Dennis’s acclaimed artwork captivated me. I would return to this picture again and again–having no artistic talent at all, I traced it. I remember where I was sitting, in the Red Sea Apartments, which means before fourth grade. Sham, the chestnut, once owned by a Moroccan Sultan but now a lowly carthorse in England, fought Hobgoblin for the fair hooves of Roxana. Hobgoblin was an out-of-town stud brought in to “cover” Roxana, but Sham had other ideas and the filly liked Sham best.
So a seven year old wasn’t clear on all the specifics, but the fight looked cool. And in fact, this fight is not fiction. King of the Wind is one of Henry’s three historical fiction books about the founding stallion of a breed. While Sham never raced, his progeny were so fast that he was upgraded from an, er, “teaser” to the real thing and his blood runs through some of the fastest thoroughbreds in history, although another Arabian’s bloodline is more popular today. My mother saw that I loved the book and gave me Henry’s Justin Morgan Had a Horse, another fictional account of a real horse, Figure, the original sire of the Morgan horse breed.
My grandfather, the only person whoever understood the level of book starvation I routinely experienced in Saudi Arabia, had taken to giving me big boxes of books for Christmas. He’d buy a couple, but mostly just go through his own library and pull out good murder mysteries, science fiction, whatever. I still have three or four of those books; one of them is Born to Trot, another fictionalized account of a famous filly trotter, Rosalind, her jockey, the great Ben White, and his teenage son Gib.
Understand, I know nothing about horses that didn’t come from Marguerite Henry, Walter Farley, and the great Dick Francis. So as I was driving north to Bar Harbor and suddenly came across a horse track I had to stop and watch. I’d never seen sulky carts in real life before.
My penchant for backroads had taken me right by the Windsor Fairgrounds, while the competitors were training. Like any well-trained Kerr, I’d always put immediate curiosity over a deadline, so despite the risk of losing a campsite at Bar Harbor, I spent 20 minutes just watching the horses. I can’t load videos here, but check out my facebook page for a longer look.
I finally got through to Bar Harbor Campground, and they assured me they’d still have plenty of sites left if I arrived by noonish. But they only took cash so I had to break off and find a bank that took Google Pay–I’d completely forgotten I don’t carry my bank card anymore.
I was almost sorry to get to Bar Harbor and end such a lovely drive.
Fast forward briefly to last week. My niece and nephew Jeff and Sierra were moving in–their mom, Debbie, has embarked on her own considerably more epic road trip–and they’d moved some books where I’d stored them in the garage out into my living room. I was putting them away when what should I run into but the book my grandpa had given me fifty years ago. I’ve reread it many times over the years.
I was reminded suddenly how old this little book was. Grandpa hadn’t given it to me new, of course, but what was the publication date? I opened the book to the cover page to see writing I’d seen before, but completely forgot about.
Yes, my beloved little book that Grandpa pulled off a shelf had first belonged to Uncle Jim, who was delighted to learn about it.
I knew that Maine’s population was a little over a million. I knew that many times that many people showed up in the summer tourist season. I knew Maine wasn’t just a place anyone could show up on impulse without a reservation.
I did it anyway.
Just drove in from Lincoln to Portland, over the Kancamagus Highway on Friday night with no plans for the evening beyond dinner.
I was finishing up on the conference call, so I found a waterside diner. (I was subsequently horrified to find out I’d forgotten to mute the call, but everyone was understanding. They’d been there.) While enjoying a drink and listening to ruminations about the MESA national program, I looked for places to stay.
There weren’t any 24 hour stops, either nearby or on the way to Bar Harbor, my ultimate destination. And all the KOAs were booked solid.
I arrived in Portland at dinner time, so I decided to search for other campgrounds the next morning. I gave serious thought to spending the night in the $30/day parking space I’d already paid for, but signs everywhere said it closed at 2am and I wasn’t sure what that meant.
So ok, I decided, I’d just book a motel. Pay a bit more but it was late, and I was tired and Expedia beckoned.
Days Inn was $269. It went up from there.
Huh.
OK. So I ordered dinner and finished up on the conference call, putting off any decisions until I’d finished people watching around Portland–well, at least around the blocks near my parking spot. Whatever decision I made was not going to involve paying $269 for a Days Inn, so any in-depth inspection of Portland was going to wait for another day.
I toyed with the idea of taking a ferry to see the Casco Bay Islands and walked to the offices to check out the schedule.But it was an all day event and federal laws require masks on all public transportation. Sounded kind of dismal way to see some gorgeous scenery.
This section of Portland was all brick. Unlike almost everywhere else on my trip, the city seemed worried about covid19. Lots of outside seating. But I found a nice little bar that didn’t seem to care much and had some bourbon while I looked for nearby truckstops.
Then I saw that Kennebunk had a travel plaza. Granted, it was 30 miles south, but the story value was fun. I could noodle around Kennebunkport, summer home of the Bush family, for breakfast and beach pictures, before I headed north.
I’d save Portland and this part of Maine for some other time.It was probably for the best. I wanted to be back in Cape Code for Aunt Joan’s 90th on July 2nd, probably a few days before. So five days in Maine was probably best spent in one place, and Gerry had persuaded me that Arcadia National Park was a good anchor spot.
But mostly, I was amused at myself for not realizing just exactly how booked they meant when they said Maine was booked. Even in my part of the world, Days Inns don’t go for more than $80-100.
I spent some time looking for camping sites in Bar Harbor but all the KOAs were booked. I wasn’t yet sure how to find good camping sites that weren’t KOAs. Hotels were even more expensive. No truck stops to speak of. Camping still seemed like my best bet, but I’d have to check them out first. Best hit the road early the next day, get the four hour drive done early, and see what I could find.
Kennebunk was just a bit south, so I enjoyed a nice hike along the water for a bit, found a Walmarts to pick up some food bars, and then hit my first truck stop since Des Moines.
The next morning after yet another stupendous breakfast sandwich, I scoped out Kennebunkport, a whole different town from Kennebunk. One wonders why two were needed. I took the scenic route, of course.
I kept my primary objective in mind. Long tours into Kennebunkport history, a search for the Bush compound, chats with the locals, they’d have to wait another day. I wanted to get a glimpse, check out the coast, take some pictures, and keep moving north.
I did enjoy the irony of stumbling across the Democratic HQ in the heart of old Bush country, but it turns out that the town has been voting Dem since at least Bush 43. Makes sense. Liberals love themselves a sea town. One the way out of town, I came across the stone chapel at St. Anne’s by the Sea, a popular wedding spot and Episcopalian church for the past 130 years. Like much of southern Maine at that time in early June, it was closed. For the most part, though, I just stopped and enjoyed the views. I have an unholy love of overcast beach shores, probably from years of living in desert lands.
But it wasn’t just all sightseeing. I was googling “camping in Arcadia” and coming up with plenty of possibilities, all booked solid. I wasn’t quite ready to risk the remote “free camping sites” that had primitive toilets and “pack in, pack out” requirements. I wanted flushing and trash cans, dammit. What I needed was a place that didn’t take reserv….wait. That’s a thought.
“Camping Arcadia first come first served” and right there, first on the list: Bar Harbor Campground
Holy cow. A beautiful place, with a website saying sternly that no reservations could be made in advance. I tried calling, but the phone was busy. Busy with people who couldn’t make reservations!
Meanwhile, it was just 8:30 am and under 4 hours to Bar Harbor. Maybe everyone shows up at 9, but it was worth a try. I could call on the road.
I waved goodbye to Kennebunkport and started north.
In our last episode, I was teaching a zoom class outside a Manchester Starbucks. I’ll post on my summer school Zoom experience later; for now, I’ll mention that it was horribly humid and I had no iced coffee drink to beat the heat.
When class ended, my circumstances rapidly improved.
First, I drove further north and checked into Loon Mountain, where I’d booked a couple days. Once the larger cities were behind me, the drive was beautiful.
New Hampshire has hills that look like mountains, which is a compliment.
Fun fact: the highest peaks east of the Mississippi River are all in North Carolina, ranging from 6400 to almost 6700 feet, with Mount Mitchell the winner at 6684. New Hampshire’s Mount Washington is 6,288 feet.
Sacajawea Peak in Oregon is 9,843 feet, which is tall enough to reach #302 on the highest peaks in the US. Yes, Wikipedia stops counting “tall” long before it runs out of mountains west of the Mississippi higher than little ol’ Mount Mitchel. The ten highest mountains in America are all in Alaska. California’s Mount Whitney is the highest in continental US, in 11th place. Alaska has 23 of the top 100, California has 14. Colorado has an utterly shocking 53 mountains ranked in the top 100. Throw in Washington’s Mount Rainier (17), Hawaii’s Maunas Kea and Loa (59 and 66), Wyoming’s Gannett Peak and Grand Teton (57 and 60), Utah’s King’s Peak (77) and it’s all the way to the 90s before you see Wyoming again (Wind River and Cloud Peak) along with a late entry by New Mexico at 98 with Wheeler’s Peak.
Of course, if you check out the top mountains in the world then China, India, Nepal, and Pakistan all say “Dude, US can just hold our beer” because that list stops counting just past 100, still 5000 feet higher than Denali.
But the point for my provincial purposes is that I’ve driven over California mountain passes–not peaks, just the roads going through the ranges–that exceed anything the east has by about 3,000 feet, so they’re all hills to me. But a lot of the mountains in the east look a bit worn…no, not worn, but smooth and hilly. New Hampshire’s ranges have flair and presence, which I like, although they are still mostly rounded.
Where was I? Just arriving in Franconia Notch, a lovely town that’s home to cousins Tina and Steve, neighboring a gorgeous state park of the same name.
I will now have pictures to show you of my journey, but first an embarrassing admission: my first picture was of yours truly–and I didn’t ever take a picture of Tina and Steve. I was showing them my new phone and said “oh, hey better see if the camera works.”
The lovely hills…er, mountains…behind me are often obscured by overcast skies, but today it was beautifully clear. The red barn is Tina and Steve’s. I meant to take some more pictures, including some of their back yard, but was distracted by a spectacular steak sandwich and wine, enjoyed on their deck. We talked for hours–so long that they said it was stupid for me to drive home, so I slept in their enormous guest room and left for Loon Mountain to teach the next day.
They must have liked me a little, since they invited me back. Night two was a memorable chicken parmesan and more talk–political, this time. Let’s just say it was extremely clear I was talking to two defense attorneys. I was grilled, folks. But it was great fun. I spent the night again. That next morning, after breakfast, Tina and Steve left for Hartford to visit Aunt Joan (who I would be visiting in a couple weeks). I checked out of Loon Mountain.
I hadn’t really planned this week at all beyond seeing Tina and Steve. But the charms of Lincoln, combined with my high stress Sunday and Monday and a persistent “Change Oil Now” from my Explorer, convinced me to stick around a couple more days. I needed a coffee shop to teach in, which is a bit of a challenge in the Starbucks desert that is northern New England. But the Encore Thrift Coffee Shop offers coffee, used books, and second hand everything else and gave me a table and a few cappuccinos. After my first day, the adorable barrista came by and said “You know, if you had been my math teacher I might have gone to college.” How sweet is that?
But where to stay? There were no truck stops nearby. Besides, a truck stop just seemed wrong in all this gorgeous scenery. That’s when I remembered sister-in-law Debby mentioning camping. Debby, who is living long term in her car, was focused on finding free camping sites, as well as “stealth camping“. She’d given me a lot of links and videos; there’s a whole huge community based on this approach.
I was happy enough to sleep for free in a truck rest stop like Love’s, but free campsites seem to be way back in the woods with a “pack in pack out” policy, along with portable toilets and hey, I’m on vacation. I saw a KOA (don’t say Coh-ah, it hurts their feelings). Forty-five a night seemed like a nice low price for a shower, wifi, and a test run of campsites.
Turns out camping is a lot of fun, particularly without the hassle of pitching tent. KOAs are a great brand–good locations, easy booking site, just a few bucks more than other areas. Unfortunately, everyone else figured that out before I did, because for the rest of my trip the KOAs were booked. I only managed to make a reservation once more, in Gettysburg.
But camping out in my car became a regular feature of my trip, and would have been so more had the South not reminded me what hot and humid was. Waking up to the morning campfires, the running water, going for a walk in the woods was just a lovely way to start the day.
Then I’d have yet another in a series of amazing breakfast sandwiches, this time at The Moon Bakery and Cafe and teach from 11 to 4. I really should have explored Lincoln more during the afternoon. The Pemigawassett River runs all through the area, the Flume Gorge, some magnificent scenery, and a movie buff like me should have known about Bette Davis’s house.
But Maine was on my must-see list and I was due at Aunt Joan’s on Wednesday the 30th. I also had to get my oil changed, and there were no Jiffy Lubes around. Many mechanic shops had reduced hours because of labor shortages. My food supplies needed replenishing as well. So I saved my sightseeing for Friday on the way out, and put New Hampshire and Vermont as high priorities on my next road trip.
Tina and Steve had told me to check out the Washington Hotel at Bretton Woods, site of the post WW2 economic conference, have a meal in Woodstock, and leave town via the Kancamagus Highway. I wanted to get a closer look at the river as well. As was often the case, a deadline loomed: I had a conference call at noon. The Kancamagus Highway went through the, er, mountain range and cell service holes were likely. Fortunately, the Starbucks desert had a waystation in Conway, about an hour away. So I had the morning in Lincoln to wander around while getting on the road at 11.
After Bretton Woods, I spent a couple hours wandering around the river and woods. I couldn’t see the Old Man, as his cliffs had fallen off 18 years earlier. But I went to his memorial site. The Tramway was nearby, but I’ve never seen their appeal. I took this first picture because of the racer in the center of the frame. I chatted with him briefly.
I haven’t ever seen a recumbent competition bike before. Are they only for quadriplegics? I didn’t want to ask him. But they look fun.
Next Stop was Echo Lake, a lovely fishing spot I’d passed by every day. At times like this, ten weeks just isn’t enough.
I then drove through Lincoln once more on my way to the Kancamagus Highway–and had my only official encounter with a cop. Unlike my Derry incident, this cop, who pulled me over to warn about my cell phone, was friendly (and cute!). I demonstrated I wasn’t talking on my phone and he said “Oh, you’re just using your Map function,.”
“Yeah, I’m glad I have it! I lost my last phone whalewatching in Provincetown.”
“Oh, no! Have you been whalewatching in Maine yet?”
I left my house June 8 and returned August 18. The last genuinely stressful day I experienced stretched from 6:00 pm on June 20th, in Provincetown, to 4:00 the next day in Manchester, New Hampshire, after finishing the first day of summer school.
So yeah, it was a great vacation.
Alas, I was short of that perspective when I stepped off the boat and waved goodbye to my fellow watchers. (“Mom, is that the lady who lost her phone?” “Hush, don’t point.”) I had to:
get to New Hampshire, as I had a condo booked on Monday
find a T-Mobile/Sprint store to get a new phone
prepare for my summer school class–create activities, find what work I wanted to assign on day one.
find a Starbucks or other coffee shop in New Hampshire to teach a summer school class
It was Sunday night in Provincetown, the very tippy end of Massachusetts , and I had four laptops but no phone. Provincetown has decent cellular access, but no phone meant I needed wifi. In California, every restaurant and bar has their own wifi login. In Provincetown, all that I got for “hi, does your establishment have wifi” was “Huh? I don’t know.” which means the place didn’t have wifi. On the other hand, I could walk into the Chamber of Commerce at nearly 6:30 on a Sunday and ask for help, which is like, what? They sent me to the library.
I don’t know when they took this picture–perhaps when the library was open? When I got there, dozens of people were sitting, crowding each other on the steps and benches. I sat right by the front door, but the signal was simply too weak and dropped right after connection. I could get one search in on two connections. Like, literally, I’d connect to wifi and get a Google screen, enter a search, and get “no internet connection”. I’d connect again, and it would refresh the screen with the results of my search.
veeeeeeerrrrrrry slow.
However, the agonizing slowness led me to triage. Three of my four critical tasks could be done in the morning. All I really had to do this evening was get to New Hampshire and find a truck rest stop, then find a coffeeshop in the mor…….
Wait. If I got a motel for the night, I wouldn’t have to look for wifi. Holy crap. Weed it down to minimum, girl. All you need to do is book a New Hampshire motel on the interstate this evening and make like Scarlett O’Hara. That’s one thing. Book a hotel room in New Hampshire. Well, two things. Book a hotel room in New Hampshire and get to the hotel.
But the two connections for one result library internet was not up to an Expedia booking. It was up to finding Provincetown coffeeshops, which should be open, right? right?
No. Every coffee shop I tried was closed. It’s a tourist town! 7:00! What the hell!? There was one more coffee shop on my list, but I couldn’t find it. In act of desperation, I walked into the first open shop I found, a neat little home furnishings store, Room 68. The people at Room 68 saved me several hours of agony, so I’m going to show a picture of their shop.
So when I entered the store on Commerce Street, this was my view. There were two people standing by the black display cases on the left when I charged in, breathless, and just stood there.
They left off their conversation instantly; my frazzled state must have been obvious. “Hi, can we help?”
“Oh–you’re not buying something? I don’t want to interrupt.”
“No, we’re just going through some numbers. What’s up?”
“Look, I swear I wouldn’t bother you but I can’t find an open coffee shop. I’ve got one last possibility, the Wired Puppy? But I can’t find it.”
“Oh, no! It’s closed, too. What do you need, a charger?”
“I wish. No, I just went whale watching and my phone fell of the boat and I….”
Again, the path to instant empathy.
“Sit down right here and use our wifi. There aren’t any coffee shops open right now, and we have a strong signal. Do you need a ride anywhere?”
See the table at the far back of the picture? I sat there. Room 68 is a wonderful place and I thank them forever for their kindness.
Uncle Jimmy had gotten my message and told my cousin Amy, who sent me her number. I had to find a phone to call her (no payphones anymore!) but Amy and her wife, Jackie, live in Sandwich, also in Cape Cod, so I could stop and see them on my way north. Most importantly, I booked a hotel but here, my ignorance of New Hampshire and my lack of phone hurt me. I booked a hotel that looked like it was near the interstate, with directions that looked reasonable. I was worried about overstaying the welcome of the wonderful Room 68 folks. This turned out to be a mistake. I should have ensured a motel very near the interstate given my lack of GPS. But more on that later.
Offering heartfelt thanks to the Room 68 folks, I went back to my car and headed back down to the center of the Cape. I wanted to call Amy and see if I could meet up with her. Ironically, Amy, the ultimate homebody, had been in Hartford for most of my week and then went to Nashville to visit friends on the weekend, so we hadn’t been able to meet until now. By this point, I was reasonably sure I’d be returning to the Cape, as I’d discussed it with Aunt Joan, but I might not get another chance to see Jackie. (And if all that wasn’t reason enough, I was hoping Amy could tell me how to get to New Hampshire!)
As I was driving down 6, I wondered if my resort, which I’d just checked out of that morning, would let me use their phone. Once again, the path to instant empathy held true and they let me use the inhouse phone to call Amy, who gave me very specific instructions to her and Jackie’s lovely home. I had a great visit with them and as hoped, Amy gave me great instructions for getting to New Hampshire: “Highway 6 East, Three North, 93 North!”
The drive to New Hampshire was unenventful–until I got there. My hotel, a Nashua Quality Inn, was just 20 minutes away once I crossed the border at 11:00. I didn’t find it until 2:30.
Blue dot is the Quality Inn.
Those three hours were, hands down, the worst of my trip. Worse even than losing my phone, because at least I had something to do while I worried. This is when I learned that Nashua was nowhere near I93. My life would have been marginally simpler had I gone up I95 or gotten off at 3, but my phone wasn’t there to tell me that. I stopped for directions when I could, but most gas stations were closed, as were most restaurants. Once, in Derry, I saw a huge to-do in a parking lot with, like, 10 cop cars all circled around, lights flashing. It was a restaurant parking lot and weirdly, there was only one civilian car in the middle of it all, with a crying woman talking to one cop., with two others standing near by. Meanwhile, clumps of other cops in groups of 2 or 3 were standing around at a distance of 30-70 feet, just watching. In desperation, I parked far away from the mess, walked an arc once again far away from the car of concern, and gingerly approached the clump of cops standing the farthest away.
“Hi. I’m really, really sorry to bother you but I have no phone and I was wondering if……”
“Can’t you see that there’s something going on here? That we’re busy?”
“No. I can see that he’s busy” indicating the cop talking to the crying lady seventy feet away. “I can see that those two guys next to him are absorbed in the drama. But you all appear to be just watching the TV show, which is why I thought I could possibly interrupt you for two seconds to ask the best way to get to Nashua.”
He gave me instructions. They were wrong. I’m open to both the notion that I got them wrong or that he gave them wrong as punishment for my sass.
Anyway, it eventually occurred to me that I had one of those paper things that might be helpful. I pulled it out….and learned that Manchester, where I had ended up from the cop’s instructions, was considerably north of Nashua.. NORTH! And I was nowhere near an interstate. So I drove street traffic, going steadily south.
I finally found some hotels, any of which I would have stayed at had I not already booked, and went in for help twice, to a Radisson and a Days Inn. Both hotel clerks cheerfully called the Quality Inn and got instructions. The first set of instructions got me closer. The second set got me all the way there. (Note: Hotel clerks are a lot more helpful than cops.)
Sure, daylight makes it easy to find.
So I checked in at 2:30, 20 hours after I’d packed up my car and left the Cove at Yarmouth to lose my camera while whalewatching in Provincetown. Set the alarm for 6:30, figuring that I needed at least four hours of rest before I started again.
But I woke up at 5:30, and got my laptop up to look for T-Mobile Stores and Starbucks, of which there are only a shocking twenty in the state. Yes, it’s small, but really, Starbucks? And no Peets or Philz at all. I did find TMobiles, but none of them were open until 10:00 in the morning, just one hour before my first summer school class began.
I was beginning to panic, so I put that task aside and focused on creating some activities for the first day of summer school, reassuring myself that phone or no, I could teach the class. I had four laptops. Two hours later, I had my activities and all first day admin stuff taken care of, and it was 9:00 am. I could have stayed in the hotel, but I felt the need to be mobile, so I found a McDonalds and ordered a breakfast sandwich just to use their wifi.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but we’re not allowed to let anyone sit inside.”
“What?”
The McDonald’s manager looked genuinely contrite. “It’s the labor shortage. We don’t have enough staff to let people sit inside. We’re not even supposed to let walk in customers, only do drive through, but a lot of our customers don’t have cars.” I must have looked desperate. “But…if you want to stay for a bit, you can.”
“You’re wonderful. I have no phone, I’m traveling, and I need wifi.”
“Oh, no! That’s terrible!” There it is again–the perfect sympathy winner. “You just sit here until you find what you need.”
As I’d been getting curriculum ready, my brain had been working on the phone problem in the background. What I needed was a TMobile/Sprint store to get a replacement phone, but then I had to hustle to a Starbucks to start my class by 11:00. And I shouldn’t assume my phone would be functioning immediately, as the backup restore often takes a few hours, so I wouldn’t be able to use my phone from TMobile/Sprint to the Starbucks. Which meant, ideally, I needed to find a TMobile/Sprint and Starbucks within a few blocks of each other. No such geography existed in Nashua, but Manchester was a different story. There’s a major street, Willow, that had a bunch of shopping centers and a Starbucks and TMobile/Sprint store all within a mile of each other. Both the TMobile and Starbucks were independent structures (very important–hard to teach a class from the inside of a Target store, which often offers a Starbucks service, and the TMobiles that are part of the Best Buys are going to take longer).
I had a plan. Thanking the McDonald’s manager profusely, I set off for Manchester–where I’d been the night before, of course. I even recognized the intersection. But spatial isn’t my thing, and I must have turned the wrong way.
For a few brief moments I was feeling like this would all work out calmly, but no more. Now I was driving frantically up and down Willow. I was certain that the TMobile store was on the opposite side of the interstate than the Starbucks, but I could find…nothing. And it was 10:00. Twice, I pulled into malls that were basically vacant–once again, labor shortages were keeping everything closed. Finally, I saw a Staples. I like Staples. Staples could help, couldn’t they? I approached the young woman at the copy counter.
“Hi, I know this is a dumb question, but I went whale watching and lost my phone.”
“Oh, my god. Is it Verizon?”
“I wish. I drove past the Verizon three times. It’s Sprint, which got bought out by TMobile. I have to start teaching my remote class at 11, and I know there’s a Starbucks somewhere near by. But I’d really like to get a new phone started first and I was wondering if….Google says there’s a TMobile Sprint store on Willow, and Willow ends just a few blocks from here, so it’s got to be close, right?”
She grabbed her own phone, and brought up maps. “Oh, I think you turned the wrong way. The TMobile and the Starbucks are both on the other side of 93. Just a mile away. So go out here and turn right. Here’s the important thing: if you see the CVS, turn around. You’ve gone too far. The Starbucks will be first, on your left, but the TMobile store will be on your right. Remember, turn around if you hit the CVS.”
“You are doing God’s work.”
Staples is great.
I had been wandering for10 minutes or so on the Staples side of 293. I am not really that bad at spatial, so it must have been stress and lack of sleep.
And lo! There was the Sprint store!
(Google Maps needs to update its images. TMobile bought out Sprint and all the stores have been renamed, which is why I’ve been painstakingly writing TMobile-Sprint instead of just Sprint. I hate mergers.)
I checked the time: 10:15. It was early. Maybe there wouldn’t be a line.
Readers, there was a line.
Why is it that you can walk into a phone shop and wait to PAY YOUR BILL? I mean, what the hell? The rest of us want to buy something, but they take up an entire sales clerk (in a shop of maybe 2) to let someone take time to pay their bill. Absolutely crazy making. I’m there to BUY A PHONE! More money! Profit! You can use bill collectors for deadbeats! But no, a person there to buy a phone is not scooted to the front.
I0:16. I’d wait 10 minutes. No point in being tempted to prioritize the phone over summer school if a sales rep finally looked my way at 10:45.
It took 8.
“Hi, can I help you?”
“Yes. My phone fell into the Atlantic yesterday and I have to be starting a Zoom class in 35 minutes. I need a phone. I can buy it now and then pick it up at 4 if you need time to set it up.”
“No need. I’ll have you out of here in 15 minutes. All you need to do is pick the phone. What did you lose?”
He wasn’t kidding. I’d lost a Galaxy 9, but didn’t want a Galaxy 20. I took the AR52,which had a bit slower chip but a lot better camera. He got the backup started. “It won’t be usable for a couple hours, but come back after your class and we’ll check it out.”
10:45. I made a U-turn at the CVS that would have told me I’d gone too far, and headed back to the Starbucks, just a few hundred yards away.
10:55. Parked, grabbed my laptop, and ran to the Starbucks door.
“Our store is closed to walkins. Drive-Through only. We’re sorry for the inconvenience.”
Oh.Dear.God.
But wait! There was a table outside. I whipped out my laptop. Normally I could use my phone as a hotspot, but it was still busy updating. I brought up the wifi list….THERE! The wifi was available. This would work.
11:00. I clicked the Zoom meeting. Connection. A series of dings as my waiting students joined the class.
“Hi, guys! Welcome to summer school.”
OK, so the approach was dismally late, the dismount extremely shaky, but by God, I stuck that landing.
But I couldn’t have done it without the folks at Room 68, Kerry, Maggie, and Uncle Jimmy getting the news out, the front desk clerk at The Cove at Yarmouth, cousins Amy and Jackie, the two hotel clerks somewhere in the wilds between Manchester and Nashua, the manager at McDonalds, the cashier at Staples, the sales rep at TMobile-Sprint, and Starbucks’ ever generous wifi. You all made me look–well, if not great, at least on time for the first day of class.
For five hours, I sat at the tale on the right, next to the white sign. Four or five people an hour walked up to the door, expressed astonishment that it was closed, and I’d explain that they had to use the drive through. I sent tons of business Starbuck’s way, because trust me, most people don’t read that sign. I had no power, but remember, four laptops.
I checked out of my condo Sunday June 20th, having packed up early. I wanted to get to Provincetown before the crowds. Mission accomplished: I parked at the central Ptown lot at 9:30.
Uncles Jimmy and Jay had both strongly recommended whale watching, which was surprisingly cheap: just $65 for four hours. My boat left at 2:30, so I wanted to try the Jetty Hike.
The terrain was a challenge, but I had a great time except for leaving my blue Hydroflask in the car. I take everywhere–except on the hike over the jetty. Halfway across, it was getting hot and I was getting thirsty, although not thirsty enough to turn around.
Then I got lucky, both in conversation and water. A trio of siblings/spouses came by. They had just relocated from Provincetown to Florida, and were back for a visit–but they were originally from Pennsylvania. I didn’t know this when I struck up a conversation with David, and the two of us oversharers rapidly established our life stories while negotiating a tricky rock pile.
“Bill! She loves Pennsylvania!”
Bill, taller and bearded, nodded in approval. “It’s a great state.” I told them of Punxsutawney and Pittsburgh, while they encouraged me to visit the Poconos. I think they would have given me water even if I hadn’t loved Pennsylvania; they had a whole backpack of bottled water.
At the far end of the causeway, they continued onto the beach, but I wanted lunch before whalewatching.
The Lobster Pot came up first in every google for “best lobster roll. I added Oysters Rockefeller and a iced berry gin and tonic. My table overlooked the beach. I took a picture of this fabulous repast and sent it to Uncle Jimmy WHO DELETED IT because that’s what he always does. Who are these people who delete their texts instantly? Mine go back at least six years.
Couldn’t find a picture of the gin and tonic.
As I sent Jimmy the text and the glorious picture that he HEARTLESSLY DELETED, I noticed my phone battery was low. Fortunately, I had my Halo portable battery (what does it say that I brought the battery but not my Hydro flask?), so I charged my phone over this gorgeous lunch.
By the time I arrived at Dolphin Whale Watch, my phone was at 50%. I should have decided that was enough. Instead, I packed the Halo into the body of my backpack, and then the phone in the outer pocket, connected by a long USB cord. My backpack was zipped up, the pocket was zipped up. The phone should have been safe.
My adventures on this single day thus far had bumped the entire week from a 6 to a 9.5. I sat on the outside bench as the big speedboat powered out to the ocean and enjoyed the breeze. I couldn’t just stay there, could I? No. The seats in the bow, facing forward, looked more comfortable. So I slung my backpack over my shoulder and took two steps to the right and…..
SLAM!
The noise shouldn’t have even alerted me. Nothing about my person should go SLAM! But I don’t think I even finished another step before I thought PHONE! and whirled around to….an empty white deck.
My hand automatically reached into the outer pocket of the backpack and found one end of the USB cord. The other end was attached to the Halo. My phone was nowhere to be found.
My normal loss alert system is really faulty. Example: I once realized my glasses hadn’t been around for a while. So I checked at work, no. Checked at home, under the bed, the couch, nothing. Could I have lost them? But where? I spent a few weeks hoping they’d show up while privately mourning their loss. Then I found them out in the garden. Oh, that’s right, I’d gone out in the dark to pick some snowpeas and tripped hard in some soft soil. They must have been perched on my head and flown off–and then, it appears, I stepped on them. Fortunately, they weren’t bent too badly. I kept them for another couple years.
Point being, it’s not often that a lost item registers itself as immediately as this one. My phone was gone. Forever. An artifact at the bottom of the Atlantic.
Best I can figure, when I slung my backpack, the Halo shifted, tugged the USB cord, which shifted the phone, and the pressure slid open the zipper to the outer backpack pocket. My phone fell out and the weight disconnected it from the USB and it vanished off the deck in less than three seconds.
Any self-respecting cop would have figured it for a suicide.
I spent ten minutes looking under seats, desperately hoping it had fallen against something. Nothing.
My son Kerry has had the same cellphone number for twenty years. It is instantly memorable. My father and brother, neither of them terribly contact friendly, know it by heart. It’s the only number I know by heart. So I asked a skeptical fellow passenger to text my son, “Hey, this is Mom. My phone fell off a boat. Have Maggie tell Uncle Jimmy to check Facebook later tonight, because I might need numbers.” I knew Kerry would be skeptical, but “Maggie” and “Uncle Jimmy” would be enough to get him to pass on the alert.
Then I just sat there. Nothing to do. I was on a whale watching trip without a camera. Worse, that was not the least of my problems by a long shot. If this had happened earlier in the week, I could go back to the condo and regroup. But I was “between beds”, so where was I going to go? Hey, not to worry. Just find a truck stop and sleep in the car. But how would I find a truck stop? And oh, my lord. Summer school starts tomorrow. How would I find a STARBUCKS! How would I teach! I could feel my mind spinning out, so I told myself there was nothing I could do here on the boat, so I should stop obsessing and just enjoy the trip. Except how could I? I had no camera.
Maybe I’d get lucky and there wouldn’t be any whales.
Can you imagine? Eighty people on a boat, all hoping to see these wonderful mammals, and I’m secretly hoping it will be a bust. Yes, I’m that petty.
But then came my moment of zen.
Well, before the moment of zen came a scolding. I yelled at myself. So what? I’ve been on epic journeys my whole life. I have great memories, and often no pictures. Kerry and I went to see Dad in Egypt in 1992 and I never did develop the pictures. Bouchra and I climbed over the mountain from Queen Hot Chicken Soup’s temple to the Valley of the Kings.
We started up the right.
The guides teased me because I was so slow, while Bush was scrambling around like a mountain goat. (I won’t mention how satisfied I was four hours later when she collapsed in exhaustion and slept 12 hours while I was still up and ready to go party.) Dad and I crossed over into Israel and saw the signs warning us about unexploded ordinance. We saw the Citadel, and the City of the Dead. We saw the ships traversing the Suez.
And that’s just one trip. I’ve seen the elephants at Tsavo, Mount Kenya. I’ve been out to sea on Portuguese fishing boats. I’ve stuffed myself with fried sardines while overlooking the Aegean. I’ve been in the throngs surrounding the Mona Lisa, which are more interesting than the art itself. I took a cab ride from Damascus to Beirut. I saw Richard Nixon, Spiro Agnew (really!), Lynn Swann, and flew on a DC3 that FDR gave to the King of Saudi Arabia.
That’s leaving out all the wonderful events that just happen in day to day life: moments with my son, with my grandkids, with my classes, my parents. No camera for most of that time.
This isn’t some profound truth that I stumbled on all by myself. It’s just a truth that’s hard to keep in mind when you’ve just lost your phone on a whale watching trip.
So I vowed to enjoy the trip, hope for dozens of whales, and not spend a second worrying about the craziness that awaited me once I stepped off the boat.
We saw over fifty whales. Sperm whales, mako whales, tiger whales. Breaching, kickfeeding, and fluking. An entire pod stopped by and entertained us. I wish I had pictures. I’m glad for the memories.
As a group of five whales came by, everyone rushed to the port side and filmed and snapped away, while I just watched and beamed. A mom was advising her son on a good position, and smiled my way.
“You’ve got some good shots already?”
“Ha. No, my phone fell overboard.”
Thirty people within earshot temporarily lost interest in the five cetaphods.
“Oh.my.god. I can’t imagine.”
“I can. How horrible!”
“Are you by yourself? Will you be okay?”
News traveled fast. I could hear people on the other side of the boat saying, curiously, “What happened?” “Oh, the lady over there, her phone fell off the boat.” “Good god.”
Instant empathy. If I’d announced the recent death of a spouse or the loss of my house in a wildfire, people would have been sympathetic and touched, but also a bit….reserved. Loss can’t be too terrible in a crowd. It ruins the joy of the whales if you’re feeling bad for a widow. But losing a phone on a vacation is just the right kind of awful for everyone to openly offer condolences and advice.
The whale guide said it was the best trip they’d had all season. As we streamed off the boat, people reached out and wished me luck, telling me where I could find free wifi, telling me to be careful.
Time to leave the land of zen and face the world without a phone.
My early years as a single mom revealed I had no talent for vacations. This was an acceptable failure on my own, but subjecting my son to my lousy fun skills seemed terribly unfair.
Disney World saved me. The first time I took Kerry to Disney World, I did so knowing, finally, that I couldn’t go wrong. But it was wrong. Kerry had fun–he was six, it was Disney World–but each day was so…disjointed. We stayed at an Orlando condo, and by day 4 I gratefully seized the opportunity to go home early for a contract. Kerry didn’t mind, which tells you something.
But I realized that in least one respect, I was doing it wrong: I’d used my timeshare points and stayed near, but not on, the property. I could see that staying in a Disney resort gave you additional perks, so the next year we stayed at the All Star Sports property.. Huge improvement. Like if you’re living in the Soviet Union, be a member of the Communist Party. I then made notes on other issues–for example, staying on the property means you get a pass each day, rather than being limited to one day, four days, or five days. I came back again at a more luxurious DW resort and did even better, learning about getting “ride appointments” and so on.
By 2000, Kerry and I had whomped Disney World into providing us epic amusement. The last time we invited my dad and Safia, my little sister, to come along with us and then added in a week at South Beach. But by then, I’d gotten much better anyway, having successfully navigated an Oahu vacation with Dad, Bouchra, and Safia over July 4th. Fantastic time had by all; we saw the Thunderbirds in the day and fireworks at night, standing knee-deep in the surf at Waikiki.
Just before our last Disney World trip, I booked a two week solo trip to Maui and Oahu and explored every inch of both islands–even getting out to Lindbergh’s grave. I got into trouble a few times–had to climb up a cliff to escape high tide. But I was now having adventures worthy of the word “vacation”.
Note: this was at the height of the dotcom boom, when I was both paying off all my bills and enjoying a very high income. As I mention earlier, I then went through a ten year period with very few vacations out of state.
I’d cracked the code. Originally, I thought hey, you just show up and things happen. Yes, this was stupid. Disney World and my determination to give Kerry a great time taught me that I had to seek out the fun I wanted. As you may have noticed, I’m not a planner. But I really like information. Mike, my brother, ribs me constantly that I never make a move without checking it out first on Google. That’s an exaggeration–I have on more than one occasion hit the brakes on a highway to eat at a roadside diner that I know is going to be great, or check out a scenic route or historic site. But it’s not even close to entirely wrong.
Cape Cod has somewhat mythical significance in our family’s life. When we were kids, Grandpa and Gladys always talked about “the Cape”, where Aunt Joan, Uncle Arne, and our five cousins vacationed every summer, eventually building a house in Eastham. They always went out to join them the first week in August. We so longed to go with them and finally, in the early 70s, Mom and Dad rented a cabin and we went out to be with the cool people. We jumped waves, hunted clams, and ate lobsters. It was fantastic. I returned in 1980 on my way home from a solo trip to France (see? I started early), also having a splendid time, and drove to Pittsburgh with Gramps and Betty (Gladys died in 1975, my grandfather remarried a year later). For reasons I can’t remember, Kerry and I went back briefly in 1994.
When I was in Pittsburgh the weekend before the Cape, I asked Uncles Jay and Jimmy what to do. They gave me a list:
whale watching
ferry to Nantucket
Provincetown
Nickerson State Park
I also envisioned hanging out at the beach a lot, jumping through waves, swimming, relaxing.
And then….it didn’t work out that way.
Monday morning, my first thought,naturally, was “let’s go find a beach”. This turns out to be more complicated I thought, for reasons that immediately seemed obvious. First–and forgive me, for the people who already know this–there is no “Cape Cod” town. Cape Cod is basically a county, known as Barnstable. There are a bunch of towns. I knew this already, knew that Yarmouth was more touristy (as cousin Amy put it) than the towns further out on the Cape. On the other hand, Yarmouth is more beachtown than Upper Cape towns closer to the mainland, like Sandwich (where Amy lives).
If you just google “Yarmouth beach” you’ll come up with beaches aplenty. But parking was relatively pricey, and I’d have to drive there, and that meant committing a whole day to the beach. Nothing wrong with that, but at the time, my mind was set on “Cape Cod is the beach” and it was kind of irritating to be at a resort and have to plan so much just to go to the beach. However, my pique was pretty mild because I recognized the Disney World syndrome–I had just shown up, when I should have done more information gathering. That, reader, is my big takeaway from 30 years ago: instead of being disappointed at the lack of beach, I told myself to do some research, enjoy the food and relaxation, and remember there will be a “next time”.
So Monday, I just drove down Route 6, the artery of Cape Cod, exploring the towns further out. I noticed some things that became the rule all through the Eastern US: breakfast sandwiches are a big ol’ thing. We might have one breakfast sandwich on the menu out west. But out east they treat breakfast sandwiches the way we Californians treat Mission burritos: what kind of meat, what kind of bread, what kind of veggies. Only the egg is constant. And they are phenomenal.
Other common items: homemade icecream and the lobster roll. The lobster roll is not sushi. (Sorry. Megalopolitan in-joke). In fact, a lobster roll is just a lobster salad sandwich. Last thing I noticed time and again: help wanted signs. They were desperate for help everywhere, and this often resulted in (unannounced) reduced hours.
I learned this to my chagrin that very night. Disappointed in my lack of beach time, I consoled myself at least I’d have my first whole lobster in years that very night. The second week of my Arduino class was still 3 to 5, but that translated to 6-8 in Massachusetts. (There was no real Wi-Fi in my bedroom. Fortunately this complex had fabulous conference rooms.). We were now working directly with the Arduino processors, so when class ended some classmates and I were experimenting and organizing our kits. No worries, I thought, most of the restaurants said they were open to 10 or 11 pm. I wrapped everything up and was out on the road looking for lobster by 9pm.
Every lobster shack or seafood restaurant I checked as open was, in fact, closed. I abandoned the dream of lobster and just started looking for dinner. No luck. Everything was closed. At 9:45, I suddenly realized that I’d be lucky to find a supermarket open and indeed, all the big stores were closed. I eventually found a little Brazilian shop and picked up beans, tortillas, and cheese which I heated up in my microwave.
So Day One in Cape Cod was mildly unfulfilling, save for the Arduino class learning experience and the conference room–and the discovery that my resort had yet another excellent indoor pool and hottub. Which I couldn’t check out that evening, alas, as it took me an hour just to find any kind of food. (I had a lot of food that I’d brought on the trip, but I’d expected to have a full kitchen.)
On Tuesday I went to Provincetown, but learned quickly that arriving at 11:30 in the morning was a guarantee of heavy traffic and entirely-full parking lots. But at least I’d learned from Monday and done some research, because I knew P-town could get busy. Outside of the busy town center are some gorgeous hikes. I chose Beech Forest to Herring Cove Beach.. Parking was free! (this is quite rare throughout the Cape). I hiked 3 miles in to the beach, which was gorgeous and definitely satisfied my beach jones, although I only stayed for 30 minutes–enough to enjoy the sounds and the feel of the sand, the water, the beauty. I had three miles back, remember.
(The map doesn’t show how much of it was uphill.)
I barely returned in time for my class, and this time I wrapped it up right at 8:00–my colleagues were determined to get me out of there in time for a lobster dinner! And so Tuesday, I had a fantastically huge lobster at the Lobster Boat, served to me by a charming Romanian lad working on a summer visa.
That night, I woke and wondered why my legs were itching. Well, they were covered with red bites. The midges–or, as the Obergs refer to them, the “no-see-ums”, tiny insects you don’t feel or see until they’ve eaten you alive. I don’t usually address bites in any way, but these were really uncomfortable, so I went to CVS and got some insect bite Benadryl (I’d never known there was such a thing but google comes through again).
The good news: the whole experience kind of put me off Cape Cod beaches for this trip. I needed to do more research, and until then I needed my legs to recover. Time to check out the pool. I lounged by the pool for the better part of three days–two of which doubled as summer school training.
One of the few surviving pictures from week one at the Cape. I had headphones on, my Halo portable battery on the table at left. Life was good.
Instead of being peeved or disappointed, I reminded myself I’m not obligated to go to the beach just because I’m in Cape Cod! Especially if they were going to eat the crap out of my legs!!
On Wednesday, I set out to the Mayflower Beach which in fact has no relationship to history but was supposed to be gorgeous and indeed it was. Once again, though, I’m reminded that beaches in Massachusetts are heavily monetized, which makes sense, really, when you consider the limited amount of beach space they have. California doesn’t monetize its beaches, particularly in my area. It’s rare to even have to pay for parking, and “resident sticker”, a familiar concept in the Bay Area, has no relevance to beach parking. Even in the south, where you often have to pay for parking, it’s not this enormously complicated issue that it is here. I parked in resident parking long enough to get pictures (sadly, lost) and then went to breakfast at the Sesuit Harbor Cafe, a spot so delightful that I willingly left for 40 minutes to go get cash because, although they had an ATM, I had no debit card. (I’d left it at home. What do you mean, not every place has Google Pay?). I sent a picture of my breakfast to Uncle Jimmy who DELETES ALL HIS MESSAGES RIGHT AWAY, a tiny flaw in an otherwise perfect personality. But it was lovely. (Parenthetically, Cape Cod has a number of amazing breakfast spots and they often make corned beef hash from scratch, which can only be regarded as a Great Thing. )
I was determined to knock some of the items off the list Uncles Jimmy and Jay gave me. So once I’d finished summer school training and the Arduino class, I vowed that Saturday and Sunday would be spent exploring. Saturday, I took the ferry to Nantucket and enjoyed the hell out of both the ferry ride and the island. The town itself was a bit touristy but after a cup of coffee, I grabbed a bus away from town and then hiked the rest of the way to Surfside Beach and back, with a salad and diet coke at the Surfside Shack in the middle.
(the yellow highlight is my hike)
Before I headed back, I discovered the fried clams at Sayles Seafood, which I ate at an outside table, I met a college kid who was being paid living expenses to work on Nantucket valet parking, so desperate were they for labor. That’s a good life, man.
If it sounds like I’m griping about Cape Cod, I’m not. I had a wonderful time, and what it really reinforced in me was how much I have developed my skills in thirty years. I had a number of terrific hikes. Some really good meals. And while I don’t normally lounge by pools, the Cove at Yarmouth really had an outstanding offering on this count and I took advantage of it. I spent four nights lounging in a really outstanding hot tub. I also intend to come back after more research and planning to really explore it in depth.
Sunday, I checked out of my resort early and spent the day at Provincetown, having a 2:30 reservation for whalewatching. (cue foreboding music)
As I’m now arriving at the first timeshare condo, I’ll use this space to discuss my experience with timeshare ownership. These days, the most common discourse around timeshares is “how do I get out of this crappy purchase”?” along with “we’ll help you sell your timeshare!” which suggests two things. First, a lot of people have second thoughts about timeshares, and next, that there’s still a lot of demand for timeshares.
This paradox is resolved by understanding that a lot of people spend too much on timeshares and are aghast at the expense. They want out. But many other people like the condos that timeshares offer. Many people prefer vacation condos to hotels (raises hand). That’s a big part of their appeal. All those ads for “let us help you get out of your timeshare” are run by large vacation rental companies buy the points, book a lot of time, and then resell it. (which explains why the ordinary owner has a harder time finding availability). There is also a big market in buying timeshare points on the secondary market, instead of through the company, as the points are much cheaper.
My now ex-husband and I made a small timeshare purchase (a week every other year) in 1984 when I was 22 years old I kept the timeshare when we divorced six years later and picked up some more points in the 90s, when I used the timeshare quite a bit. The dotcom bust of 2000 changed my career course; I became a tutor and while I wasn’t struggling, I had less time for vacations and didn’t use the condos for a decade. I still paid for the points, which was not terribly onerous, and in 2010, when I began teaching, I started using it again. In 2013 or thereabouts, the company offered me the opportunity to convert to ownership.
“Wow, you’re a lot younger than I expected,” said the sales guy, when I walked in.
“Not something I hear a lot now that I’m fifty,” I said.
“Yes, but you’ve been a member for nearly 30 years. Most people with that level of seniority are in their 70s, and I’m using this time to explain to them that they can deed their timeshare to their grandkids.”
“Well, I am a grandma, but yeah, I’m planning on enjoying it for a lot more years before I bequeath it.”
I bought into the ownership for $13,000, which was a ridiculously low sum for permanent ownership.
Most timeshares work in points. The larger the unit, the more in demand the location, the better the season, the more points required. Christmas in Hawaii is the highest value, Palm Springs in August, very off season. Skiing lodges are more in winter, less in summer. And so on.
Vacation timeshares have two sales model: the easy pitch and the hardsell. I usually got the easy pitches, upgrades with a lot of sweeteners. But vacation time sales pitches can be spam to the level of harassment. When a cousin was staying at my timeshare the company got their phone number and she and her husband were spammed endlessly with pitch calls until they threatened a lawsuit. I felt terrible and called in demanding to know how I could be sure guests weren’t somehow put on a list. They promised not to do it again. I’m skeptical. I also called up the sales office once looking for information, and got a serious hard sell for an upgrade that sounded great and affordable until I learned that the reality of Interval International was incredibly complicated and not nearly as good as promised. I called up Owner Services and explained what happened. They rolled back the price. Which is the kind of service you get as a Silver Tier member who has never complained in nearly 40 years of leasing and owning.
I also get spammed a lot by other timeshare companies. Am I the only one kind of squicked out by a lot of them insisting that I bring a husband? As in, if I’m not married, they don’t want me? Not sure if my own company is like that today.
Point being, I come not to praise timeshares nor condemn them. I got in early and they have served me well, is all.
My timeshare, which originated points based system, runs its own independent resorts for the most part and then rents spaces in certain locations. Then we can also buy weeks in exchange offerings. That’s in addition to membership in RCI and Interval International, which I find very much not worth it. I’d rather buy on the open market.
My Cape Cod condo site, The Cove at Yarmouth, is owned by another company. On the plus side, it has many of the advantages of a hotel: 24 hour front desk service, a restaurant, plenty of vending machines, three pools, a steaming, large hot tub, and more than a few conference rooms. The rooms had two full baths. Downside, it suffered from being in Yarmouth which, for reasons I don’t understand, bans cooking in condo units. Its wifi was really weak. Cable selection was non-existent. All of these were weaknesses, but not dealbreakers.
Over the next two months, I booked two other units; one in Lincoln, New Hampshire, which is owned by my company, and on in Lauderdale-by-the-Sea, which my company rents time with. I didn’t spend much time at the New Hampshire unit, although it had a gorgeous setting, great convenient location, nice facilities, excellent wifi. I’ll definitely return. My current facilities in Florida are utterly fantastic, possibly my favorite place ever. Beach is a few steps away, view is spectacular, huge range of restaurants nearby, great cable selection, fast and consistent wifi, and…well, I don’t know how to explain it. I like a lot of my facilities: Palm Springs, Newport, Vegas, Tahoe, Sun Valley, Sedona, the Hawaiian condos. But this one is the best beach condo ever–perfectly suited to my priorities.
Anyway. If you think sleeping in my car is weird, remember that for three weeks of my trip I’m in very comfortable condos, courtesy of 40 years in timeshare.
I knew Punxsutawney was northeast of Pittsburgh, so I was determined to go find the house on my way to Cape Cod. Jimmy verified my Google map advice. I set off about 9:00 on Sunday, June 13th.
My mother’s family has been rooted in Jefferson County since before Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania was incorporated in 1850, since before America was a country. Two of our ancestors fought in the Revolutionary War, one of them crossing the Delaware with Washington and spending that winter at Valley Forge. No lofty Mayflower folk, my people–the census shows occupations like “farmer’s assistant”, “cabinet maker”, handyman”, “laborer” going back for centuries. While Mom’s branch left, there are still plenty of Depps and Vasbinders in Punxsutawney.
Mom’s parents, George Depp and Irene Vasbinder, lived at 226 Elk Run Street, the house of my grandfather’s childhood, from 1940 until sometime in the 50s. My great-grandfather, also George Depp, died in 1940, so perhaps he willed them the house.
My grandfather, Pappap, was a railroad brakeman and a commercial farmer. My mom and aunt came home from school to feed the turkeys and strip them of feathers after execution. My grandmother, Mimi, worked as the accountant in a shoe store, a job she loved with a great deal of guilt. Periodically she’d quit, return home and try to raise her daughters in the way she envisioned was her womanly duty, but she could only manage it for a few months before she was miserable. Her mother, Valetta (Grammy Vasbinder), told her to get back to work–she’d take care of the girls.
At some point after their daughters left home, my grandparents sold 226 Elk Run and bought the house of my memories, of all my maternal cousins’ memories, at 128 Perry Street. Rita Smith, the oldest of Aunt Irene’s daughters and senior of the seven grandkids, says that she’s pretty sure they moved in before she was born. The 1950 Census isn’t available to confirm this, although maybe Joan Phillips remembers (more on Joan later).
In any event, 128 Perry Street was a wonderful house. My grandparents bought the next lot over an had an extensive garden–rows and rows of strawberries, green beans, peppers, corn, and cucumbers. The lot was a hill, which made it great for rolling down wildly in summer and sledding in winter. There was a mobile home on the property as well, rented out to various young couples over the year.
We spent hours providing free labor to Pappap picking strawberries–it’s the only crop I remember him letting us help him with, or maybe it’s the only one that interested us!
The house itself was a splendid place. The basement included a second kitchen where Mimi did her canning–her bread and butter pickles, her peppers, green beans and tomato sauce. It had an ancient refrigerator that always contained cherry, grape, and orange soda–and lots of Genesee beer, Pappap’s beer of choice. An old milkshake blender stood in the other corner, on the bar, with a lot of stools. The basement had a shower as well, I think, as a door to the outside.
The main floor had a much more modern kitchen with a little nook where we kids often at our meals, rather in the formal dining room, with Mimi’s big dining room table and sideboard. I remember Grammy Vasbinder making my food “hop” to me like a bunny to convince me to eat vegetables, and she died in 1966 so I was young.
The living room was huge, split by furniture in two to give Mimi a little office in the back fifth. But most of it was centered around the TV and the bookshelves, with two “davenports” on each wall, Mimi and Pappap’s chairs dividing the TV from the office and a big chair and ottoman right by the TV that we kids fought over whenever we were in town. Remember, we lived in Saudi Arabia for ten months of the year, with no TV, so we spent hours making up for lost time. It was at 128 Perry Street that I first learned about movies and movie stars and picking the best old movies to watch. I also had an unholy love of game shows, particularly Match Game, the $10,000 Pyramid, Let’s Make a Deal, and The Price is Right. I vividly remember my irritation in 1973 and 1974 when the Watergate hearings pre-empted all my afternoon shows.
But I was a reader, and lining each side of the TV were scores and scores of first edition pulp. Zane Gray, the Louis L’amour of my grandfather’s era, was well-represented. Cherry Ames, probably from my aunt’s library, as she became a nurse. I still have one of those books that I brought home one summer, a first edition, Cherry Ames, Army Nurse.
On or around 1977, when we returned from Saudi Arabia, Pappap sold the house and moved him and Mimi to Dade City, Florida. I wish I knew why. Maybe it was the winters. I saw them many times in Dade City, both before and after Pappap’s shockingly immediate decline with Alzheimers. But I still miss their house.
The ride was beautiful, and I am really annoyed that I don’t have my pictures on the trip. Originally, Punxsy was a Native American campsite, halfway between the Allegheny and Susquehanna Rivers. Mahoning “Creek” runs through the town all the way and beyond to the Allegheny river. I remember that we always crossed a bridge on the last mile to their house, turned left and then left again, and went up the hill.
Google was sending me on right turns, which worried me. Was I in the wrong place? “Turn right on Wehrle Way”, the lady intoned, and so I did, even as I was increasingly uncertain.
“Sharp left on Perry”.
Wait–I was here? On Perry? Nothing looked familiar. How could I be turning left if it was a different street? But my spatial sense is non-existent, so I couldn’t trust that. I stopped at the corner of Wehrle and Perry to think. The left would take me down Perry, when I’d always gone up the hill. So this was the opposite direction. There was nothing but lawn at the intersection. So if I visualized coming from the opposite direction then the house would be on the right, followed by the empty lot that Pappap owned, followed by…..was there another house to the right? after theirs? I closed my eyes, remembering running or sledding down the hill of the big yard…no, there was no house to the right of 128. So the empty lot was the last on the street…wait. So this lawn I was looking at at the intersection must be the empty lot which means….I turned around slightly and looked at the back of the big house.
There it was. I made the left on Perry, drove down and parked across the street from the first house on the left.
Ironic that my first real look is of the front door, which we almost never used. The long driveway to the right of the house took you up to a large open parking area.
I’m delighted that it didn’t look smaller. This is the house of my memories. The large window on the bottom right is the dining room, the one on the left was just to the right of Mimi’s desk. I remember sitting on the other side of that huge room looking out the window onto snowy drifts when we came back for Christmas. Upstairs, the large window was for the master bedroom, one of three upstairs rooms and the bath opposite.
After getting a picture of the driveway, I sent these three pictures to Mike and Maggie.
This is how everyone came into the house: up the driveway, park, and go in through the kitchen door on the wall adjacent to the two car garage. The distant white fence is where part of the garden was–it kept going to the left. The mobile home was always on the right, behind where the white fence is now.
Mike texted back, “When Pappap built a retaining wall, it stayed built.” I don’t know if Pappap built it, although it wouldn’t surprise me. But the stone walls have been there for seventy years or more.
I had already considered and rejected the idea of knocking. Maybe the owner would welcome me, maybe think I was weird. It didn’t matter. I’d found the house and it lived up to the memories.
Driving off, it occurred to me that Mimi and Pappap were buried somewhere nearby, so I texted Mom and Gerry. I got a cryptic text back: “Joan Phillips” and a number. While I was worried about walking up to a house unannounced, calling didn’t seem like such a terrible intrusion.
“Hi, my name is Michele Kerr, and I know this sounds odd, but I am George and Irene Depp’s granddaughter, Rita Depp’s daughter. I was given this number because I wanted to find out where my grandparents are buried.”
“Oh, yes. Calvary Cemetery. Who are you again?” As I explained, she said, “Oh! why don’t you stop on at my place. I have to leave at 1:15, but we can chat. I”m right across the street from the church.”
Less than a mile to Joan Phillips
Joan gave me Joyce’s number and description of how to find Mimi and Pappap’s grave. Then I remembered Aunt Irene–or cousin Irene–is buried here as well, and she gave instructions for that. I have that paper somewhere, I hope, because I entered Joyce’s number in my phone notes but NOT in Contacts, which means it’s lost, too._
We had a great talk. It took me a while to figure out how we were related, because her “Aunt Irene” was my “Mimi” (grandmother) while my “Aunt Irene” was her cousin. Once we realized that “Aunt Irene” was a phrase to use sparingly, it got a bit easier. Joan Phillips is my mother’s maternal cousin. Born in Punxsutawney, she and her husband, Bill Phillips lived most of their married life in Michigan, then returned to their home for retirement. Joan volunteers in the community and is clearly very active.
“So your parents are on Mimi–my grandmother’s side, right?”
“Yes, Jack and Leona are my parents. Jack and Aunt Irene were brother and sister.”
“Wait. Jack and Leona? I know them. They were Joyce’s grandparents!” In the mid-70s, I had the good fortune to find a second cousin, Joyce, whose grandparents were related to Mimi in some way, because their last name was Vasbinder. She also lived out of state, and our visits often overlapped. We’d just hang out and talk like teens, which was always a rare treat for both of us to escape our sibs.
“So how are you related to Joyce? You know who I’m talking about, right?”
She smiled. “I sure do. She’s my daughter.”
I literally smacked my head, but she laughed. “Joyce often came to Mom and Dad’s on her own, or we’d fly her out and then return. I remember you, but mainly because you look like your mother. If we’d met back then, it would have been pretty quick.”
“That explains why I remember Leona and Jack, but not you. So you’re Joyce’s mom! She came to celebrate during my mom’s 80th, but I was busy working and trekking nieces and nephews around. We talked on the phone at that time, I remember. So how is Joyce and her…brother, right? She had a brother?” Joan and Bill both caught me up on her kids, who live out in the wilds of upstate Michigan.
“Oh, man, I was going to go to Michigan on this trip but I just couldn’t work it in.”
“You’ll love it,” Bill chimed in and described the gorgeous island where Joyce lived. “It’s real remote. But beautiful.”
We spent half an hour talking about family–about her parents, Jack and Leona, and that Grammy Vasbinder had Alzheimers in her last years, but was such a joyous soul. She’d wander around the neighborhood in her undies, totally unconscious of herself, and chat happily with the officers who took her back home. She often visited Mimi and Pappap during that time, which means all my memories of her feeding me must have been when she was ill.
I took pictures of Joan by herself, and Joan and Bill together, and a selfie of the three of us and of all the pictures I’ve lost, these missing pictures pain me the most. Joan went off to her appointment and I went off to Calvary Cemetery.
After two hours wandering through the tombstones, I was drenched in sweat although the hike was good exercise. But I never could find Aunt Irene’s grave even though I was definitely in the right general area from Joan and cousin Betty Jo’s descriptions. But then I walked through the same rows three times before I found Mimi and Pappap’s. Cemeteries are complicated.
Before I left, I formed a memory of them all–sitting at Mimi’s dining room table eating dinner, picking wild blackberries, going up to the stream to drink icy cold mountain water, picking strawberries in the garden with Pappap telling me what to look for in a good berry, sitting in the basement drinking milkshakes or rootbeer floats.
My life has up til now seemed somewhat split between before and after Saudi Arabia. We travelled so much less after returning. Until Facebook, I never saw anyone I knew from Jedda again. My grandparents moved to Florida that same year, so the loss of 128 Perry Street felt very similar. It was lovely connecting with this part of my life, if only briefly.
Pappap had a sudden onset of Alzheimers in the early 80s, and died on Valentine’s Day, 1989. Mimi nursed him, but Aunt Irene and her second husband moved down to Florida to help, and two of her daughters (Georgianne and Rita) moved down shortly afterwards. Then Aunt Irene’s emphysema took an unexpected catastrophic turn, and Mimi nursed her, with Georgianne’s and Rita’s help, until Aunt Irene died in 1996, almost exactly seven years after her father.
Mimi had already broken her hip once, and recovered. Then, after Aunt Irene died, she fell badly and wasn’t found for some time. We were sure she’d go quickly after that, but instead, she was up and about on a walker within a few weeks, and then back home in six. A year or so later, she started coming out to California for several months at a time, living with Mom and Gerry, and then came out permanently.
For once, we Kerrs were the at home grandkids! Whenever Mom and Gerry went on vacation, we’d “granny sit”. Mimi was fine by herself, but they wanted us to check in on her. I originally planned to make fancy dinners, but listened to her responses carefully and remembered that my mom was a bit of a health freak. So I brought over In n Out burgers, fries, and milkshakes with movies. She loved it.
Mimi spent her time reading, embroidering, and enjoying her California family. Her last months with congestive heart failure weren’t painful; she faded out over time. In August 2002, I brought Kerry home from summer camp so we could spend some time saying good bye. She was at my mother’s kitchen table, eating blackberry icecream. Mimi died peacefully a few days later, just a month short of her 97th birthday.
******************************************************** I was standing in front of 128 Perry Street, right by the driveway, wondering how to say goodbye. It seemed odd just to leave, after having taken such a trip to get there. I wanted some kind of talisman, a sign that marked the occasion. Just then, a pickup truck pulled into the driveway, a young man in his twenties at the wheel. He stopped when he saw me.
“Can I help you?”
“Hi–I’m sorry if this is a weird question, but do you live here?”
“No. My grandparents do.”
I smiled. “Mine did, too. It’s a great house, isn’t it?”
For a generation spread throughout the country, the Kerr clan stays close. We have reunions, keep track of major family events, and whenever we run into each other we talk nonstop catching everyone up.
I say “Kerr clan”, but more technically it’s the Kerr-Fleming clan. My paternal grandparents, Jack Kerr and Gladys Fleming, had six kids: Jack, Joan, Joel, Jeff, Jay, and Jim.* Jack Kerr was the only son of Nellie Stout Kerr, but Gladys was one of six kids and her parents, Paul Fleming and Mary Lewis Fleming (my greatgrandmother, Grammy Fleming), took in Paul’s brother George Fleming’s 5 children when George and his wife (also Mary) died in the Spanish Flu epidemic. So they raised 11 kids in total, including my grandmother Gladys, giving their descendants a bunch of great-aunts and uncles: Margaret, Melva, Bern, Bill, Evelyn, and others I apologize for forgetting.
Point being, it’s a big family. We have reunions where we talk up a storm: Jimmy’s 70th, Dad’s 80th, and the Grand Reunion of 2019. The Jack/Gladys Kerr siblings have always touched base on the phone regularly. My father and I spent three summer vacations together, and not a day went by he didn’t hear from at least one of his brothers or sister, just to shoot the shit. He talked to Jimmy daily. But downlevel of that, most of us only know what’s going on in our branch.
Except Uncle Jimmy. The youngest of Jack Kerr’s kids–closer in age to the oldest grandkids than he is to his oldest brother–Jimmy is the central cloud cluster of the Kerr-Fleming family communication network. Jimmy, along with his beloved wife Patti, stays in touch with everyone.
So if you want to know what’s going on, or how to contact a first or second cousin, or when everyone’s going to be in town, Uncle Jimmy’s your first call.
Which is why, when I woke up in Des Moines on Friday morning and realized that my original goal, Cleveland, was just two hours from Pittsburgh, I texted the man himself. Was he around for a day or so? He was, and started giving me advice about which highways to take. This led to my first major episode of..
Arguing with Google Maps
I’m reliably informed that paper illustrations of geographic regions exist, showing highways and cities and connections. These documents are called “maps”.
I’m not big on maps. They’re always folded weird. I’m not spatial, so I can’t translate up-down-left-right into north-south-east-west. It is perhaps unwise to try and decipher a map while driving a moving vehicle. In a world where ,maps remained the primary method of finding a route, I would probably not be the roadtripper I’ve turned out to be.
Google Maps is generally great. Without it (as you shall see), I’m desperately lost. It is perhaps ungrateful of me to complain, so think of these as product design requests.
When you use google maps and enter a destination, you will often get the suggested route and, if they exist, alternate routes. Sometimes the difference is tolls, other times it’s mileage, other times, hey, who knows what the AI tells it to do? On road trips, I usually take the scenic route, although not on this first cross country blitz. As my experience grew, I started opting for the non-toll route.
One very irritating problem: for some reason, google would occasionally reroute me to what it thinks of as the optimal route without telling me. Normally, when Google does a route change (like, you miss a turn), it gives a sound as it “reroutes”. But sometimes it will change without mentioning it, and that’s incredibly frustrating, leading to a situation I call “arguing with Google”. What should happen–and often does–is the Maps app should give you a choice: “Hey, I found a faster route. Do you want it?” This is useful when you’re stuck in a traffic jam, or hey, google is just checking. Fine. But sometimes it will just decide to change you over without even a noise. Aggravating.
The only solution I’ve found is to override Google by entering a multiple-stop route, where all the stop are on the destination route of your choice. That is, I argue with Google by forcing it to accept my route.
So when Uncle Jim learned Google was sending me through on Interstate 80, he said “oh, honey, no. 70 is much quicker.” But Google Maps didn’t even give me a Highway 70 option, taking me through on I80 all the way through to Cleveland. In fact, when I tried to “argue” with Google, going to Indianapolis and other cities on I70. But in this case, Google continually rerouted me back to 80. It was very frustrating. However, operating on the premise that Google Maps wouldn’t deliberately send me the long way, I finally did some short takes and learned that there was highway work being done on I70 so resigned, I went back to taking 80. Google might have been right this time, but it really was inexplicable, some of its decisions.
Taking I80 alerted me to the other New Thing I Learned About the East:
Where The Roads Aren’t Free
In the west, when Google tells me about tolls, it’s a bridge. California readers, let me alert you to an old concept: toll roads.
It cost me TWENTY DOLLARS to drive across Ohio!! I was like wait, what the hell. And at least in Ohio (and Florida) they have toll collectors and accept credit cards. I later learned my car was getting charged for tolls I didn’t even know about (looking at you, Massachusetts and New Hampshire). I tried emailing toll boards asking for invoice numbers but got no response until I realized that for toll receipts, out of state travellers gone long from home and paying late are a feature, not a bug. More money that way.
As mentioned, I learned to tell Google to avoid tolls. And I should have taken Jimmy and later Betty Jo’s advice sooner and gotten an EZPASS, a transponder that automatically charges your account and is good in eighteen states. As it is, I’m resigned to paying a large fee, hopefully less than several hundred dollars, when I return home and open the mail.
I will never see California gas prices as purely progressive nonsense again. Because by god, our roads are free.
Fees aside, Friday was my second worst day of the first cross country trip, winning over Tuesday purely because of Uncle Jimmy’s constant checking in. “What would you like for dinner? Do you like fish?” and checking on my progress I used that Google Status option and sent him a link so he could track my location.
Traffic was dreadful, far worse than Tuesday. I80 takes you right through Chicago, and the only plus side was that the Thornton Quarry my trucker acquaintance mentioned was just as splendid as he said, although pictures from the highway are tough:
I didn’t take either of these pictures. Mine would have looked like the one on the left, but I would have cropped it. Driving, it looked very much like the one on the left.
I wish I’d known that I was driving over this!
For that brief moment, I didn’t mind traffic. But generally, the trip that should have taken 11 hours took about 14. I didn’t get in until 8:30, having left at 6:30 am.
But at the end of it all was Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Patti:
and a lovely dinner of grilled cod and vegetables, along with….a bed! Which, much as I didn’t mind sleeping in the SUV, had much to recommend it.
Spent a wonderful Saturday relaxing and talking, and a great evening with Jimmy, Patti Aunt Barbara and Uncle Jay–so engaging that I forgot to take pictures! Jimmy and Jay had lots of advice for my upcoming trip to Cape Cod, as well as advice for my side route to Punxsutawney.
And so, early Sunday, I went on my way again, promising to return.
*My father, Jeff, and mother, Rita, named their four Michele, Michael, Maggie, and Mark and my sister, Maggie and husband Bob, named their original three kids Brianna, Brenden, and Brett. I mean, in case you were wondering.
garage out into my living room. I was putting them away when what should I run into but the book my grandpa had given me fifty years ago. I’ve reread it many times over the years.
to see writing I’d seen before, but completely forgot about.
the summer tourist season. I knew Maine wasn’t just a place anyone could show up on impulse without a reservation. 
There weren’t any 24 hour stops, either nearby or on the way to Bar Harbor, my ultimate destination. And all the KOAs were booked solid. 
watching around Portland–well, at least around the blocks near my parking spot. Whatever decision I made was not going to involve paying $269 for a Days Inn, so any in-depth inspection of Portland was going to wait for another day.
Lots of outside seating. But I found a nice little bar that didn’t seem to care much and had some bourbon while I looked for nearby truckstops. 
Kennebunk was just a bit south, so I enjoyed a nice hike along the water for a bit, found a Walmarts to pick up some food bars, and then hit my first truck stop since Des Moines. 
chats with the locals, they’d have to wait another day. I wanted to get a glimpse, check out the coast, take some pictures, and keep moving north.
That’s a thought.
Hypersensitive 
