days seven and eight: the end

 

 

 

 

 

if there's anything this trip taught me, anything i learned over the miles we trekked and state lines we crossed, it's that this country of ours is something else. from towering maples that produce some of the sweetest, purest syrup i've tasted, to apples the size of basketballs and foliage so pretty it makes my heart ache, i was in awe.

our last two days were devoted to touring the local economy. we sat in a cold sugar house and watched a video on the making of maple syrup. the owners  brought us blankets and cider and the video was nice and short. we toured cabot creamery, sampling 25 different cheeses before nine a.m. then came ben & jerry's, green mountain coffee company, wilbur chocolate factory, and even the teddy bear factory. we learned about the land, and what fabulous goodies spring out of its bounty.

we spent our last night in amish country, waiting behind buggies at crossing lights. it was pure, spacious, clean and idyllic. and being so far out, amid the farmhouses and silos, it almost felt like home.

these two weeks back have been an adjustment of sorts. of papers and studying and work and pablo. but we've settled back into our routine quite fine. because as i've said before on here, traveling is fun. it is beautiful and worthwhile and downright thrilling at times. but nothing in this world beats your own bed. and the pin oaks by the cottage are just turning to crimson and i'm so thankful to be home underneath them, thanking the sweet Lord for getting us back safely. and for the ho-hum drill of an ordinary, quite spectacular life.

day six: a clear morning, a state fair and the journey

it struck me as odd, but strangely inate. for some reason, the cliffs of maine felt familiar, as if i'd walked them years ago, on some dreary winter morning with my boots on and hair pulled back. and as we passed the little cottages on the path down to the water, i thought about, seemed to remember, a life lived on the shore. i think it's in my bones, this being close to the ocean. like some old forgotten song settled into my blood, turning on and playing louder with each step of my moccasins on the damp soil.

our morning in maine was a sleepy one. it was quiet on the island. one of those cold, bright, clear, sunny days when autumn shows off a bit. we ate breakfast beside a warm window in the general store. thought about the near end to our trip, and all the miles stamped on us. our GPS. our soles and souls.

but what the morning lacked in noise and color, we found a few hours away. at a little county fair on the state border. on a whim, we followed a handmade sign off the highway. into the front yard of an elderly couple we did not know, who allowed us to park there. the ones with children in north carolina, who lit up at a chance to talk about them. who we stood around and talked to long after the fair had lost its appeal and the sun was setting.

we ate whoopie pies. examined prize pigs, chickens, and roses. handmade quilts and honey. horse shows by the track. we missed our hometown fair, and found the next best thing in this nugget of spontaneity, beneath the ferris wheel and big top.

i remember a park in albuquerque. standing beside the lake at closing time. watching the swing set sway as evening rustled the leaves around. i had felt it then, this déjà vu. of not wanting to leave for fear of losing it.

we left maine, but i felt it in vermont too. forgetting myself and blending. in all of the north, really. except when i asked for sweet tea, then i remembered.

day five: the maine lobster experience

there we were. two kids from the carolinas. raised on barbecue and fried chicken, used to grease. used to the messiness of eating with our fingers. the stickiness and sloppiness of it all.

but nothing could prepare us for that night in maine. the restaurant we reached at nightfall, the water and air the same shade of ebony. we were there too late to see the sunset flicker off the atlantic, or push the light out of each other's hair like we did on the vineyard.

we sat in the deep booth anyway. ordered the lobster. the one we'd waited for the whole trip. the waitress brought out the array. the buckets. the bibs. the nutcrackers. this was our first experience, and the whole thing was alien.

and the mess. oh, you guys. i think i was doing it wrong. my dress was ruined. robert spent about twenty minutes on one claw. we were so juvenile. amateurs. then, what started out as a giggle turned into a guffaw, and we shook the booth trying to maintain some air of civility, both of us trying not to look at each other, only our pitiful lobsters, tears streaming from the hilarity of it all.

somewhere behind me, a group was talking loudly. i heard snippets like "napa valley" "when i wrote my first book" and "oh, he's traveling for photojournalism." they were feasting on a four-course lobster meal, drinking red wine by the bottle.

they were completely spotless.

we paid and left out the side door, our bibs hanging in shreds in defeat. let them have their white linens. their unsmeared lipstick and powdered noses.

we'll have each other. and the dirt and muck and squalor that inevitably will come. just as in the morning, all is washed anew, with 24 more glorious hours to sink our teeth and elbows into all that life has to offer, embracing the mess, shying not. 

day four: a tour on bicycle

 

 

there was an old man named wilbur sitting at the bus station. with a cane in one hand and the other inside his down jacket. we sat beside him in the early hours of dawn, the sun still struggling, reaching to rise. in the cold that only that hour can bring.

he was just one of the people we would meet that day, on our journey to, around, and back from martha's vineyard. wilbur was traveling to see his brother, who lived alone on the vast island. the one he hadn't visited in years. then there was the woman aboard the ferry took her labradoodles across the water weekly. for sunshine on a new coast. the one who knew places to rent bikes, eat lunch, and avoid. the two friends also on a road trip, heading to the vineyard with no plans but to explore. to run and taste and smell and hopefully find an inn available.

and besides a lunch that cost more than i usually spend for a week's worth of meals, the vineyard did not disappoint. it was calm. above all, above everything else, the greenery, the gingerbread houses, and even the water, it was the sense of calm that swept about me, nipping at my toes as we rode in the dusk. when evening falls on shops at closing time, on an island past its vacation season, something magical is in the air, something only locals are privy to and we felt like giddy outsiders.

we drove overnight to boston, arriving an hour before midnight. we walked beneath lights unfamiliar and held hands as rain started down. our room was tiny, but the ceilings were tall. and we slept another night in a strange, dark room, squeezing together in a double bed. miles to go, but many more beneath our soles.

day three: the prettiest walk of my life

 

 

 

there's a little black dirt path that runs beside our little cottage. it's about a mile long, flanked by sheds and maples. i love to walk along it when evening starts to strike and the light is low and golden. up until last week, it was my favorite walk on this earth.

then we went to newport, rhode island. and took the cliff walk. and i declare, one would be hard pressed to find a more spectacular pathway. rocky ocean shore on the left! mansion upon mansion on the right! rosebushes. towering skinny trees reaching toward the cloudless sky. grassy lawns screaming for a morning picnic.

it started brisk, but with coffee warming my hands and my pashima around my neck, the sun quickly seeped in and warmed our red noses. it was so, so incredibly lovely.

this was the day of the second french fry sandwich, at the little pizza joint we found ourselves at after the planned seafood restaurant was closed for the season. the day of the cape cod potato chip factory tour, a bit of a letdown, taking only about one minute to go through. (however, if this trip taught me anything, it's that i love a good factory tour. i think it's the free samples.)

we reached dennis, massachusetts right at dusk. running to mayflower beach just in time to catch the plum colored sunburst. then, the pristine sky turned on us, growing gray in a matter of seconds, pouring on my bare feet as i ran back to the parking lot.

we sunk into a restaurant just to take cover, not realizing until we sat down and ordered water that the tablecloths were white. there was a wine list on the table. and the waiter was wearing a suit. fancy. we ordered bowls of chowder, satisfied with our humble meal. we were saving the big one for maine lobster.

we were the only ones in our motel that night. the owner explained that no one really comes to cape cod at this time of year. and at that, we shook our heads. because with the leaves changing and fall tiptoeing in, it seemed like the most magical place to be.

day two: from long island to mystic

 

the blue of it all is what hit me the most, on this bright sunday in october.

i've seen oceans at sunset, with the ambers and crimsons blending with the graying sky. and i've seen oceans at mid-day, crowded with surfers and sailors, tones of flesh speckling the water.

but as our ferry departed long island, headed toward connecticut, in the early hours, i saw the ocean in an entirely new light--that of morning. that of an absolute blue more pure than i've ever seen in my life. an almost blinding reflection of sun and light and a cloudless sunrise.

we ate lunch in bridgeport, stopping to pay homage to the hometown of your friend and mine, mr. john mayer. because room for squares is still on constant replay in my car and i will forever be enamored with the john of old, pretending that this new john, with his awkward interviews and weird jazz solos is simply a mirage.

then we spent a few hours traveling under the trees at yale. with a tour guide who was a theater major and supremely suited for his role. i rubbed the bronze toe of the woosley statue, a yale tradition believed to bring good luck. because school is hard and work is long and i've got plenty of faith, but a little luck never hurt either.

and we traveled onward. the sounds of conor oberst wafting through the speakers. there's nothing that the road cannot heal. we picked apples the size of our head and feasted on cider doughnuts. this was the afternoon we witnessed the dog get hit. for an hour my heart hurt and the twinge of sadness remains.

our last stop was mystic. that old seaport made famous by julia roberts. we sat in a high-backed chairs and ate the best pizza. seriously, the best. with a little snap to the crust. this was day two. plenty more ahead, more behind.

day one: from philly to long island, and the sights between

 

 

 

 

to walk in an unfamiliar city is to experience it for the very first time. to take in with delight every oddity or eccentricity found among the blocks, inside the shops and in the faces of passersby. on our first day in philadelphia, we explored by foot. walking underneath the row houses, past the churches seeped in history, and among the storefronts yawning with morning, only a couple open in the early hours of a saturday at nine.

we sat in old congress buildings and peered into rooms untouched by time. we gathered our jackets around us and sat outside at pat's king of steaks, another, different relic of philly history. we left the city full of its spirit, its love and its splendor.

our travels that day took us up the coast to ocean city. we sat outside a little cookie shop and devoured our wares, trying to blend in with the locals, taking pictures of the shopfront in secret, without the flash. we went onward to atlantic city, where we gambled $2 and lost $1.60, quitting while we still have forty cents to our name and honor.

we supped at rutger's university, by the "grease trucks," devouring a "fat darrell" sandwich: breaded chicken, marinara sauce, mozzarella sticks and french fries. this was not the last time we would eat a french fry sandwich in new england. must be a northern thing? either way, we weren't going to fight its divine deliciousness. we ran to eat under the umbrellas, an impending storm whipping its canvas and blowing my bangs.

this was the night of new york city, of the mania and glory of the lights and sounds of a typical saturday night in manhattan. we drove through the dark to long island, two hours past our designated arrival time.

then, cities and entire states behind us, we tiptoed into the sleeping bed and breakfast, found our room, and retired for the day, already full of memories, little stories, and flashes of glory that road trips bring. and while we already missed home, and the trees by the shed on the cusp of changing, we were an enamored band of travelers, already taken with the land behind and before us.

a snippet

it was insanely spontaneous, completely illogical and a little ridiculous in the best way possible. that two people, two kids, from the countryside, where the soybean leaves are just now beginning to golden and drop, could find ourselves immersed in new england.

the soles of my moccasins are forever stamped with the feel of it all. with the cobblestone roads of philadelphia, the apple orchards where we kissed beneath the red delicious. the neighborhood sidewalk in connecticut where i sat and cried after we saw a dog get hit. the county fair in new hampshire. the rickety old bicycle in martha's vineyard. the dark restaurant in which we found shelter during a downpour on cape cod.

but perhaps this picture embodies it best of all. we were calculated in our planning, exact in our route. it was our intent to bypass manhattan. to cruise right around it and into long island. but our first night, we found ourselves on the new jersey turnpike, thrust suddenly into the lincoln tunnel, then we emerged. straight into time square.

and at ten o'clock on a saturday night, we drove through the city. the one we've only seen once before. dodging cab drivers and semi-trucks, we paused right in the heart of the big apple. we kissed under a red light and suddenly, a saxophonist began playing our song on the sidewalk. the whole thing felt like a dream.

and moment set the stage, and the tone, for the rest of the trip. it was a special, sacred time for us, peppered with little surprises, some upsets, and the little joys that come when you put the travel binder down and just start driving.

and in return, in essence, start living.

the most random weekend of my life

robert and i are festival folk. there's nothing i love more than a hot pavement, street vendors selling funnel cakes, and men on stilts. i also hold the belief that there are very few things in this world that can't be fixed with an orange fanta and a hot dog all the way. this weekend was the 25th annual mount olive pickle festival, about three hours from our town. robert and i made a weekend out of it, staying at roadside hotels and doing the most spontaneous things possible.

here's a little list of the weekend we like to dub our "weekend of random things."

1. the weekend began with our royal wedding feast. see post below. this was a spur-of-the-moment decision that turned out to be a beautiful memory.

2. we were originally slated to leave for the festival early saturday morning. on friday evening, on a blanket under the shade tree, robert turned to me and said, "why don't we leave tonight?" we ran inside, packed our bags, went by and told my family goodbye, stopped at the gas station for a frozen mocha, and reached mount olive at 12:30 a.m.

3. driving to see my dad's old high school, near the city. walking the same grass his cleats did. looking at the worn, unchanged football field and thinking about the boy he was before he was dad.

4. stuffing my face with nine dill pickles at the festival. the strawberry coconut hawaiian ice. the deep fried corn. the hot dog. every beautifully indulgent nugget of deliciousness. the hot sun beating down on our backs, the first introduction to summer's heat of the year.

5. driving to supper, then seeing a sign in front of a random church that read, "boy scout italian dinner! come inside and support the troop!" we swerved in, got out, and spent an hour eating homemade spaghetti and meat sauce in a fellowship hall, deep in conversation with two old ladies out supporting their grandsons.

6. walking around our old college campus, late at night. with all the students home for the weekend, it felt like we had the place to ourselves. we went inside all our old dorms, peered into the lounges and study halls that were once such a huge part of our lives, now serving the same purpose for other students, other faces and memories. we kissed in front of the library and thought about how life has changed. for the best, yes. but we still miss those late nights in the bookstacks, going down to the coffee shop every half hour for a pick-me-up.

there were a million other sweet, random things that happened. i am so thankful to have a fun-loving husband who doesn't think too hard about things, but goes on adventures with me. with him, we turned a two-hour festival into a weekend i will never forget, even if the first sunburn of the year made its way onto my unsuspecting shoulders.