The Wedding Prequel: A Mini-Vacation, With Complications

 

 

Our trip earlier this month was for the big event, our son’s marriage, and that is now safely encapsulated in the prior entry.  We prefaced that happy occasion by attempting to take a “mini” vacation.

 

One of my regrets when we were boating is that we never took our boat through the Cape Cod Canal and visited the ports along the Massachusetts, New Hampshire, and Maine coasts. We did push to more eastern points, Cuttyhunk, Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket, with the latter being the furthest of our trips. Those were mostly pre-Internet days, and my communication with my office was by phone. Had I had the opportunity to work remotely as we do today, no telling how far we might have gone.

Nantucket Morning 1986

 

Looking back at my former self, I wonder where I found the energy (and fearlessness) to do as much as we did. But, by the time I was able to cobble together as many as three weeks, we were looking to “settle down” in one port for as much as a week or more, and Block Island always seemed to serve that purpose.

 

So, fast forward to the problem of squeezing in some time on the Massachusetts coast around the time of the wedding: we are a couple of 40-year-old minds trapped in 80-year-old bodies. We failed to realistically take into account the vicissitudes of travel nowadays. As a planner (hey, if I didn’t carefully chart our boat trips before the days of GPS, we might have missed Nantucket altogether and wound up in Ireland!), I naturally looked for the best possible flight options, and from there, car rental and hotel stays.

 

What is the saying, man makes plans and God laughs? He/she/they had a good one on us.

 

We booked Delta as it had an ideal nonstop flight, leaving for Boston first thing in the morning, thus almost guaranteeing an on-time arrival since the plane would already be at our local PBI at departure time (PBI was its designation then; now it is the unspeakable DJT). There was also a return flight the following week in early afternoon, well after the morning rush hour to Boston. So we booked those flights, Thursday to the following Thursday, and arranged our trip to arrive in time for the wedding and do our mini vacation afterwards.

 

So everything sensible, yes?

 

No.

 

Delta changed the flight out of here to the early afternoon, meaning arriving in Boston at rush hour, if it was on time. And we would have to return the car for the only nonstop return flight, leaving Boston in the morning during rush hour. No way did we want to deal with either scenario on a weekday, so I was able to successfully reorient our trip, this time arriving Sunday and departing the following Sunday. This meant having our little holiday first, and then the wedding. OK, we can deal with it that way. And thus the plans were set.

 

But it still meant packing for a week, about 20 pounds of stuff for me and 50 for Ann (why does it always seem to work out 2:5, no matter how long the trip or the destination?). And the carry-ons, our essential medications and nowadays our chargers and other related electronics. In this case, we’re pretty even, so another 10 pounds each. All of this “stuff” would have to be lifted onto a bus which apparently was the only way to get from the Boston airport to their off-site rental car center.

 

So I protested.  Her reply was simple. We’ll ask the bus driver to help us.  Realizing Ann lives in the alternative universe of the civilized past, when we all got “dressed up” to get on a plane, when there would be people there to help you check in, and the digital kiosk did not exist, I nodded obediently.

 

While I sprung for the amusingly named “Comfort Class,” a joke airlines have designated to extract as much money as possible from those desiring those old civilized days, my frugality as a Costco member led to a car rental reservation through them. Their rental agency du jour when I booked was Budget Rental.

 

Doesn’t make much difference to me, I thought. We’re no longer “elite” since I no longer travel for work when once upon I time I had a Hertz fast track account. They want to make sure that when you really need the “advantages,” that’s when you should be denied them.

 

For a hotel, we chose the Salem Waterfront Hotel, centrally located for where we wanted to visit, eliminating the need to check in and out of different hotels. And, because of boating, I’m a sucker for waterfront. Naturally, the hotel is not on the waterfront. I should have known, as the price was less than a bazillion bucks a night. But it was a good choice, rooms with spacious accommodations and very well located, only a block from Salem Harbor.

 

So, believe it or not, no complaints there. But I digress to the departure from PBI.

 

Not surprisingly, the flight was late, but only by an hour, which nowadays is a minor miracle. Naturally, every seat was filled, and I was left to get our small carry-ons up into the overhead bins, competing with people already seated who had chosen to put large luggage in the overheads which I would have checked, or would have considered just driving it all in a U-Haul, forgetting about flying.

 

But the real fun was at the Boston airport, finally retrieving our luggage, two medium-sized suitcases, 32 and 38 pounds respectively (remember, though, the 2:5 ratio of their contents).

 

We finally found the “line,” really a crush of people following the laws of Social Darwinism, trying to get on the “bus” to the off-site rent-a-car center. This vehicle was really three or four buses connected by flexible rubber so it looked like a long snake. My hat is off to the driver of such a contraption, but even if we were lucky enough to be able to board at the front, no way he or she (or maybe it was a humanoid) would have looked at us and taken pity on our struggle with four suitcases, having to not only lift them up two steep steps but then onto a higher rack.

 

For the first time since my open-heart surgery fifteen years ago, I thought I could feel the heavy-duty steel wires holding my breastbone together cry out for restraint. I think someone actually volunteered to help with the heaviest one, and to that chivalrous stranger, my thanks.

 

If only the agony ended there: on to the car rental.

 

We were herded from the snake bus into a corral where other cattle like us were standing in a zigzag line of untold numbers to get to the Budget/Avis rental counters. Apparently, those companies had merged to benefit the shareholders.

 

People ahead of us said someone who had just got his car remarked it was a two-and-a-half-hour wait. Maybe, I thought, these people too were clever Costco members. What a deal! Perhaps many of these people prepaid their rentals for an even better deal! I didn’t go for that option, I guess, for situations just like this.

 

Out of the corner of my eye, way down the airline-hangar-sized building, I saw nearly empty Alamo counter, an attendant on duty. I watched the luggage on line and asked Ann to go down there and check if they could rent us a car for a week.

 

They had two unreserved cars left, including the same stripped-down Toyota I had reserved at Budget. So we left our line and got a car. I wish that was the end of this part of the story.

 

I had already set the route from a myriad of Google Map choices, trying to avoid dark coastal roads and the one it preferred, into Boston via major toll roads and then out of Boston using the same. I was not going to drive into Boston merely to go northeast to Salem.

 

This car was perfectly fine, but basic. I had to get used to inserting the ignition key into the steering post, like in the old days. The shift was no longer on the steering post but on the floor and I kept turning on the wipers when shifting. The luggage compartment could not be opened except from an inside latch right next to the gas latch and, at night, not illuminated, although there was an option on the key, that is if you can see it in the dark and don’t turn on the alarm by mistake.

 

But the main problem getting to the hotel was that Google Maps did not want to do what it was told. It had us going through backstreets, strange neighborhoods, even what I thought were a few dirt roads. I was looking for 1A North signs, which AI had promised me there would be a surfeit of, but there were none. Perhaps I would wind up in a suburb of Baltimore, a neighborhood-to-neighborhood drive with the GPS continuing to say my destination is right around the corner?

 

OK, I exaggerate to make the point that, in spite of all this technology, life in many ways has become more difficult for people accustomed to a TripTik from AAA. I could have followed that! But Baltimore never emerged, and one hour-plus later we drove into the Salem Waterfront Hotel parking lot.

 

We had ambitious plans to visit Gloucester the next day, but we were actually grateful that the next day, a Monday, was rainy and we could rest. So alas, Gloucester and Rocky Neck were taken off our wish list.

 

Thankfully the hotel had a nice restaurant, and so we recovered that Monday, staying at the hotel, unpacking, rethinking our overly ambitious trip, and deciding to stay off the roads the following day and explore Salem.

 

We had decided on Salem as our home base as it was within easy driving distance of other places we wanted to visit. Another motivation was that, after recently seeing The Crucible (and having been associated with my college production of it sixty years earlier) I wanted to see that setting. Even without that draw, there is its waterfront setting, no doubt one of the cities we would have docked in had we boated further north when we were younger.

 

Much of Salem for the visitor consists of witch museums, cemeteries, and the like, such as the hangings.

 

This did not interest us, yet another reason to stay at a hotel away from the tumult. And indeed the crowds were drawn there, leaving us with mostly the waterfront and part of a day to explore the House of the Seven Gables, which became the subject of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s novel.

 

He lived in Salem, and in fact his birthplace has been moved onto those grounds. The famed house, when Hawthorne wrote his novel, had already been changed from seven gables to three to fit architectural trends at the time, but he had heard stories about it when it had seven, and that number stuck, inspiring his imagining it in the novel. Later owners turned it into a museum and restored the seven gables, even constructing a secret passageway that is implied in the novel but did not exist until the house became famous as a tourist site and museum.

 

Hawthorne Birthplace

So between the House of the Seven Gables, the original home of Hawthorne’s birth, and the beautiful gardens, all looking over Salem Harbor, its historic and literary significance, and 19th-century beauty, made it an ideal destination for us.

 

And it was within walking distance of our hotel, a bonus. We passed the little “Waite & Peirce” National Park Service building, with its pretty clapboard structure built sometime in the early 19th century.

 

Diagonally across the street is the 1815 Customs House, where Hawthorne worked for three years before being ousted by a new administration (the political spoils system; nothing has really changed), which he excoriated in his introductory essay to The Scarlet Letter, “The Custom-House.” (“Neither the front nor the back entrance of the Custom-House opens on the road to Paradise.”…Nathaniel Hawthorne)

 

That building is directly across from historic Derby Wharf, which early one morning, as the sun was rising, I walked the entire length to the Derby Wharf Light Station. It was a beautiful morning but becoming hot and humid, not unlike Florida, a disappointment for us remembering the cooler days and especially nights of the Northeast.

 

This bulkhead/wharf reminded me so much of the famous historic stone harbor wall, The Cobb, in Jane Austen’s novel Persuasion, although an altogether different construction, a true seawall whereas Derby Wharf was a commercial wharf. But walking nearly a half mile into the harbor and back that morning, the connection could not escape me.

 

Salem has great seafood, and not coincidentally, we had dinner that night overlooking Derby Wharf at the Sea Level Oyster Bar, a favorite among locals.

 

The next morning we got Google Maps to behave and drove to the quiet coastal village of Beverly Farms, where I had hoped to capture a sense of the life John Updike where he wrote and lived for years. The high point was a visit to the Beverly Farms Bookstore, which Updike frequented during his stay there, and we thought the back room still had a sort of shrine to him.

 

Well, thankfully, that independent bookstore is still there, but the so-called shrine had shrunk to but a few of his books. I guess time erases everything, although according to the owner, Updike’s son was recently there to promote his father’s Selected Letters of John Updike, edited by James Schiff, which she showed me. At nearly 900 pages, there was no room left in the suitcases to carry it back home.

 

Updike’s output, poems, short stories, novels, criticism, these letters, was prodigious. He virtually documented his entire life in fiction and nonfiction. I don’t think there is an American writer who comes close.

One of the blessings of an independent bookstore is the knowledgeable owner, and she and Ann got into a discussion about Jane Austen. She said to Ann, “I think you’d like this book,” handing her a copy of The Wedding People by Alison Espach, not known to Ann, a voracious reader. She bought it and, in the next two days, at night, read the entire book (ironic title given we were going to the wedding in a few days), or I should say inhaled it. So that chance meeting led to this satisfying experience. Updike led us to it!

 

We strolled Beverly, drove down the street where he lived, but still weary from our trip, made our way back to the hotel and another great seaside restaurant for lunch, Finz, and then, to prove we were really just tourists, took the sightseeing trolley to get a good sense of the city of Salem. Naturally the tour focused on the witches, the cemetery, etc, but we were exhausted and glad to sit for an hour on such a tour. A high point for us was the Federal-style homes on Chestnut Street, many more than 200 years old, a step back in time.

 

We had made a reservation well in advance for that night’s dinner at Turner’s Seafood at Lyceum Hall, considered a Salem institution with some of the best seafood in New England. The hotel had a jitney to get us there and we Ubered back, so we did not have to do battle with the GPS to get there and park.

 

The restaurant was everything it was purported to be, historic and welcoming. We shared Cherrystone clams, an award-winning lobster bisque, a dish called Tuna Nachos, the most exquisite arrangement of slivers of fresh tuna on a house-baked nacho cracker with wasabi, soy sauce and scallions and other house specialties that lived up to their reputation, and finally, a swordfish and Italian sausage over linguini with fresh ricotta and sun-dried tomatoes (I have my wife to thank for remembering all those details).

 

For our final day we had planned to visit Marblehead, Salem’s immediate neighbor to the south, so it was a nice scenic drive, first to Chandler Hovey Park, with breathtaking views of the Marblehead Lighthouse and the literal hundreds (thousands?) of sailboats in the harbor and the Corinthian Yacht Club.

 

From there we went to the town, where parking is nearly impossible, but drove around on those little curvy 18th-century streets until we found a spot.

 

There Ann found a little boutique store which, naturally, had a “sale” on summer clothing, “coincidentally” just the kind she wears! Also, the careful planning of the store’s owner had provided a “husband’s chair” where I could productively check emails and get out of the heat. The interesting part of the visit (aside from two must-have-half-price outfits) was the story the owner told Ann: that she had been divorced about 50 years ago and the store became her passion, you might say her new marriage partner. And she got to meet interesting people, like Ann!

 

By then we were ready for what Ann had an obsessive craving for ever since we arrived in Salem: lobster. I can eat lobster, but I am no longer a big “fan,” as I once had a lobster license in Connecticut and tended enough lobster pots, which led to our eating LOTS of lobster over those years. I pretty much had my fill, but Ann still loves it, and what better place to have it than a local place, The Barnacle Restaurant, a no-frills, incredibly casual spot, but perched right over the ocean water with views of Fort Sewall.

 

We got there in the nick of time, Ann finally opting for the lobster roll, which was said to have all the lobster you would get in a one-pounder without all the work. This restaurant has its own lobster boat, so it doesn’t get much fresher than that. Here you can see Ann gleefully waiting at our table overlooking the water.

 

The final day was packing in the morning, checking out, and then driving to Sudbury, MA, to visit with our friends Bonnie and Bruce, whom we would see at the wedding the next day. I insisted on a photograph before we headed out to lunch, in the same spot where Bruce and I stood some 50 years earlier in his home in Sudbury (nifty zip code, 01776). And so here we were, then and now.

 

We followed them to one of their favorite lunch spots, Stephen Anthony’s, which Bruce aptly describes as “a staple of the old and doddering.” I followed his lead, having two poached eggs over corned beef hash with their homemade sausage. Better than lobster to me!

 

And from there we drove (all back roads again) to our hotel where coincidentally, at the very same time Jonathan and Tracie were arriving from NYC, so we finally had help with our luggage. Thus, that night marked the onset of the wedding festivities The Long Journey to Chris and Megan’s Day

 

But to close the circle of horrific travel, the day after the wedding, Sunday, we had to catch a 9:00 a.m. flight out of Logan and we were an hour away by car. We had to return the car to the rental center, get on the snaking bus, and then check in at the airport. We got up at 4:45 a.m. to start this ordeal.

 

I figured early Sunday morning should present ideal conditions, especially as the weather was cooperative and our plane was already at the airport. What could go wrong?

 

Indeed, the drive there on the Mass Turnpike was a piece of cake. I was hoping the car rental center would be easy to navigate at this time, but no such luck, frantically waving attendants directing cars into tightly packed lines until finally we were able to park and unload.

 

Back to the four heavy suitcases, which we were finally able to maneuver to the snaking bus, but, again, hordes of other people boarding. I got our suitcases on, got off at Delta, but there was no curbside check-in, and I was absolutely stunned that at 6:30 on a Sunday morning the Delta counters and TSA lines were jammed, the latter seemingly as far as the eye could see.

 

But first, we had to check in, and really the only option was the kiosk, which for us, with my tickets in my iPhone “wallet” was not exactly easy. We were clearly having difficulty. A young woman who was sitting with her grandmother, Internet- and technology-savvy, saw our consternation, took pity on us, and offered to help. What a savior, and we finally printed out our luggage tags.

 

Now the problem was getting the luggage to the Delta counter, for which there was another long line. Our young, savvy damsel said, “Wait here,” and she hopped the rope to the counter and explained to someone at Delta check-in that she was trying to assist two very old people drop off their luggage, so the attendant waved us in. So there are good stories to be told about someone who went the distance for us. Thank you. We’ll try to pass it on.

 

But then there was the TSA line. No way could Ann stand in it and we had an early flight to catch. It didn’t seem to be moving, so we asked for a wheelchair for her. She was given a wheelchair, but there were other people waiting in wheelchairs and there seemed to be only one attendant.

 

Therefore, I walked down the TSA line and finally found a Delta attendant who asked to see my “wallet” and said that there was another line farther down, but a very short one as we had PreCheck (naturally, no signs indication such a line). So, like a miracle, Ann arose from her wheelchair, and no sense recounting our other experiences along the way as we were 99% home, except for the flight, which left on time!

 

I said in my original entry that we would have walked to the wedding if we had to. Turned out, we did a lot of that, but it was an event we would not have missed for the world.

 

Salem Harbor as Viewed from House of Seven Gables

A Twenty Six day Trip with Four Legs

 

 

This lengthy entry necessarily starts with a picture of the boat we lived on each summer for nearly 20 years after I retired.  It is the thread that loops us through the eye of the needle of the past.

It used to be so much easier when we lived on it in Connecticut for the summer months: oaf up the car and off we went to our second “home.”  Driving up to CT each year was eagerly anticipated, and once unpacked and provisioned, voyaging on the Long Island Sound, to our mooring off the Norwalk Islands, and stays at Block Island, and day trips to NYC for theater on the New Haven Railroad, were planned, and seeing our family and friends.   Aging and then with Covid, we turned over the ‘Swept Away’ to someone more fit (and eager) to take on the responsibilities of upkeep and the joys of ownership:  our son, Jonathan.

Now that the boat is no longer ours and Covid seemingly, although not entirely, a nightmare of the past, last October we considered our options for this summer.  The same forces draw us back to the past. It might sound premature, but logistics dictate some sort of plan and commitment, even booking flights back then (no more driving up to NY or CT). 

Call me crazy.  But I came up with a Frankenstein trip, trying to combine four trips in one, for almost exactly a month squeezing into two medium size suitcases, even calculating our movements so we are at a public laundry about half way through. Thinking we still had limitless energy, plans were flying into White Plains, renting a car, and visiting our younger son and daughter in law at our former boat in CT for a few days, then off to a B&B in the Berkshires for a week of theatre, museums and local restaurants, then to Boston to spend time with our older son and significant other and then finally an eleven day cruise through the Canadian Maritime, the furthest point being Quebec for an overnight, returning to Boston for a flight home.  Whew. 

We were lucky to have caught some of the Democratic National Convention and the US Tennis Open while away.  Kamala gave us some hope, the DNC being alive with positive vibes, one that made us think, for those few days at least that we can erase the unmentionable one from our consciousness.  Otherwise, I’m moving to Halifax, the third time we’ve visited there with this trip.  I only need to grow younger like Benjamin Button to make that a reality (if the Canadians would have us). 

So as providence intervenes:  six days before taking our ambitious trip, I had a dental emergency. A permanent tooth had to be removed (a first for me other than wisdom teeth). Eventually, it will require a bone graft, post and crown.  Old age is not for sissies.

But what a way to start such a trip and I was on Amoxicillin for ten days.  Oh, swell, all the restaurants we were going to try and I just wanted a nice cold mug of Ensure as initially I couldn’t chew on my left side.  

We flew to White Plains (HPN) airport to pick up our car rental.  We had three wonderful days in Norwalk, going out on the boat with Jonathan and Tracie, and then Chris and Megan joining us for part of the weekend.  We got out to the Norwalk Islands where we’ve spent so much of our boating lives.  We change; it doesn’t.  There is something both reassuring and ominous about that.

Although not very descriptive, here we are approaching the islands we boated to for decades, Chimon on the left, Copps on the right and that little sand bar between, Crow.  But this is from the west side.  All those years we had a mooring on the east side, very protected from most winds, but, of course, the east.  Not wanting to be maudlin, but I expect my ashes to be deposited near Crow.

 

On the way out the harbor we visited our old, good friends, Ray and Sue, living on their boat only for the summers now since Ray has had health challenges.  But he hasn’t lost his sense of humor and they still act like the childhood sweethearts they were from grade school.  Ray was my boating mentor as described on the piece I wrote about our Block Island Days.

Except for the tooth extraction, the first leg was what we expected, and so nice to be with the family and friends we don’t get to see often enough. Our stay culminated with a festive dinner at The Cottage in Westport, the town where I had my publishing office for some thirty years.

 

 

Then we drove up to the Berkshires to stay at the Wainwright Inn Bed and Breakfast in Great Barrington for an entire week.   We had also booked this in October as it was the only B&B we could find that was more than a room, more like an AirBnB, yet still an Inn, including breakfast.  Our stay was in the entire upper floor of the separate, later built annex:

 

The main Inn was built in 1766, a charming old house with spacious yet cozy rooms on three floors.  Innkeepers Chris and Barb made it a pleasure.  I don’t do reviews on any social sites, just what I write here, but it was a wonderful stay, very convenient, and we made every minute count.

I can’t write in great detail, but the high points besides walking towns such as Great Barrington and Stockbridge, was visiting some of their restaurants, their public libraries, and of course museums and theatre. To me, architecture and people are the most important aspects of any such visit.  I want to imagine living in the places we visit (and I’d live in New England in a heartbeat, but Ann likes it here and so happy wife, happy life as they say).

Some of the highlights.  Our all day tour of the grounds, the museum, and a guided tour of Norman Rockwell’s studio were moving.  He and Edward Hopper are my favorite artists, the former capturing our aspirations and the latter our isolation.

Here is Rockwell’s famous painting, The Golden Rule, on display in his studio.  If you look carefully at the lower left is a photo he used for one of the subjects, most of these people from his home town.

 

Perhaps my favorite reason for connecting with his work is that I lived in those times.  One of them, ‘Soda Jerk’, features his own son, but a copy was displayed at the outside restaurant so we could walk into that time zone.

 

Most moving, and most evident of Rockwell’s transition from depicting Lily-white Americana to becoming an active civil rights advocate in the 1960s is his fabulous portrait of Lincoln for the Defense.  It depicts a famous murder trial, capturing his client, Duff Armstrong, shackled in the background.  It is spectacular, in its perspective, showing the towering strength of the future President.

 

No visit to Stockbridge would be complete without a meal at The Red Lion Inn, originally established as a small tavern on the main corner in 1773.  Norman Rockwell’s original studio was just across the street.

 

But much of our week was spent near our home base of Great Barrington, taking advantage of the town’s varied restaurants, and fun walking trips. Love visiting libraries wherever we go.  Found one of our best selling books in the Great Barrington Public Library and it was somewhat dog-eared meaning it’s been used frequently.  No better compliment to author and publisher!

 

Also notable there was a production in town of ‘A Jewish Journey through Broadway 1920-1980.’  As the majority of that journey was by Jewish lyricists and composers, it covered so much of the beloved music of our times, and it was an evocative reminder of the power of music.  Although performed at the St. James Place church, and by only three singers and three musicians, it nonetheless rang out a full Broadway sound, arranged by the gifted pianist and mega talented singer, Brett Boles (who I was amused to learn from the program notes is the vocal arranger for Randy Rainbow).  But make no mistake about it; his is a giant talent, along with the other two singers, Jennifer Mintzer, and Michael Pizzi, all Broadway pros with lavish singing voices.  How nice to emerge into a cool evening and be “home” in five minutes.

Another production we took in was in nearby Lenox.  Our timing was so lucky.  I thought we had seen virtually every Rodgers and Hammerstein show, even multiple times, until we learned that the Berkshire Theatre Group was putting on a full blown production which (embarrassingly to me as a pianist and to us a theater buffs) I had never heard of,’ Pipe Dream.’  Now I could spend the next few pages describing why this show “failed” but I’ll let the Berkshire Edge tell about this particular production.

 

I might add the following:  it was clearly R&H, much of the music beautiful.  R&H have always rooted for the underdog, and here we have a prostitute and, amusingly, an ocean scientist in love (not until the end though!).  The influence of Steinbeck whose stories the musical’s book is based on can be clearly seen.  Ironically, it reminded me of seeing the London production of Lin-Manuel Miranda’s ‘In the Heights,’ also about people living on the fringe, and yet an energetic and tight knit community

Another day side trip was to a tour of The Mount, Edith Wharton’s home in Lenox.  I can never do justice to the visit fully describing this phase in her life and post all the photos I took, so just linking their web site for further information, especially the introductory videos, shows why a trip to the Berkshires would be incomplete without visiting her home.

Here, though, is Ann in Edith’s bedroom where, remarkably, although Wharton had a beautiful library and a writing- greeting room, she wrote most of the novels while she lived there, dropping long-handed complete pages from her bed to the floor for her amanuensis to pick up, collate, and then type.  Stunning one can write a novel without a word processor!

 

Finally after one full week in this paradise, we drove off to Boston, first visiting Chris and Megan in Upton, MA.  Megan had prepared a lunch and we spent a lovely afternoon with them and our grand-dog Lily.  Maybe I was also “out to lunch mentally” – I was back on an antibiotic for a severe cough (Covid test negative!) and I thoughtlessly didn’t take pictures of that visit.  A shame.  They’ve fixed up their home as a dream cottage.

And so we went on to Boston to check into our hotel and drop off the car. Originally we had planned to hop the ferry to Provincetown for one of our days there, but I needed rest.  However, Monday we caught up with my old college buddy, Bruce and his wife Bonnie who came into town from their home in Sudbury.  We met at the Boston Waterfront where we were staying, and they took us to a lovely lunch at Legal Seafood.  Again, in my antibiotic haze, I neglected photos, but there are plenty of Bruce in my blog, including a piece I wrote more than 15 years ago.

The following night we met up with Chris at his office.  You can see Ann pointing to his office window in the Old City Hall building, which conveniently has a Ruth’s Chris Steak House in the back of the bottom floor. 

 

So for the second time in two days, we were treated, not only to a lovely dinner, but again getting together with Chris and Megan.  So wonderful that they found each other during Covid, on line, and have a meaningful, relationship.  Love and commitment later in life has its virtues.

After a lovely three day stay at The Seaport Hotel, the area filled with activity, from the fishing wharfs, to new architecture, plenty to explore, it was time to pack up for an eleven day cruise on The Celebrity Eclipse, not a mega ship but one of the largest ships we’ve ever been on, some 3,000 passengers.  It needs refurbishing.  But we selected this cruise back in October for its timing and itinerary, departing from Boston, visiting mostly the Canadian Maritime, some of which we’ve been to on previous cruises.  This itinerary included an overnight in Quebec, which we were anxious to visit.

The cab ride to the Boston Cruise terminal was short, easy, so you can imagine our surprise when we arrived on time and we could already sense chaos, long lines of people, many more elderly than us and we’re no spring chickens, with their walkers and wheel chairs, trying to get into the cruise terminal which looked like a dilapidated old warehouse.  So we inched along in the hot sun for nearly an hour.

Luckily, the first day was at sea, and beautiful.  Some time to recover.  The US Tennis Open was on and I could leisurely read my book, Baumgartner, by Paul Auster, on the balcony (which I finished and was going to review here, but this entry is way too long as it is – another entry later). 

Throughout the cruise, when not touring ports, we were more likely to be in our comfortable room as the further we got away from all the artificial entertainment the better.  We settled on a regular dinner reservation in the main dining room, just the two of us, although the Captain was constantly encouraging us to make “lasting friendships” while on board.  We did not need such patronizing.  I relate more to the help, the waiters, the assistant waiters, the receptionist, the room attendant.  The service people were genuinely very friendly and hard working, all from distant parts of the world.  Bless those people.

The first port was Halifax where we’ve been to several times and still one of my favorites. 

 

On previous cruises we thoroughly explored the city, including this moving Titanic Exhibit, but this time I just wanted to test my lungs with a long walk to the Halifax Citadel.  Ann walked part of the way along the waterfront and then I booked it for a 4 mile walk, half uphill the equivalent of twenty stories.  I probably had no business doing that in my medicated condition, but like Mt. Everest, I had to because it was there?

With every 20-25 degree uphill block I stopped for a few minutes, and then continued on.

The prize: you can see the waterfront from the Halifax Citadel.

 

One of the nice things about traveling is I met a young couple touring Canada from Ghana of all places, while climbing the hill to the Citadel.  They were very impressed to meet someone from nearby famous Palm Beach FL.  They were sure excited to allow me to be photographed with them so they could show their friends back home, a Floridian!  So we exchanged reciprocal selfies with our respective phones.

 

Next stop was the one we most anxiously anticipated: Quebec.  This was an overnight and we hired a private guide to take us on a walking tour of the old and new city and boy, did we walk. 

But first, as we approached Quebec, one of the famous sites could be seen from the ship, one to which we were not taking a tour.  It was impressive though to see the Montmorency Falls from the ship:

 

As we entered the Quebec harbor I thought I recognized the magnificent edifice up on the hill where my parents had their honeymoon, Le Château Frontenac.  I vaguely remember seeing it in one of my father's home movies of that trip.  Here’s the irony. They were married on Sept 2, 1939, so the day we visited would have been the “happy couple’s” 85th wedding anniversary. 

 

Then we disembarked and met our guide, visiting first the Lower Town along the St. Lawrence River while Upper Town is circled by the fortifications, with an elevation of about 165 feet. I have dozens of photographs of architecture and people, always the main attraction to me, but I’ll make this brief.  Here is a Quebecer with her bunny:

 

 

Place Royale is a historic square in the center of Quebec City.  Film buffs will recognize this spot where Frank is apprehended (supposedly in France) in ‘Catch Me If You Can’.  The bust is of Louis XIV and the church is the Notre-Dame-des-Victoires Church, built in the 1700s.  No need to go to France with Quebec so close by!

 

Before “climbing” to the upper city we were on a street towered above by Le Château Frontenac:

 

 The Quebec funicular quickly whisked us to the upper part of the city, over the old fortifications, to spectacular views: 

 

 

And of course the requisite photograph of us in front of the Fairmont Le Château Frontenac:

 

 

 

And to complete the picture of this hotel, the lobby communicates the stateliness of the building:

 

 

But before leaving our guide, Yves Trudeau, from the HQ Services Touristiques agency (highly recommended) we stopped at a little sidewalk bistro (just like Paris!) where we treated him and us on a blustery day to cappuccinos! He was like a walking encyclopedia always imparting some important historical tidbit, explaining that after Quebec was twice captured by the British, it finally reverted to French again, thereby preserving their beautiful language.  

Needless to say we were beat walking hours on mostly uneven cobblestone streets.  We have no regrets though about not going out to experience the night life as the US Open Tennis matches were underway so we had a lovely dinner on board the ship and watched the games that night.

From there we went on to the Port of Sydney Nova Scotia.  We’ve been there before and it is a pretty town to walk but stayed on board  Before arriving in the harbor, we passed Anticosti Island on the starboard side and counted at least 60 giant wind turbines on the island and wondering, where are ours? 

Its harbor is tricky to get into and I was impressed with how the ship was handled, all it’s automatic controls and positioning being checked out by old fashioned dead reckoning, reminding me of what I had to do (without joy stick controls and GPS) to manage our boats over the decades. 

I had a clear view of the starboard control (there are three centers on the bridge) watching an officer with his binoculars checking out the position it showed on their electronic charts.  Redundancy equals safety. The harbor had been dredged about fifteen years ago and I could see the bow thrusters churning up the bottom:

 

 

Late that day we departed for Prince Edward Island in the Gulf of St. Lawrence.  Charlottetown, its capital, has rows and rows of Victorian homes.  It had a feeling a little like Block Island where we spent parts of our summers on our boat.  It is certainly known for its seafood and we were determined to have some of their famous oysters and especially mussels. 

 

 

They are justifiably proud of their heritage and they have an occasional actor walking the street, who stays in character (you can’t drag the 21^st century out of them).  Here you see a young housewife and mother being interrogated by Ann about the town in the age she is portraying, her name, her children, and, in general, her love of Charlottetown in the nineteenth century.

 

 

Finally, we returned to the U.S. with a stop in Portland, ME, where once we had a festive dinner with family and friends to celebrate Jonathan’s graduation from Bates College so many years ago.  I didn’t see the city then, but was determined to use the day to walk from the waterfront, to the arts district, the old port and see the sights.  It reminded me a little of Asheville, NC, sort of hippy in its own way, and with a dedication to more liberal values.

 

Clearly, the First Unitarian Church of Portland stands firmly on those liberal grounds and as the last religion I briefly held was Unitarian, I made it a point to see that social activism is still a foundation of this humanist religion:

 

 

A bit of serendipity brought me to the childhood home of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow which he occupied in Portland.  I stopped by the Historical Society to ask for directions to the library and a lovely woman said right next door is a research library which I toured.  It was adjacent to Longfellow’s home which he occupied in his youth and early adult years before he became closely associated with the nascent Bowdoin College and went on to become one of the most recognizable scholars and poets of his time (although now considered a minor poet).  Fascinating to read about his life.  And most of us can still recite part of his famous ‘The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere.’

Just to stand there and walk through the gardens which his family created was inspiring.  It is the oldest standing brick structure on the Portland peninsula, and was meticulously restored by Maine Historical Society to its mid-nineteenth century character.

 

As in Halifax, I covered about four miles on foot, with the inclines not as steep.  But was happy to return to the ship dreading the next day of disembarkation in Boston, getting to the airport, where we would have to wait about four or five hours for our flight. 

Getting off the ship was not quite the nightmare of getting on, and Boston Airport was quite comfortable.  A little restaurant at the end of A Terminal, Harpoon’s, served delicious Lobster rolls, ironically the only time we ate lobster on the trip (skipping the traditional fanfare lobster night on the ship for a more quiet meal in one of the ship’s specialty restaurants, unfortunately, mediocre at best).

Total time between leaving the ship and getting home was about 11 hours.  The plane, a Delta Boeing 737 was like a meat locker and we had to keep hoods over our heads to stay warm, but we were prepared.  Actually, it was a very nice flight, in spite of leaving on time, getting in a little late as the pilot was rerouted over the west coast of Florida to miss some big thunderstorms.  I watched him thread the plane between them using my Flight Aware app on my phone as we were tied into the plane’s Wi-Fi. 

We had covered 2,750 nautical miles on the entire cruise, and add in the nearly 500 miles in our rental car.  So, after 26 days on the road and at sea, it’s wash, wash, wash, and write, write, write.

Stockbridge Red Lion Inn Figures by Norman Rockwell