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Friday July 8

I dragged my heels all day about getting ready for the trip. It was late evening before I really got my act together. I don’t think I forgot anything; all documents were in my back pack, my suitcase full to bursting. As usual, I had taken more clothes than needed, and forgotten to leave room for anything I might buy on the trip.

The truth is, I really did not feel like going on the trip, whether I was scared or just did not want to go, I’m not sure. All I knew was that it was too late to back out, and I had to go.

I should have got some sleep, but thanks to Sky TV: double Simpsons, Double family Guy and a late night documentary on the history of the NME, I stayed up until gone midnight. And my taxi is due at three. Still, have a whiskey. And Another. Soon, I feel asleep, while the music played in the background.

Part 1: New England

Saturday July 9

I awoke at five past three to the sound of my phone ringing: it was Mark the taxi driver outside, he was not sure which house was mine. I had a quick look around the house to see if I had forgotten anything, grabbed my case and back pack, and headed out the door for the last time for none weeks. I had hoped to get some sleep on the way down to London in the back of the cab. But, Mark liked to talk. I guess it’s safer for him, keeps him awake. But for me, it was hell. As we drove through Essex, the sky turned to blue, and the sun came up, and still he talked.

We arrived at Heathrow at half five and the queue for the American Airlines desk were short: I got to the front in about 20 minutes. As I walked away after checking in, the queue had more than doubled: there are good reasons for getting there early. The queue for security was also small, so I found myself in the departure lounge less than 30 minutes after getting out the taxi. After a quick breakfast at Starbucks, I remembered to get a socket adapter so I could charge my phone and camera out there. I went into the ‘Irish’ pub to watch the second half of the final Lions’ game in New Zealand. It was awful, the All Blacks were n full, majestic flow, and flattened The Lions, it was a whitewash, or rather a blackwash. The flight was uneventful: I managed to grab a couple of hours sleep in-between meals, drinks and duty free. I sat next to a woman who told me with pride that she has a summer house on the Cape. Quite what she was doing sitting in economy was anyone’s guess.

We had to wait nearly an hour at immigration in Logan. Several trans-Atlantic flights had landed at once. I was thinking of having to queue again at the Hertz office: my experience of car hire places was not good. There was a hertz bus waiting outside, and it whizzed us to the lot. Imagine my surprise that there was no queue: my car was waiting, and I was on my way in less than 5 minutes.

I found my out of the airport with no trouble, and then the first problem, I95 not signposted. Quickly I tried to follow route 1, but must have took a wrong turn, as I ended up in a Hispanic neighbourhood, in a traffic jam. I went round in a wide circle, through the dock area, back to the Airport. So, tried again, and this time found route 1 North. I even remembered some of the buildings, which would come in handy twelve days later. Route 1 eventually joins I95, and the way then is easy just head north to Portsmouth New Hampshire and then follow signs to the Spaulding turnpike.

I stayed awake until it was time to go to bed. Although I had only 2 hours sleep out of the previous 48, I did fine and fell into a deep sleep.

Sunday July 10

I awoke after over 11 hours sleep, and in one stroke killed the jet lag. We decided to drive up the Maine coast and see how far we could get. I had hired a Ford MPV, with three rows of seats, so Marcy’s sons could have a row each. As we were going to do so many miles, it seemed like a good idea. It turned out to be a great idea.

By the time we got to Kennebunk, we were all hungry. We spied a diner, small operation, bit it looked clean. Serving were two waitresses. Now, I had heard of the good cop/bad cop routine from the movies, but never good waitress/bad waitress. Luckily, we got the good waitress. The food was good, Noah had root beer, which is something I could never really understand its popularity.

We drove along route 1 until we ended up in Portland. Portland Maine, that is. We drove around the two, agreed it was a fine place and that we should park and have a look around. That is where the trouble started, and I tried to enter the parking garage up the exit ramp. I was of course thinking I was in England. Oh well, after reversing into the traffic, and going up the right ramp, all was fine. Portland is a fine town, with a cobblestone centre. Roads branch off leading either down to the harbour or up to the hill that the town is built on.

Being a Sunday, I was surprised that most of the shops were open. We walked around, and ended up in a record store. I bought Noah and Max belated birthday gifts, which I think went down well. One place we did see was a condom store. And condoms were all it really did sell. Maybe it says a lot about Portland? By now, it was getting very warm, hot even. So, we grabbed ice drinks from a Dunkin’ Donuts, and headed for the air conditioning of the car.

We headed north a little, and came to Victorian manor houses, all whitewashed clapperboard, overlooking a wide bay. It was a beautiful spot. In front of the houses, a narrow park, with benches for walkers to sit, and admire the view.

On the way back south, we came across an unusual sight. In a small town, we saw a teen carrying two pillow, one under each arm, and he looked so pleased with himself. He smiled right at us as we passed. Needless to say, from that moment on, if one of looked a little down, they were asked if they needed a pillow. Well, it was funny at the time. I swear.

For dinner we headed to a chain restaurant called Bugaboos, it’s a Canadian themed place. Really, it’s like The Outback. But unlike the Outback, Bugaboos still serves Bloomin’ Onion! So, we had that to start, and either steak or chicken to follow. It was fine.

Once back home, the Blues Brothers was on TV, something that Noah had never seen. I think he enjoyed it. I know Marcy and I did.

Monday July 11

Monday morning dawned bright and clear. So what to do with the day? I had the idea of heading upstate and looking for some covered bridges and maybe driving up Mount Washington. Everyone agreed that this was a fine idea. Max wanted to cook breakfast for us, so he made cheesy eggs and was really good.

The map we had bought yesterday, made it quite clear where the bridges were. But it turned out the maps were really of no use at all. Driving up the highway, three bridges should have been visible. But at each location, there were no sign of the bridges, or signs to point in what direction they lay. Finally, one was spotted just off the highway, a red painted wooden structure. We photographed it from just about every angle, and walked across it, under it. Suitably satisfied, we drove on into the White Mountains to the foot of Mount Washington.

We stopped at the Ranger Station just outside the park’s entrance for something to eat. I thought the food would be good, but instead we had cremated pizza, which must have been on the servery since Saturday, if not months before. It’s a good job that crispy cheese tastes good. They had a climbing wall in the visitor’s centre, and Max had a go at climbing it. He did well, getting more than halfway up before tiredness overtook his arms, and he fell, slowly thanks to the safety harness.

There are three ways up the mountain: climb, rack railway or drive. Climbing was out, and it cost seventy bucks each on the train, so drive it was. The road costs ten bucks to get on, and almost at once launches up the mountain at an angle of 45 degrees. It is seven miles long, and for the last four miles is above the tree line. This gives spectacular views across the Presidential range of the Appellations.

It also gives wonderful, if scary views to the bottom of the mountain. And going up, the person in the passenger seat has the best views, unless they are of a nervous disposition. Sorry Marcy. It is unfenced, and for the most part, a dirt track, barely wide enough for two normal cars to pass. Hurrah for the American love of SUV’s then.

Near the top of the mountain, the road ran alongside the cog railway. And as luck would have it, a train was nearing the top as we approached. The small steam engine pushed a solitary yellow carriage, very slowly to the summit.

At the summit, there was an extensive car back. Noah and I rushed off to see the arrival of the train, leaving Marcy to change into some walking shoes. I left her the car keys resting on the inside of the car door to lock the car with, thinking she had seen me leave the keys. She hadn’t, thinking I had the keys. Finishing putting on the shoes, she closed the door, thus locking the only se of keys we had inside the car. On top of a mountain. Ignorant of this, I took photographs of the train, now arrived.

Behind me I heard Marcy wailing, turning around; I saw that she had a look of panic on her face. She had seen the keys just as the door was closing, and she watched them shoot off the door onto the driver’s seat. What to do? We rushed back down to the car, and the car mocked us. It had a keypad entry, but we had no code. Pressing one of the buttons caused the internal door lock button to move, giving hope of gaining entry.

But, it was laughing at us. Personally, I think it was punishing us for ignoring its warning that it was due an oil change, or mocking it when it told us a door was ajar, or one of us had no seat belt on. Marcy stopped me from breaking a quarter window with a stone, and persuaded me to ask at the ranger’s station. I did, and this does happen to other people from time to time, and they would send a guy up.

So, we were left to sit and wonder at our situation, and eventually laugh about it. After half an hour, a ranger came, with a jimmy. After 5 minutes of finding the right place, with one deft pull, the locks opened. Ha ha, so much for modern technology, all to took as a piece of metal two feet long with a notch cut in it. And the bloody alarm never went off all the while the lock was being jimmied. Thanks Mr. Ford.

So, now with our keys in hand, we explored the summit, the weather station, the canteen, the views, and laughed. In time, we left, taking our time, stopping regularly to cool the breaks down. At times it was heart stopping, but I enjoyed it, as so did Max, pointing out to Marcy how far it was down the mountain. Kids, don’t you just love them?

Once back in Rochester, I made chicken Madras, as Marcy had wanted to try a proper British curry, if that makes sense. I think it came out well, and Max and Noah ate theirs, so, it could be called a success.