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Nothing funny happens in Maine. |
 Completing the Crossing Au contraire, my whiny bitch of a friend. You see, along the way it occurred to me that my trip would be ending short of making a full transcontinental journey. Less than 100 miles away from fulfilling the very coast-to-coast moniker I've been ranting about. So, with my family having left for a vacation in Maine the morning after I re-entered Feeding Hills, a decision was made. Meg, after a stopoff in Boston to get set up at BU, would accompany me to Maine so we could touch the Atlantic the same way we did the Pacific. * Far as I'm concerned, the end of the Pier extends well into the ocean, and I walked to it, so I touched the Pacific. After a two-day respite in Feeding Hills, when Meg not only got to see the sights but got to meet my friends while tied on the couch, we made the all-too-familiar-to-me drive on the Mass. Turnpike from Springfield to Boston. My parents were none too happy about not being informed of the plan change, but really, they're just generally not too happy with me. For example, let's talk about the time I cracked up the car. As was explained on the trip through Westfield, the day before the Super Bowl in 1997, Whitey and I made a trip out to the now-gone Golf Dome at Tekoa Country Club. It was essentially a giant indoor driving range put up during the winter months under one of those inflatable domes NFL teams use for winter practice facilities. Anyway, we were bored, so we went for a drive around Westfield on the cold January morning. Just going down roads, completely at random. We started down this one road, and it kept winding deeper and deeper into the trees. It then became a "gee, where does this thing come out" attraction, so we kept going. I'd only been driving, at that point, for about two months, so I failed to grasp the "even though it's sunny, there still can be ice on the road, jackass" concept most now take for granted. So of course we start skidding. I actually did a pretty good job of getting the car under control, but unfortunately, it was too late to keep the car on the road. The left rear slammed off a fire hydrant (miraculously not knocking it over and creating a geyser), the right rear slammed off a tree, the rear view and right side mirror showered us with glass, but somehow we got out unhurt. Being in the middle of nowhere in an era before the cell phone came as standard equipment at birth, we decided to just try to drive it back to my house. It ran fine, after I drove it out of the ditch, only there was this eery grinding sound coming from the back. Upon pulling over to investigate, we discovered the bent fender was digging into the left rear tire something ugly. We're talking it was like a half-inch into the tire, which somehow was not burst. Unable to dig it out at all, all we could do was drive it and pray it didn't blow out and kill us. Somehow it didn't. What's the point of this story? Mom and Dad seemingly weren't concerned with the car, their only concern "was that everyone was OK." Think of all that rage at their stupid son who cracked up the stupid car, just collecting interest over the years. If they don't let it out every now and then, they might start turning to the bottle for release. Too late... :) I've always said that the Prudential building in Boston, that stunted little tower standing next to the all-glass John Hancock, is my true north. If I can't see it, I've strayed too far from my apartment and I need to go home. There's a point on the Turnpike, somewhere between exits 13 and 14, that the Pru just peeks out over the trees on the horizon. I love that point. Despite not having sent in the all-important "I'm cheating the system by moving in early" form, we both got out room keys and moved a few things into our new apartments. Meg's is small, clean and across the street from a pizza parlor. Mine is huge, dirty and across the street from the Massachusetts Turnpike (today, it's huge, clean, patched and still across the street from the Pike). I win. Fighting rush hour traffic out of Boston is like trying to swim through a sewer drain: Yeah, there's holes in the metal, but damned if your fat ass is going to fit through them. We were fortunate to avoid complete gridlock for most of the run to the New Hampshire line, though there were a few spots on Route 95 that make one remember why you should never, ever, ever take Route 95 anywhere. After my wistful sigh at the Route 3 interchange, the pipeline to Nashua of course, it was the familiar territory of past drives to Hampton Beach and family vacations to Maine. Approaching that humongous green bridge that crosses the Portsmouth Naval Yard, and thus the state line, I didn't feel the normal dread equated with a Maine family vacation. Even in the three days I ended up spending there, I didn't feel the same bitter hatred of the state that my youth had all but sealed. My complaints with the state that claims it's "The Way Life Should Be" (outlet malls? fishy smell? no pro sports teams?) were always based on the fact there is nothing to do there. Yet this trip struck me as different. Maybe it's because Meg was there for a day. Maybe it's maturity and an appreciation of relaxation. Maybe it was the fancy hotel room. I don't know what it was, but I could have actually seen myself having a good time in the state of Maine. I kind of screwed it up by not going up until Wednesday evening, something I regret and something my mother let me know she, um, "regretted," but who knows what the future could hold for me... Maybe not. Anyway, to the point. That night after dinner, a walk on Perkins Cove, a trip to places like an ice cream parlor and gay pet accessory shop - the accessories aren't gay, the owners are - and the inevitable touching of the Atlantic, Meg, Matt and I went for a walk on the beach. It would have been like those things that ends special episodes of "Dawson's Creek," except that along the way, we would make crude sand castles and then stomp on them while pretending to be the English army. FIN | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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AOL IM: JonCoochBU |  |