Wausau is nothing to writing home about, so I won’t. I will say that, for the size and relative remoteness of the town, I couldn’t understand why they had a $200-per-night three star hotel. I opted for the Super 8, next to the McDonald’s.

No welcome from da UP, eh?

I got to Minneapolis around 3 p.m. the next day. I was staying with one of my good friends from Schwäbisch Gmünd, Heather, who had just moved from DC the day I began this journey. As an added bonus, another friend, Mike, also lived in town. Two reunions for the price of one!

Heather lives in a growing suburb of Minneapolis, and we spent most of our time just catching up. All three of us took advantage of some of the thousands of lakes in the city, some of the trendy restaurants, and a traditional polka bar. We even went to see Spamalot, the Monty Python play, at the theatre one night.

I decided to stay one more day in Minneapolis, since I wasn’t sure exactly where and when I’d be staying in Chicago. That remaining day was a mistake.

As Heather and I were sitting on her back patio talking with her parents, I noticed a dark storm head creeping over the hills to the north-west. Over the course of an hour, the menacing cloud began to push through the clear front that hung above us. Just a few weeks before the suburb of Huron, about 30 miles away, was devastated by a funnel cloud. We rarely get tornados on the East coast and I was equally anxious and amazed at how frightening the clouds looked.

It wasn’t until we heard the warning sirens that we headed in. After some hectic clean-up of garden tools, we ran inside and turned on the television. The radar showed a large, bright-red splotch moving towards our area of town. Heather and I were going to head in to the city, but after seeing that, we decided against it.

An hour passed and the sky became darker and darker. Tornado warnings were popping up all around us, but thankfully not too close. As we saw the main storm system on the radar pass overhead, a huge clatter erupted all around us. It was a hail storm. Golf-ball sized ice hammered the house and tore fresh spring leaves from trees. They hit with such force that they bounced several feet in the air off the concrete and my car.

No white after Memorial Day?

We weren’t in any real danger, but I have never seen a hailstorm, let along one of this scale. Within 10 ten minutes it passed, the hail shutting off like a light switch.

When it was safe, we went outside and met the entire neighborhood, all surveying the damage. The ground was covered in white hailstones; it couldn’t have been a winter day if it weren’t so hot. I ran to my car and everything looked fine at first. I grabbed my camera and photographed as much as I could before it melted. As I went to clear the hail off of my car, I noticed both front parking lights were smashed, having born the brunt of the storm. Aside from some other mild cosmetic damage, the car was in perfect shape. Gotta love those Volvos.

Heather’s neighbors weren’t so lucky. One girl had just bought a new car a few weeks ago and wasn’t able to garage it in time. It was pock-marked all over it. Another neighbor had just put a new roof on two days prior and was immediately on top inspecting the shingles. Siding was cracked and trees were eviscerated.

The only serious damage on the car.

What impressed me the most is that everyone came out immediately after the storm to see if everyone was all right. Perhaps it was Mid-Western values that brought everyone outside, or perhaps we had all been through the same harrowing experience that could have been so much worse. Whatever the reason, it was a nice feeling to know that your neighbor is there with you.

There were a couple of small tornadoes that formed in that system, but none did much serious damage. Another bullet dodged in this strange tornado season.

He shut the door and got back in his booth. “Welcome back and good luck” he said, giving me my passport.

I’ve been dreading this crossing for since my problems with the Canadian authorities and was a little surprised at the ease with which it passed. In fact, I had changed my plans just to get over the border sooner in case I had problems. In Toronto I had planned to head down to Niagara for a day and then stop over in a hostel in London. The lack of cheap rooms was a factor, but so was the suspense of not knowing what was going to happen. I thought I’d better get it out of the way now.

My goal was Bay City on the central east shore of Michigan. On a good day it was six hours from Toronto. Past the border it was a straight shot on I-69, then a sharp right on I-75 north to the city. Right past the border the highways splits, though, and I took the wrong one, blissful in my ignorance that I was heading south-west. It was about ten miles outside of Detroit that I figured out my blunder.

No worries, I thought. My trusty road atlas said there was a state highway that wasn’t far away that went right back to I-69. What my road atlas didn’t tell me is that the state highway is poorly marked and incredibly crooked. Every 2 miles I found myself on the wrong track headed into a small town that was obviously not where I wanted to be.

Normally I’m not too bothered by getting lost. I spent much of my teenage driving years trying to find my way out of rural Maryland on to a familiar road. But that was when gas was well under $1.50. On the cusp of Memorial Day weekend, gas was $4.19 per gallon here. As the miles ticked by on this detour, I could feel a sharp pain in my right buttocks where my wallet hides.

There was another factor: I was on the outskirts of the Detroit metropolitan area and I had the only foreign car for 100 miles. I was surrounded by gigantic Ford trucks, Jeeps, Pontiacs, Buicks – every American brand under the sun. Not one Volvo could be seen. I thought back to my high school friend who went to Kettering University and whose new Volkswagen was periodically vandalized with Nazi symbols and “Buy American” scratched in to the hood. Would working-class Michiganders know the difference between Sweden and Germany? Would they care?

As I drove deep into small town Rust Belt, I found myself mentally preparing for a confrontation with union organizers or a gang of punks who have felt the pain of lay-offs. “But Volvo is owned by Ford!” was the only cogent argument I could formulate. What else was there to say without railing against the unions or 20 years of idiotic policy from the American motor companies’ executive boards?

I gave up the shortcut to I-69 and back-tracked all the way to Port Huron to find the original split.

This is Michigan?

Traffic was murderous due to the holiday weekend and by this time I was dog tired, so I gave up a mere ten miles from my goal. I don’t even remember the name of the “town” I stayed (actually just an intersection of two highways), but I do remember it was a few miles from Zilwaulkee, which struck me as funny.

The following was Saturday and I was sure I wouldn’t get a cheap rate at the resort town of Mackinaw City, my next destination. So I randomly picked a state park in the center of Michigan and tried my luck at finding a camping spot. Besides, I hadn’t camped since Long Island and it was about time.

Getting away from it all

With luck there was an opening at the first place I found, South Higgins Lake State Park. The spot is on a gorgeous little lake; but, again, due to the holiday it was packed. I was situated in the middle of a camper city. My tiny little Volvo and my bivouac tent took up 1/10th of my camping spot, which due to its location was actually double wide. A number of people commented on my minimal setup on their way back to their traveling houses and screaming children.

I had a good time, nevertheless, if only because this spot had a fire pit and my spot was literally 20 yards from the lake. The lake had one of the most beautiful sunsets I’ve ever seen, too.

That morning I awoke to a flat tire. I had known something was wrong because I had to fill it every three days with about 20 psi. The semi-off-road driving must have dislodged the nail I suspected was the cause. I had to scramble to break camp and put on the spare before check-out. The camping spot was on sandy soil so I was a little leery of changing the tire there. My fears were justified. No sooner had I tightened the last bolt did the car shift backwards six inches, warping the jack (though not beyond use) and giving me slight heart palpitations.

Ugh

Being the holiday weekend, everything was closed except for Wal-Mart, which patched the hole in 20 minutes and for only $10. It was a pretty good bargain, except for the wait in the horrifying Super Center.

The next day I drove north the rest of the way to Mackinaw City. The entire northern portion of Michigan is devoid of people and buildings, so I won’t bother describing it. I set the cruise control at 65, consuming every last one of my NPR podcasts to keep my brain active.

It was Sunday on Memorial Day weekend and I had no problem finding a room in the city. The drive was a serious drain and I felt I had to see something. So I walked downtown and found a delightfully tacky tourist town. Every other store sold fudge and the ones in between sold t-shirts of John Lennon and bumper stickers. In spite of the dreary weather, everything was bright and flashing and warm - just what I needed.

I walked in to the recently developed pedestrian mall and found a planned area that reminded me of a theme-park. The concrete walkways were painted red and all of the one-storey buildings were that kitschy, faux Main Street ‘Murka that can only be found in Disney Land and Busch Gardens. The place was nearly deserted with only a few uninterested tourists slowly bobbing from store to store in the pre-fab village. There was a band on a large permanent stage playing Steve Miller Band hits and the like, but no one was watching and I felt like a voyeur standing before them.

No horseless carriages here

The high gas prices must have seriously been taking a toll on the tourism industry. Even the fireworks display was cancelled. Only fools would drive this far just for a vacation…

I stopped in a nearby Irish Pub for some bar food and stumbled across a strange sight. The entire restaurant and bar was packed but no one was making any noise. There was no background music and no one spoke. The happy tinkle of cutlery on plates was absent; laughter was out of the question. When someone did speak they finished the sentence quickly, as if they were breaking some taboo, no one replied. It was as if they were all actors awaiting a cue that never came. I have never seen anything like it and hope I never will again.

I finished my corned beef quickly and left.

The next day I took the ferry to the famous Mackinac Island, pronounced “Mackinaw” for some confounding reason. It was foggy and the famous bridge was hidden from view. In fact, everything was hidden from view. I don’t know how the ferryboat pilot navigated the straights so well – there were no visual clues as to where we were on the water.

Mackinac Island is an anomaly. The tiny town’s economy is based on tourism and has been since the fur trade dried up 150 years ago. Due to a happy coincidence, motor vehicles were banned at the turn of the century and the law was never repealed. The result is a delightfully peaceful town on a beautiful green island so far removed from the worries of everyday life. Bikes and horses are the main modes of transportation, but I opted for the cheapest – feet. Besides, I only had a few hours before the last ferry to the main land and only intended to see the populated part of the island.

Guarding the bay from the hordes of tourists

I headed up to the imposing colonial fort that lies about 300 feet above sea level. The long white walls mask a tiny town within a town. The fort was manned up until the 1890s when it was deemed no longer useful. From the historical re-enactors I learned that it was a highly desired posting, being in the middle of a beautiful tourist town and having never had a major threat since the War of 1812. Even then the fort was taken without a shot; the American base commander hearing of the war only when he got a written ultimatum from the British side. It reminded me of the US base in Garmisch in too many ways.

After a couple of hours seeing the well-prepared exhibits, the fog began to lift and I explored the coast line. The bridge still wasn’t visible from the island, but the smaller islands off the coast were now visible and it felt less like the island existed in a sort of limbo, a cloud city.

I stopped in a restaurant soon before my ferry to get a genuine Mackinac Island burger and got in to a conversation with a young man from suburban Detroit. He had recently moved to the island to work in one of the island’s prestigious hotels. He was a funny fellow, saying he couldn’t stand being away from his parents much but desperately seeking ways out of the state. I suggested he apply to the Edelweiss Lodge and Resort if he really wanted to get far away and he seemed pretty keen.

I was pretty curious about life on the island, especially from a recent transplant. So I picked his brain for his perceptions of the place. Sure enough, in a city of 500 residents no one has secrets. Everyone knows each other and his business. There’s not much to do on the island, he says, especially in the winter when the straits freeze over. When that happens, you are stuck there until it thaws. Most people turn to extreme drinking to get through the winter.

Mackinac Island port from the fort

He mentioned a local town councilman, Doud, and I could have sworn I heard the name somewhere before. Then he handed me a newspaper and I saw the publisher was also a Doud. Then it hit me – in the fort there was an exhibit about a local fur trader named Doud who had sold out the fort to the British during the war in order to protect his business interests. It seems his descendents are still here and have a prominent place in the community. They must wield considerable power amongst the local population having been on the island for so long.

The prospect of living on this dream island, at first attractive, now seemed quite frightening and I was relieved to be on the ferry back to the mainland.

Cabbagetown!

I was visiting Kaitlyn, an old co-worker from What’s Up? magazine who is now studying at Ryerson University in the city. She lives in Cabbagetown, which is the old Irish, now Indian and Arab section of Toronto. It’s a neat little quarter with well-preserved Victorian row homes and lots of odd people (though I found out later that this phenomenon is not particular to Cabbagetown). Kaitlyn was still in class when I arrived. I waited at a dingy coffee shop to catch up on my journal. There was a young man debating the contents of hotdogs with the harried Chinese barista and an old bag-lady with wild hair debating the newspaper editorials loudly with herself. It was an amusing re-introduction to city life.

When Kaitlyn got back from class, we caught up on our lives in the past two years and the current buzz at the old magazine.* I had forgotten how young she was when she worked at What’s Up? (17!) and I was surprised to find she was only born in 1988. I felt quite like an old man, having just turned 25. And like an old man, I was tired from the drive so we made plans for the following day and just relaxed. Kaitlyn didn’t have class so she offered to accompany me on a walking tour of the city.

Forget it, Jack.

The next day we went on a six-hour jaunt and saw nearly every neighbourhood in the entire Toronto metropolitan area. We walked through, among others, Chinatown, Kensington (the hippie/hipster quarter), the Bank District, the University of Toronto, and the intersection of York and Dundas, the “Times Square” of Toronto. The quarters were all strikingly different and clearly delineated. I realized that Toronto is essentially a large collage of small villages stuck together like jig-saw puzzle pieces.

I also realized that a pair of Adidas Sambas do not give an old man like me the kind of support needed for a 30-mile walk. By 3 o’clock my feet, hips, and knees were in so much pain that I walked like an arthritic cat. I like to think it was sleeping on a tiny couch that did it and not my advanced age; though, even now my right foot still aches at the arch when I wear those shoes.

That evening, after a long rehabilitating sit, Kaitlyn and I met one of her roommates and a few of her friends at the Salad King restaurant. From the name, I thought was going to be a rubbish salad bar but turned out to be a really good Thai restaurant. The food was excellent, especially my Thai curry, but the place was packed tighter than 3rd class on the Titanic.

All of Kaitlyn’s friends go to Ryerson University also and quite few of them study Journalism. During dinner I brought up current affairs, Canadian politics, and their experiences with the workings of journalism. Few were interested in such things, though they did want to talk about Kaitlyn’s and my experience at the magazine. There were also rousing debates on the quality of different brands of jeans and the ethics of buying clothes for your friends with an employee discount, though I didn’t have much to contribute.

Shopping: a new religion. The Cathedral-like Eaton Center.

While I was trying to reconcile how these Journalism students didn’t read the paper, the motion was put forth that we all go shopping, which was passed unanimously. Well, all but one agreed; she had to go to a 50 Cent concert. So off we went to the Eaton Center, a massive mall in the heart of downtown.

Our numbers dwindled to five during our browsing. We all wound up in the Indigo bookstore were we spent a good two hours perusing the shelves. By the end I found myself subconsciously reading books on the effect of media on our generation and the current state of news reporting. What an old man I’ve become.**

The next day I set off alone. My intent was to see the Royal Ontario Museum (the ROM) and the art gallery. The ROM was so interesting that I ended up spending the entire day inside looking at a photo exhibit of Shanghai pre- and post-Cultural Revolution and learning about early medieval to the World War I armor and armaments. I also saw every bit of the Charles Darwin exhibit, from his boyhood years to his death and all of the scientific study in between. What a rousing day, I know. There are some benefits to traveling alone.

I found the Chinese exhibit very interesting, mainly because Toronto has an enormous Chinese population. After the museum I walked to nearby Chinatown and imagined I was in modern Beijing. It truly feels like you’re stepping in to another country with huge neon signs in Chinese lettering, acupuncturist’s offices every 20 feet, and, of course, thousands of Chinese.

Canada - not all bad

When I returned home, Kaitlyn was in class again, so I hung out with two of her roommates. They were pretty silly and lots of fun to talk to. We did briefly have the perfunctory American Politics discussion, but this time with a new twist – foreign aid. One proffered, “it’s not right that [the US government] forces countries to accept their culture and media when giving them aid.” I avoided addressing some of the flaws in that statement, but I did suggest that it’s not a necessity that we hand out billions of free dollars to other countries. “I guess so,” was the response.

I may be too hard on the Canucks. Despite their anti-American sentiments (fueled by an unchecked media that truly hates the US), they are a good lot. That night Kaitlyn and her roommates surprised me a piece of birthday cake with a sparkler in it. They felt bad that I had such a bad birthday in Montreal and wanted to make up for it. I was not expecting it at all and was quite touched.

That night I made plans for life after Toronto. This was my first time in a big city since Philadelphia I was a little sad to see it go. This trip convinced me that I have to live in a walkable urban center when I move to Colorado.

*After I left, What’s Up? expanded to two publications with no signs of stopping. I’m sure the two aren’t directly related.

**In retrospect my depiction of these kids seems a little harsh. I look back at what I was interested in when I was 20 and what conversations I had with my close friends. I wouldn’t describe us as very politically aware back then (except for perhaps the start of the Iraq war). But therein lies the joy of getting old - criticizing the young’ins and being extremely hypocritical at the same time.

From South Royalton it is a straight shot north on 83 to Montreal, with a quick but painful stop at the Canadian border. For weeks I have been dreading the event since I’m carrying a lot of alcohol as gifts for future hosts on my trip. Everyone I visited along the way assured me that there will be no problem and that I’ll get across fine. So naturally I believed them.

I pulled up to the Duoane booth and, when asked, stupidly declared my payload: 1 bottle of Scotch Whiskey, 12 bottles of white wine, and 18 bottles of beer (all gifts, mum and dad). The border guard wrote everything down with no emotion and little reaction. The man seemed unperturbed so I naively thought I was in the clear. After all of my declarations were put down on the form, I was asked very politely to pull over to the side of the road and take my receipt to the nearest cash register. Damn it.

It seems the Quebecois don’t take quindly to liquor foreigne, so I was asked to pay a ridiculous sum to cover the import tax on the booze. Despite expressing the purpose of my trip, outlining my limited funds, saying outright why I had so much alcohol, and even promising to take it all out of the country after I was done giving money to their tourist operations, I was still liable for the duty. After much hemming and hawing, I decided that the tax was cheaper than to replace all of it outright (assuming the Americans would give me leniency). The stout border guard woman did give me the whiskey and a bottle of wine free, as is the customs’ custom. After was all said and paid, I asked whether I should have just lied and declared nothing. The woman pouted her lower lip, shrugged her shoulders, and said in a thick Canadienne accent, “Per-aps.” Bastards.

Screaming obscene curses to the windshield as I left the border station, I made sure to obey the striqued and ridiquelous limite du vitesse metrique, lest I give these damned French wannabes more free monie.*

Civilization!

The land between the border and Montreal is extremely uninspiring, so I won’t bother with details. It’s not until you reach the Montreal river that you come across something interesting to see. Approaching Montreal (French for Mount Real, fmr. Montfaux), you come across the Jacque Sumzingorozzer Bridge, (fr. Pont NomduMadeup), a large steel structure that signifies you’ve reach civilization, but not taste. I drove across it to Rue de Bordreaux, where I had a couchsurfing.com friend awaiting me.

The neighbourhood is like a scene from Tennessee William’s “A Streetcar Named Desire” with rows of old town homes all split top-to-bottom into apartments. Each upper storey is served by a large, curved, wrought-iron staircase that leads directly onto the street. As I walked past the red-, brown-, and white-bricked buildings, I could only wonder at the beauty in small, dense, efficient, but stylish living.**

Manu answered the doorbell. He was a tall French-Canadian of 21, cropped-mop-topped, lanky, and very polite. After a hearty handshake, he offered to help me with my meagre but heavy possessions. I refused, only because I am embarrassed at how much my bags weigh (I still haven’t repacked after my frenzied departure). I entered the narrow bottom-floor apartment and was met with a dark and cluttered wood-paneled living room. Two large, old couches lined the right side next to a TV. On my left were three bedrooms, each with impossibly small doors, the middle, Manu’s, blocked by a reclining chair. The back of the room opened up into a small kitchenette, laundry room, and bathroom. In the middle was a large coffee table covered in glasses, trash, and electronic paraphernalia.

Stella!

“Where should I put my stuff?” I asked, hoping for an ante-room or alcove. “Anywhere!” said Manu, making circles with his hands.

After a few pleasantries and get-to-know-you questions, I found out that Manu was a com-sci student at the local polytechnic institute and that he roomed with a fellow student, X, and X’s brother. He immediately offered me ice cream, which I thought strange. It’s not, I found out after peering into the freezing stuffed with pints, because X’s brother works at an ice cream factory. They get free samples of any obscure flavor they want. What a sweet life.

Manu and his roommates host a lot of couch-surfers and I was the latest in a long string of international guests. This was the first time that Manu had played host by himself. X and his brother were out of town in Long Beach, New York (a previous spot on my tour) at a literal surfing competition. It was just he and I until Tuesday, when I planned to leave.

I had handed him a bottle of (now double-imported) white wine when I had arrived, so he suggested we make chicken for dinner. I hadn’t thought of food yet but eating in would be cheap and fun. After a quick trip to the local super-marché, we put together the necessary ingredients for a white-wine sauce, pan-fried chicken, and an easy salad. After a rousing hour or two of Grand Theft Auto IV on the XBox, wherein I proved my total ineptitude with modern video games, we got to work making food.

It’s been months since I’ve cooked anything from scratch and I was surprised at how easily the meal came together. I had a strange pang of heimweih for Europe when Manu produced a simple but tasty meal from essentially nothing in a matter of one hour. I could only think of my times in France when even the poorest of college students I knew would throw together some simple yet spectacular dish on a whim and think nothing of it. Quite the opposite of their American counterparts.

What astounds me most is the humility and utter ease with which the French (and French-Canadians) produce cuisine. Even after genuine praise, Manu just shrugged and said, “eets eezy.” I agreed, but I tried to explain how few young people back in the States even attempt to do this. When he asked why, I could only point to our desire for convenience. Combining white wine, flour, milk, and butter to make a simple sauce for chicken is, by miniscule amounts, harder than zapping a hot pocket. “If going out to get the ingredients,” I said, “most people just decide it’s easier to get a burger.” Manu just couldn’t understand it. Neither can I.

After the meal and the perfunctory American Politics discussion, we went out to a local microbrewery that served a wide selection of German-style beers. That amused me, being in the center of French Montreal. We were wet from the rain storm that rolled in at dusk and, as we dried off, we had long discussions about the differences between the US and Canada.

On the long, wet walk home, we happened across a busy club and, before I knew it, we were inside. It turns out it was an “African” club; that is, all-black. I was a little freaked out since my only experience in such a club was in DC, which wasn’t as pleasant as it sounds. After a few minutes, though, I realized no one cared about us being the sole minority. There was no hostility or a sense of foreboding that I got from my previous foray outside of the White Comfort Zone. The blacks there were islanders and just wanted to have a good time. Still, and I say this with a sense of guilt, I was only at-ease when I discovered that the bartender was white, too.

There was a good band playing a mix of Carribbean Island/Hip-Hop music, but no one was dancing. It was a Sunday night, which I suppose explains why the place was only half-filled with wall-flowers. It was quite sad, actually, to see a bare dance-floor in front of such lively musicians. After a plastic-cupped beer (which Manu refused to drink on principal), we left. The place was starting to clear out and so, it seemed, should we.

Alone in the Streets

The next morning the rain continued with a vengeance and I was loathe to go out into the gale. It was Victoria Day and, coincidently, my birthday. I’ll be damned if I get soaked on either one! After noon the rains began to clear so I ventured out to Vieux-Montreal (old Montreal) by metro. The $2.75 one-way trip seemed worth it at the time, but in retrospect I should have saved it for gas. Victoria Day is just another excuse for the Canadians not to work which means the entirety of downtown was a Ville-Esprit. Not a soul could be found and every cafe, museum, and shop was closed. Even the homeless beggars took the day off. I was alone in the city. It started to rain again.

And, God, did it rain. My sailing jacket was no match for the penny-sized drops and I wound up soaked after 45 minutes of searching for something, anything, interesting to do. Every time I found shelter the rain abated and every time I abandoned it the storm struck again with a fury like never before. Paranoia set in. Was this some sort of Truman Show? I was so wet that the soap in my jeans began to froth at my knees, agitated by my hurried walk. The only place I found open was the gothic Catholic cathedral of Notre Dame, which charged a CA$5 (US$45) entry fee. That kept me well away. I got a year’s worth of self-pity on my 25th.

After searching for a subway stop for another half-hour, I retreated into the depths of the Montreal underground. Soon after I emerged three blocks from Rue de Bordreaux only to find blue skies, bright sunlight, birds chirping, and one personal deep-seated hatred for Mother Nature. I didn’t want to spend yet another $2.75 getting back to the deserted downtown, so I marched home, inadvertently losing myself in the maze of identical, ubiquitous iron stairwells. I wound up walking several blocks out of my way, looking ridiculous to the natives being soaked to the bone on a bright, sunny afternoon.

Art in the metro: Hardly worth the $2.75 admission.

After I got home I found Manu attached to his computer (a common occurrence, it seems). We decided to make pasta that night, which was something to look forward to. As I was lounging around waiting for my wet clothes to dry in the tumble dryer, I got a few calls from friends and family wishing me a happy birthday. It was a good spirit-lifter after such a nasty day.

I left Montreal the next day vowing only to return when I could afford an umbrella.

*It wasn’t until days later that I realized that the Canadian national rate was 8% of the total tax paid; the Quebec rate was 92%. If I had crossed elsewhere, I would be a nominally richer man.

**In a heated discussion about the Crown’s early abuse of the French colonists, Manu told me that the British had forcibly deported a number of Acadian families very cruelly; that is, by loading them onto wooden rafts and sending them out to sea. He said that a number of them survived the ordeal and wound up in Louisiana. It was at this point I remembered reading about the history of the southern state and learning that “Cajun” is a Creole morph of “Acadian.” This could perhaps account for the similarities in architectural style. Having only seen New Orleans’s Bourbon Street in photos, I can’t be sure until I visit.

Lake Winnipesaukee in Repose

New Hampshire is incredibly flat and green this time of year. Not much to look at, but I did find some enjoyment to the ever-fluctuating speed limits. Fifty-five miles-per-hour zones would dive down to 25 m.p.h. within 30 yards and back up to 60 in half as much distance, which no visible cause. I kept my eyes peeled for cops but luckily never came across any.

I planned my route to pass Lake Winnipesaukee. As flat lands gave way to rolling hills and eventually rounded Appalachian Mountains, she appeared. It’s well hidden by the trees until you’re nearly on top of it, but I found her, though I nearly drove off the edge of the road when I swerved onto the scenic outlook point. I sat and had a small picnic, snapping photos of the lake and the mountains in the background.

The mountains are much bigger in Vermont, and I-89 cuts a strange path through them. The two parts of the highway trade highs and lows, leaving you constantly unaware as to where the southbound traffic actually is. The hills were totally green with trees which absolutely no deviation in color. I bet the place is unbelievable in the autumn. In addition, I saw some of the most beautiful clouds I’ve ever seen.

On Cloud I-89

The rest of the ride to South Royalton was uneventful, except for the massive highway fire on the other side of the highway. I was glad to be heading north, because the traffic was blocked for miles upon miles. I think it was the most excitement the area has seen for awhile.

South Royalton is part of the larger Royalton metropolis, which consists of over 2,600 residents (when Vermont Law is in session, this number swells to a staggering 3,000). To say there wasn’t much doing in town is a bit of an understatement. However, I wasn’t there to see a big city but to see an old college buddy.

Dustin, who is from Wisconsin, just finished up his first year of the prohibitively expensive three-year law program. Despite this self-imposed poverty, he graciously accepted me into his home and showed me around the town. We caught up on old times and discussed life after Schwaebytown. The first night we had a haphazard game of horseshoes that nearly ended up with me derailing a passing train with an errant throw. Later on we played Risk with his roommate to the bitter end. It was a good night.

Burn, baby, burn!

When in Vermont, one has to see the scenery. So Dustin and I set out on the second day for the Quechee Gorge, one of the most beautiful gorges I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen a lot. We met up with one of his friends and joined a gaggle of other nature-lovers in admiring the natural beauty that is Vermont. (I forgot my camera, of course, but check out the link for some photos)

After a couple of hours of admiring torpid rainbow trout and making serious resolutions to take up fishing, the three of us went for lunch at a local brewery. The TrailHead brewery served up great bar food and even better Hefeweizen - some of the best I’ve had this side of the pond. That night we took it easy, stopping briefly at a neighbour’s house to celebrate their graduation.

On the final day Dustin, his roommate, and I headed over to the Sugar House for some down home country brunch. The place was packed, but we fought our way through the locals for some bacon, eggs*, sausage, pancakes, endless coffee and home fries, of course. I didn’t eat until I hit Montreal hours later.

That’s all for Vermont. I’m going to combine Canananananada into one post which I’ll write after I leave this strange land.

*As an aside, I learned early on this trip what “over-easy” means and finally put it to good use in Vermont. No more will I have to deal with runny eggs!

Annapolis Cloned!

The people in Portsmouth were very nice and seemed to love their town. People were willing to talk about anything. One of the more memorable conversations I had was with a taxi driver whose life dream was to write a musical but she was always afraid that it wouldn’t turn out right. I told her about Hemingway’s quote about writing, “You’re first draft is sh*t.” (I alluded to the final word in the discourse). Despite the quote’s coarseness, this phrase struck a cord with me and I think the taxi driver, too. She seemed convicted from that day on to actually produce the work. So if you hear of a musical by a Portsmouth taxi driver, go support it and send me an e-mail.

Outside of the pleasant conversation, Portsmouth doesn’t offer much except touristy stores and microbreweries, so I drove up to Portland, Maine, where I found a much more interesting city.

Gi-ant in Portsmouth, NH

With the help of the Maine tourism board, I found the Inn at St. John’s. It was a tiny bed and breakfast at the edge of the city and on the main drag, Congress Street. Since vacancy was down they had reduced to price to manageable levels. I really lucked out with that place.

After I checked in, I walked the 20 minutes to town. The first thing I saw was a woman pushing up a hill on a bicycle smoking a cigarette. Nice. I soon came across some of Portland’s resident homeless population. They’re all a little touched, but mostly harmless. The housed population is just as strange; though, compared to the rest of New England, they are very outgoing and gregarious.

Some of the cool architecture in Portland

An example is when I was walking to the hotel the first day and I was walking behind a lithe woman on a cell phone. I was gaining on her but didn’t notice her frenzied conversation. As I was about to pass her, she hung up suddenly and turned to me saying “Jeez, sometimes I just wish I was [sic] an orphan!” As she said that she started power-walking to get ahead and then made a quick turn into a house.

On the second day, I was approaching a man of about 60 wearing a hard-hat and reflective vest. He stood next to several traffic cones in the middle of the street. As I’m about 20 feet away he calls out to me: “Such unbounded enthusiasm the likes of which Portland has never seen!”

I guessed he was referring to my demeanor — my seasonal allergies were making mornings unpleasant. A little surprised, I responded, “I’m not from here and I’m just absorbing the city.”

“Well,” he said, “don’t absorb too much, especially up there and to the left,” as he pointed towards town. “There are the residences of women ill repute. They’re just looking for a young man with a fat wallet.”

Not what I was expecting. “No worries,” I said, “I have a strong constitution and an empty pocketbook.” He was really amused by that. Then he asked me where I was from. I said Maryland and he answered, “Ah! A southern boy!” (I’ll never get used to being called that). Then he changed the topic to the beginnings of Maine, including a brief history of one of its more criminal founders. I made a lot of “uh-huhs,” “oks,” and “ohhs,” as I didn’t know what to say.

Where to get the freshest lobsters

After the history lesson, we said our goodbyes and I left a tad confused. It occurred to me two blocks later that I didn’t see any signs of construction anywhere.

Despite (or perhaps because of) its more colorful characters, Portland has an amazing music scene with tons of live bands performing every night. I picked up a copy of the local events weekly and found out that a Malian rock band was playing at a bar right near my hotel. I headed over to the Empire to see Toubab Krewe, a group of 5 guys from North Carolina. They weren’t really Malian, but they had apparently studied with the real thing since they had authentic West African instruments along with the usual accompaniment of drums, bongos, and electric guitars. Their sound was much like Earthtone, my friend’s band from Annapolis, but with no lyrics and a more high-paced tempo. In addition, they had a guest star, Umar Bin Hassan, one of The Last Poets, reciting some of his long and complicated works from memory over the looping jams.

The best part of the show was the crowd. Even on a Wednesday night the place was packed with people who were willing to dance and act silly in a small upstairs bar on Congress.

As I walked around the city the following day I found a hipster’s paradise. Portland is full of funky, flawed buildings, crazy shops with retro clothes, high-end art, and music. The city’s relatively low profile has kept rents down and allowed a lot of small businesses to flourish in the core. There are no real big chains to be seen, which was a relief after most of the wasteland that is New England state highways.

The ruins of the NCOs Club at Fort Williams

I took a stroll along the waterfront and found a lot of lobster shacks, though they all seemed to be strangely abandoned. I stopped at the tourist office to see what was going on; but the lady there just kind of shrugged. They’re not all they’re cracked up to be.

I headed back to the hotel room and hung out for a bit. I had sent out a query to Portland couchsurfers because I was tired to talking to myself for a week. I got a response from one who lived near my hotel. Her name was Stephanie and she is a 26-year-old administrative assistant at a non-profit. It’s mission was to keep building rents low in cities like Boston and New York. She wasn’t much clearer than that (I think she worked for the mafia). We met for a drink and talked about Portland, what we do, etc. She was planning a trip to Germany so I gave her a lot of tips on what to see. I in turn asked her what she would suggest to do on my last day. She suggested I go see one of the light-houses.

My last view of the Atlantic Coast for a long time.

It turned out to be a great idea that I had originally dismissed. The last day in Portland I headed to Fort Williams on Cape Elizabeth and I was pleasantly surprised. The fort is an old Army/Coast Guard fortification that was built at the turn of the last century. It was a major fortification until the late sixties but never saw action. It is filled with tons of ruins fortifications, parapets, and pillboxes that are tons of fun to explore.

The fort is also home to the Portland Head Light. No automotive connection here. It’s the most photographed lighthouse in the world (so says the internet.) I had a great time just finding all of the buried ruins of the base and being a kid for a few hours. After getting a slight tan, I headed up to South Royalton.

Well, that enough for this time around. More on Vermont and my Canadian adventures in the next installment.

The Legend Continues

The day was freezing and a strong wind from the Atlantic blew most of my enthusiasm away. I did go down to the harbor to see the Mayflower II, a remake of the original Mayflower (which I hear had a better cast). Plymouth rock, the famous stone with a dubious history, was totally unavailable due to renovation on it’s 1920s housing. So, I did the windy-day dash from statue to statue trying desperately to remember my 2nd grade history lessons about the Pilgrims.

In this quick, cold tour of the town, I found the the statue of Massasoit, the chief of the Wampanoag Indians who agreed to peacefully co-exist with the Pilgrims when they stepped off the boat. Poor bastard never saw what was coming.

Now, I’m not a big fan of the Pilgrims, what with their strict Puritanical bent that caused them being kicked out of England for being too uptight; but what I read on a plaque near by the statue was bothersome.

Every year on Thanksgiving, according to the bronze plaque, Indians from all over the country come to that spot on Cole’s Hill to mourn the loss of their nation and the continual repression of their people. It reads in part:

To [native americans], Thanksgiving Day is a reminder of the genocide of millions of their people, the theft of their lands, and the relentless assault on their culture. … It is a day of rememberance and spiritual connection as well as a protest of the rcism and oppression which Native American continue to experience.

I do sympathize with the Indians. What the early European settlers and later US Government did was unthinkable and abhorrent. What I do object to is using our national Day of Thanks as a vehicle for protest. We all do have thanks to give, even the Indians. As I read this plaque, the image of a multi-million dollar Indian casino I saw in Connecticut popped into mind.

Hard to miss - the National Monument to the Forefathers

Perhaps it was the extreme wind that was negatively politicizing me, so I made a run to the car. As I’m leaving, I saw a sign for the National Monument to the Forefathers, which was conspicously absent from my Lonely Planet guide and almost all local tourist promotional material. So I decided to take a look.

Right in the middle of a rather nice neighbourhood is a large open tract of state-protected land. In the center of this field is the massive statue dedicated to the Pilgrims who braved it all and started a free-ish colony here in the New World. This thing stands around 80 feet tall and is quite an impressive feat of sculpture, having survived around 140 New England winters. For the life of me I could not figure out why it is not mentioned in the promotional material. It’s as though celebrating the Pilgrims’ arrival is something to be ashamed of.

Before I get worked up again over another trivial matter, I’ll leave the windy shore of Plymouth and head North-West.

Next stop was Concord, Massachusetts, the home of Henry David Thoreau (H-D to his friends) and other famous New England counter-cultural types from the early 19th century.

Concord is not big in the slightest and does not have any hotels of motels to speak of. Despite being in the middle of nowhere and having the fewest amount of buildings of any town I’ve seen in the continental US, there were hundreds of cars on the roads. There was no place to pull over easily and certainly no Internet cafe’s to be seen. So, with a little help from a guardian angel on the phone (thanks, mum!), I found a cheap hotel room in Bedford, about 8 miles away.

The Bedford Plaza Hotel is a strange building in a strange spot. It sits on a triangular plot of land at the corner of two seemingly deserted roads. Rooms line the sides of the building and the inside is a huge atrium with pool and lounge. There was not a soul to be seen and the place was deathly quiet, despite there being a lot of cars in the underground parking garage. According to the brochure, the hotel seems to be designed for businessmen. As far as I could tell though, there are no corporate offices or discernable business of any kind for miles and miles, save the fast food joints and strip malls that seem to grow out of the concrete. In retrospect, I think it was a mob front.

Keep it Simple, Stupid

The next day I went to Walden Pond, home to Thoreau for two years as he lived somewhat off the land. At this quiet out-of-the-way place he experienced the majority of what Walden was based on. That book, which I read last year, help kick off the nature conservancy movement that came to a head 100 years after his sojourn into the woods.

The area around Walden pond is now a protected State Park. That means lots of visitors and the near destruction of the pond’s shoreline. Erosion from the thousands of visitors’ feet every year have forced park officials to block off most the land ringing the water. Walking is limited to a 4-foot-wide trail that doesn’t leave much to see. Luckily, there are plenty of steps down to the water where you can get a clear view and have seat with some privacy.

The day was calm and as I sat looking over the serenity, I noticed a complete circular rainbow around the sun. The sky was a perfect blue with spotty clouds that were so perfect and still they looked fake. I could see the attraction to living a solitary life here for a couple of years. As I sat, I reflected on Thoreau’s desire to “Simplify, simplify!” and how we should all do so to keep sane.

I was surprised to find that Walden pond is only about a 45-minute walk from downtown Concord. Thoreau’s parents even lived within a half-hour walk of his cabin. Also a major railway line (that still exists) was only a few dozen yards from one side of the pond. The book makes it seem his retreat was deep in the wilds of New England. Instead, he was very close to where he grew up and most of his friends. This doesn’t change the impressiveness of his act, but it does put the book in a new light.

After Walden I headed up to Portsmouth, New Hampshire (new and improved over Old Hampshire!) and then Portland, Maine. They’ll have to wait for another post, though.

I’ll leave you with a quote that lends literary validity to this silly endeavor of mine:

If a man does not keep pace with his companions,
perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer.
Let him step to the music which he hears,
however measured or far away. – Henry David Thoreau (1817-1862)

I perused the Yale art gallery for a bit and then went over to the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, which promised to have original American tomes from Audobon to Wolff. It was, however, under resoration and closed to visitors. I didn’t feel like applying to Yale just to look at the old texts.

Closer inspection found that every other attraction in the town was either restricted to Yale students or closed for the day.

I was short of ideas, so I went across the street to the famous Grove Street Cemetery to look at the graves of famous Connecticutians like Eli Whitney and Noah Webster. Naturally, I arrived 15 minutes before closing and had to run from famous grave to famous grave. Ah, the serendipidous timing.

With two and a half hours to kill, I went to the Yale bookstore (a Barnes & Noble College Book Store™, brought to you by Barnes & Noble Booksellers, Inc.) and browsed hundreds of books I will not be able to afford for several years.

After New Haven, I sped up to Plainville to visit Lisa, a relative of my friend Kate and a long friend of mine. Lisa was most welcoming, even though I arrived several days ahead of schedule. Unforunately, I missed her husband, Dan, who was coincidentally in Annapolis leading a field trip for a school for which he is now a teacher.

After watching some SNL reruns and the Sox game, I called it an early night. The next morning I left Plainville around 11 a.m. for the Ocean State, Rhode Island. Along the way I stopped at the Mystic Sea Port in Mystic, Connecticut. The entry fee for the olde tyme seaport was $20, way too much for a one-hour stop, so instead I went into the living town and walked the quaint streets. Mystic is a nice town, but there isn’t much outside of tourist shops and cafes.

I arrived in Portsmouth, Rhode Island around five p.m. There I stayed with my dad’s good friend Bob and his family. Portsmouth lies on Aquidneck Island, home of more famous Newport and its Vanderbilt mansions. Bob, who is retired, took me out to downtown Newport the first night. The second day he and I braved foul weather to visit the Breakers and the Marble House, both outrageously opulent properties of the Vanderbilt family.

The Breakers tour was lead by a squat man with thick aviator glasses from the Newport Preservation Society. He spoke flatly but clearly and refused to give his name when prompted. Despite the man’s quirks, he knew his local history and gave a complete, if uncompelling, depiction of life in the Fin de siècle Vanderbilt “summer cottage.”

The second house was a self-guided tour in the form of a personal headset. Programmed in the little device was the basic tour of the house which went room-by-room, with optional programmed asides about any minutiae you could want to know.

The mansion, consisting of over 500,000 cubic feet (yeah, that’s right) of imported marble, was to be an homage to the Sun King, Louis XIV of France. His symbol was gold, of course, so most of the common rooms of the house were gilded to absurd degrees. As Bob and I moved along the prescribed route, the little head sets described an luxurious but dysfunctional life that the walls once held.

Alva Vanderbilt was the wife of William Vanderbilt and, from the sounds of things, a very contrary woman. Though an outspoken suffragette and early women’s rights supporter, she kept a close reign on her daughter, whom she forced into an unwilling marriage (for social status). She even divorced her husband, the then-richest man in the world, for no reason, according to the tour, than to be the first woman in her social stratus to do so. The net result was a lot of undue misery.

They say that wealth doesn’t make one happy, though I couldn’t help thinking as I walked the halls of these $11 million (about $250 million today) mansions that I wouldn’t mind trying to prove that old adage wrong.

The next day I went to see downtown Newport on foot. I was surprised at how similar it was to my hometown. Had I not known where I was, I would have guessed I was back in Annapolis. Narrow streets lined with colonial houses lead from high hills down to the docks where obscene pleasure boats and ecclectic shops roost. There were even mid-shipmen looking servicemen on the streets. Tourists from all over asked me such questions as where the x church was or where they could find such-and-such wharf. I was asked directions all the time and it felt strange when I couldn’t answer them - I was a visitor myself.

The largest difference I did notice was the size of the historic area, which I can only attribute to the greater importance Newport played in the early 19th century versus Annapolis. Perhaps, also, the Newport historic society places a greater importance on maintaining the feel of a 19th century port town versus Annapolis which prefers the feel of US treasury notes.

Despite the differences, it felt like a short vacation home. I borrowed upon my knowledge of historic towns and parked in an obscure residential area close to downtown instead of paying the exorbitant fees on the docks. Take that Newport Muninciple parking garage!

The next morning I left with Bob’s blessing and headed for Cape Code. For lack of a better destination, I drove to Provincetown, the tip of the cape, where I found beaches, a funky village, and absolutely no vacancy. It is technically the off-season, though you wouldn’t know it by the number of available rooms.

I drove 60 miles back to Hyannis, the Kennedy’s vacation home, and found a room at a semi-dive (rated “Best Hotel of All Time” by AAA, according to a suspicous plaque in the lobby). The room was clean, though it smelled of wet naps, and the toilet would make a noise like a sneeze every half-hour or so. There was a balcony where I could catch views of Hyannis’ native possum populous that happened to live next to the hotel.

More on Hyannis and the rest of Massachusetts later when I feel up to it.

I set out on Saturday afternoon for Philadelphia. My plans were to leave by 11 a.m. but actually packing up the car took 4 hours longer than expected. My real problem was getting up the nerve to go and to find a place in the car for all of what I’d need for two months on the road and life in Colorado.

I made it to Philadelphia around 6.30 p.m. where I met my uncle Tom. We went out to dinner at a local bar where I had a pretty good sandwich and rather stilted conversation in which I had to defend my decision to move west. Then we went on a finger-clenching three-hour driving tour of the city. Tom has been living in Philly for 76 years and knows everything about it. No quarter or building was left unseen, including Independence Hall, where a ranger came out and shooed us away when we stopped in front. My uncle Tom is a fantastic tour guide, though he should never be allowed near the wheel of a bus.

The next morning I found out that DC’s own police chief, Charles Ramsey, having solved all crime in the nation’s capital, has decided to move to Philadelphia and do the same there. I also read on the front page of the Inquirer that there was a violent bank robbery with automatic rifles which left one suspect and one police officer dead. The ensuing manhunt has produced nothing except police brutality charges and more media hype. Gotta love Philly.

Long Island was my next stop, and getting there took long enough. The fine people at Google must be on the toll-dole since their directions take you through the most expensive and most trafficked route possible. After several hours of stop-and-go, I made it to Huntington Station, New York to see an old college acquaintance, Barry.

As Barry munched on the Philly “provi wit” (provolone with onion) cheese-steak I got a Pat’s earlier in the day, we caught up on the last few years. When I asked Barry, a Journalism graduate of Maryland, about the state of journalism jobs, he announced that the profession is dead and it’s not worth getting in to.* He currently works as a hired hack writing paid business profiles for a TV show, not unlike what I was doing at What’s Up?, except with more money and less creative freedom.

Nassau county is not what I expected it to be. In my mind I imagined long expanses of pristine beaches; quaint little resort towns with overpriced menus; the tragically hip, young, and rich living exotic soap-opera lives in between power plays in Manhattan. The reality is that the western part of the island is a never-ending expanse of poorly paved state highways lined with strip-malls, squat 1950’s housing developments, and lots and lots of mentally deranged drivers. The character-less facade could have been middle America except for the exorbitant gas prices and ultra-liberal politics.

I did go to Long Beach and by chance happened to park at the extreme end of the boardwalk. “Why not go for a walk?” I thought to myself. So off I trotted, dodging young bike riders and elderly omas and opas on the traditional promenade of the Atlantic coastline.

Three miles later I came to the end. All along my walk I had envisioned a neat, if tacky, “downtown” boardwalk area with ice cream shops, cafes, skee ball, and more - like the ones found in Atlantic City, or Ocean Cities New Jersey and Maryland. There was nothing. The only buildings that lined the board walk were condominiums whose entrances were hidden from the commoner’s view and whose tall fences excluded passers-by. I hiked a block inwards and found an unending series of nail salons all clearly part of some East Asian mob front. This was Long Island’s last chance to prove itself worthwhile to me and it failed.

Just before this I had set up camp at the only campground in the region, Battle Row in Old Bethpage. The air was warm, fortunately, since they didn’t allow ground fires. I spent all of the evening trying to get my discount charcoal to light so I could roast my kosher chicken hot dogs and boil some water for tea. As I fell asleep to car alarms, distant sirens, and the nearby quarry trucks backing up, I realized I needed to leave Long Island for good.

Someone else\'s tax dollars at work.

That morning I made a fast break for the Connecticut border. At the I-95 visitors center (brought to you by McDonald’s), I spoke to a friendly man at the information desk who gave me coupons for cheap hotels in the Constitution State. I had one night to kill before I went to Plainville, so with a little help from the Lonely Planet guide, I decided on visiting New Haven, home to Yale University, Yale students, Yale sports, and Yale University.

The map to New Haven is packed full of interesting things to do and see. Unfortunately, the city is not. Most of the restaurants and hip stores advertised on the local map are dead and buried, replaced by brown paper and For Rent signs. Those cafes and restaurants that do remain cater largely to the trust-fundies who frequent the campus, as reflected by their prices and fare. My greatest disappointment was the absence of an advertised falafel restaurant. Is it too much to ask for fried vegetables?

There is a certain incompleteness to New Haven, like the super model who only had her top row of teeth capped. The small downtown is lined with outstanding examples of American Gothic architecture and exclusive social organizations like “The Graduate’s Club,” all befitting such a venerable Ivy League institution. Look past the second block, however, and you’ll find nothing else. Large corporate buildings with impenetrable lobbies stare you down. Abandoning buildings seems to be the only profitable endeavour. Broad avenues full of tractor trailers and beat-up cars bisect the city, leaving you waiting to cross at a city corner too long to be comfortable.

I went in to the New Haven visitors bureau where I came across a number of Yaliens in conversation. I asked the two who seemed to work there, a well-dressed black man and a young girl with way too much makeup, what was going on in the city tonight or tomorrow. Neither could give me an answer, though one of the guys hanging out on the sidelines joked that he was burning down the city tomorrow and that he was selling tickets. I left with a copy of the Yale Daily, which I subconsciously left somewhere.

Within the first 10 minutes of wandering the city I wanted to apply to Yale. The entire time thereafter, I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell I would do here outside of the campus. It’s just another College Park, a fabulous campus with lots of intramural activities. Outside of that, there’s nothing but concern for one’s safety on the streets.

After four days I have seen nothing interesting that would keep me anchored to this continent. But I know there is something out there that is redeemable about this country and I’ll continue to doggedly seek it. Until then, I’ll keep up my European snobbishness until it lands me a good job or gets me in trouble.

*The future looks bleak for journalists. Other friends who are making it in journalism really hate it, and those on the outside, like me, find it harder and harder to get in.