Not at all what I promised.
A small part of my most recent absence was due to a week's vacation in New England. Virginia is about to take yet another hydrocracking unit in yet another refinery through turn-around, so mid-September was her last chance to do anything in the way of fun until, maybe, Thanksgiving. What better time for a bum like me to fly up to Boston and don her navigatin' hat? We spent two nights there, two in Maine (Bangor and Camden), one each in New Hampshire (Franconia) and Vermont (Burlington), and a final stay back in Boston before flying home Saturday. There will be pictures, eventually, but it takes a while to develop film using crude stone tools; you'll have to be patient.
Don't despair, though: there will be a few illustrations in this entry, thanks to an undersold flight that gave me plenty of elbow room for doodling. First time I've ever drawn a cervix on a moving aircraft, too, so you wouldn't want to miss it.
We met up armed with the Lonely Planet guide to New England, various maps provided by AAA, my sister's checking account, and my CDs. I've never carried a guidebook around before, and as I'd feared, it made me feel like a colossal tool just to hold it, much less to look at it in public. But as I'd hoped, it helped us find our way, particularly in urban areas, as well as suggesting some interesting stops for point-to-point driving out in the country. With the book, the maps, a certain flexibility in our choice of destinations, and a remarkable amount of dumb luck, we managed to get where we were going with a minimum of distress.
The only real problem was that the likelihood of inclement weather increased pretty much in proportion to the distance between us and our beds as of 5 PM. The drive to Burlington, for instance, was over at 4, and there was a perfect bright sunset over Lake Champlain that evening. We reached Camden after about fifty miles of heavy fog under cover of night, on the other hand; the approach to Franconia was rainy and equally dark. And of course over all New England lies the threat of moose (which I take seriously, having very nearly hit one at 65 mph on my other visit to Maine). On the plane I tried to represent the semi-comic fear of woods bristling with moose (help me out, Greek speakers), but stopped when I found I'd drawn one of Thurber's dogs, wearing a rooster comb.
Also, traffic in Boston is unreal, although for once it isn't simply that everyone chooses to drive like a moron. Some do, of course, but the real reason lies much deeper. As far as I can tell, Boston's DOT (Massport?) is lofty and inscrutable, with an immortal's disdain for whatever is impermanent. Why paint stripes, its elders ask, if the lanes they demarcate will eventually disappear? Boston thinks nothing of leaving streets blank or reducing a three-lane road to 2 1/2 for the length of a block. Most impressively, Boston is home to many zero-way stops, as though roundabouts were not impractical enough. You'll get there sooner or later, is the Boston DOT's feeling, and if not there, somewhere, and if not you, someone. That loose, probabilistic kind of driving is spectacularly uncomfortable for the individual unit. Anyway, all that sucked for Virginia, since she was the only one legally allowed to drive the rental car.
Overall, however, things were felicitous. Our three visits to the Boston Commons/Public Garden netted us, respectively, a legalization rally, an amateur bagpiper, and a serious-looking bird of prey perched on General Washington's three-corner hat. We were staying in Camden with a school friend's parents the night she appeared in a small speaking role on "Law and Order" (specifically, L&O: Chris Meloni Is Rather Attractive, and no, she was not the one actress who totally sucked) and got to be part of the general hoopla. The day we visited Salem, a group of new citizens was being sworn in on the steps of the Custom House; a long aimless walk though Boston ran us smack into the finish line area of a fundraiser that was winding down, and we got free bottles of water. (As I was typing that just now, Word offered to insert the phrase "Free Nuts," which someone has apparently set as a macro on this computer. I weep.) The regional grocery chain had really good bread, even, which is important when you eat it for four meals in two days. (In fact, the total cost of Tuesday's lunch and dinner and Wednesday's breakfast, lunch, and dinner was well under $40. National Park Supper, what can't you do?)
The week's great adventure came early, on Tuesday's trip to Baxter State Park. Baxter is lovably hardcore, with no paved roads, no scenic pull-offs, and a two-point check-in system intended, more or less, to help rescue workers narrow the search field. On my previous visit with Mom, one of her cousins, and their arthritic aunt, we walked some gentle path through the lowlands, along the creek and past some little ponds. This time, being young, we picked the least steep of the trails diagrammed in the little visitors' center, one Chimney Pond Trail. At about 1,000 feet of rise over 3.3 miles, it looked like a good morning hike, serious enough but without involving a climb up Mount Katahdin.
In practice, that damn trail kicked my ass. Every corner turned, every slope surmounted revealed another rough climb over assorted rocks and boulders, like hiking up a narrow dry riverbed. We kept going, encouraged by a high overlook and then by the most beautiful little lake imaginable. It wasn't Chimney Pond, though; not by a long shot. Two hours into our trek, we came upon a little sign pointing up a sharp incline to the left, directing us to Chimney Pond a mile distant. We'd averaged approximately one mile per hour.
Now, knowing me as you do, you may be kind of quietly darting your eyes here, but keep in mind that the day before she flew up, Virginia had run SEVEN miles, and next month she's doing a 15K. Still, we were crawling up this mountain, and had to give up in order to make it to Camden that night. I'll be back for a third visit, though. The pond, if not the mountain itself, will be mine.
The rest of the trip report is mostly about the photographs; I'll notify you when they are captioned and uploaded. There is a last sketch, which is not the trip but is of the trip. The necessary backstory is that Virginia needs a dentist & dermatologist in Texas, and I pretty obviously have PCOS and should visit the icky doctor, yet neither of us seem to be in a hurry to make it happen. During the discussion of my quiescent uterus, Virginia described hers as "medically subdued." That gave me a wonderful image of the uterus as Mrs. Rochester, a mad, slumped figure chained up in the dark, prone to occasional wild fits of howls and gibbering. I held it in for as long as I could, but when I wound up sitting in an empty row (I know!) I knew that it was time. You may want to shield your eyes, whether from the concept or from the anatomical incorrectness. (By which I mean the missing ligaments and scale and the like; I'm aware that uteruses don't have heads.)
Impressively, when I made it back to Atlanta the car was sitting at a MARTA station, unlocked, with the keys in the open console cubby, right where Mom had left it when she took off for Baton Rouge (with zero warning) the day before. It was also 80 degrees outside. I will learn to drive in snow, I will move to the north, and I will not come back.
Don't despair, though: there will be a few illustrations in this entry, thanks to an undersold flight that gave me plenty of elbow room for doodling. First time I've ever drawn a cervix on a moving aircraft, too, so you wouldn't want to miss it.
We met up armed with the Lonely Planet guide to New England, various maps provided by AAA, my sister's checking account, and my CDs. I've never carried a guidebook around before, and as I'd feared, it made me feel like a colossal tool just to hold it, much less to look at it in public. But as I'd hoped, it helped us find our way, particularly in urban areas, as well as suggesting some interesting stops for point-to-point driving out in the country. With the book, the maps, a certain flexibility in our choice of destinations, and a remarkable amount of dumb luck, we managed to get where we were going with a minimum of distress.
The only real problem was that the likelihood of inclement weather increased pretty much in proportion to the distance between us and our beds as of 5 PM. The drive to Burlington, for instance, was over at 4, and there was a perfect bright sunset over Lake Champlain that evening. We reached Camden after about fifty miles of heavy fog under cover of night, on the other hand; the approach to Franconia was rainy and equally dark. And of course over all New England lies the threat of moose (which I take seriously, having very nearly hit one at 65 mph on my other visit to Maine). On the plane I tried to represent the semi-comic fear of woods bristling with moose (help me out, Greek speakers), but stopped when I found I'd drawn one of Thurber's dogs, wearing a rooster comb.
Also, traffic in Boston is unreal, although for once it isn't simply that everyone chooses to drive like a moron. Some do, of course, but the real reason lies much deeper. As far as I can tell, Boston's DOT (Massport?) is lofty and inscrutable, with an immortal's disdain for whatever is impermanent. Why paint stripes, its elders ask, if the lanes they demarcate will eventually disappear? Boston thinks nothing of leaving streets blank or reducing a three-lane road to 2 1/2 for the length of a block. Most impressively, Boston is home to many zero-way stops, as though roundabouts were not impractical enough. You'll get there sooner or later, is the Boston DOT's feeling, and if not there, somewhere, and if not you, someone. That loose, probabilistic kind of driving is spectacularly uncomfortable for the individual unit. Anyway, all that sucked for Virginia, since she was the only one legally allowed to drive the rental car.
Overall, however, things were felicitous. Our three visits to the Boston Commons/Public Garden netted us, respectively, a legalization rally, an amateur bagpiper, and a serious-looking bird of prey perched on General Washington's three-corner hat. We were staying in Camden with a school friend's parents the night she appeared in a small speaking role on "Law and Order" (specifically, L&O: Chris Meloni Is Rather Attractive, and no, she was not the one actress who totally sucked) and got to be part of the general hoopla. The day we visited Salem, a group of new citizens was being sworn in on the steps of the Custom House; a long aimless walk though Boston ran us smack into the finish line area of a fundraiser that was winding down, and we got free bottles of water. (As I was typing that just now, Word offered to insert the phrase "Free Nuts," which someone has apparently set as a macro on this computer. I weep.) The regional grocery chain had really good bread, even, which is important when you eat it for four meals in two days. (In fact, the total cost of Tuesday's lunch and dinner and Wednesday's breakfast, lunch, and dinner was well under $40. National Park Supper, what can't you do?)
The week's great adventure came early, on Tuesday's trip to Baxter State Park. Baxter is lovably hardcore, with no paved roads, no scenic pull-offs, and a two-point check-in system intended, more or less, to help rescue workers narrow the search field. On my previous visit with Mom, one of her cousins, and their arthritic aunt, we walked some gentle path through the lowlands, along the creek and past some little ponds. This time, being young, we picked the least steep of the trails diagrammed in the little visitors' center, one Chimney Pond Trail. At about 1,000 feet of rise over 3.3 miles, it looked like a good morning hike, serious enough but without involving a climb up Mount Katahdin.
In practice, that damn trail kicked my ass. Every corner turned, every slope surmounted revealed another rough climb over assorted rocks and boulders, like hiking up a narrow dry riverbed. We kept going, encouraged by a high overlook and then by the most beautiful little lake imaginable. It wasn't Chimney Pond, though; not by a long shot. Two hours into our trek, we came upon a little sign pointing up a sharp incline to the left, directing us to Chimney Pond a mile distant. We'd averaged approximately one mile per hour.
Now, knowing me as you do, you may be kind of quietly darting your eyes here, but keep in mind that the day before she flew up, Virginia had run SEVEN miles, and next month she's doing a 15K. Still, we were crawling up this mountain, and had to give up in order to make it to Camden that night. I'll be back for a third visit, though. The pond, if not the mountain itself, will be mine.
The rest of the trip report is mostly about the photographs; I'll notify you when they are captioned and uploaded. There is a last sketch, which is not the trip but is of the trip. The necessary backstory is that Virginia needs a dentist & dermatologist in Texas, and I pretty obviously have PCOS and should visit the icky doctor, yet neither of us seem to be in a hurry to make it happen. During the discussion of my quiescent uterus, Virginia described hers as "medically subdued." That gave me a wonderful image of the uterus as Mrs. Rochester, a mad, slumped figure chained up in the dark, prone to occasional wild fits of howls and gibbering. I held it in for as long as I could, but when I wound up sitting in an empty row (I know!) I knew that it was time. You may want to shield your eyes, whether from the concept or from the anatomical incorrectness. (By which I mean the missing ligaments and scale and the like; I'm aware that uteruses don't have heads.)
Impressively, when I made it back to Atlanta the car was sitting at a MARTA station, unlocked, with the keys in the open console cubby, right where Mom had left it when she took off for Baton Rouge (with zero warning) the day before. It was also 80 degrees outside. I will learn to drive in snow, I will move to the north, and I will not come back.