As we drove east across northern New York State the trees were in full leaf. Leaving Quebec, further north, everything had just been greening up, as the buds formed and opened. It would have been nice to go back for another look at Edmonton later in the Spring.
We roared east along the interstate, eating up the miles — marvelling at the majestic trucks and enjoying the rolling country-side. Hard to imagine at 120km/h on a 4-lane toll-road, but true. The only problem was the grotesque food at the service outlets. As consumer advocate, I warn you that Roy Rogers has the dumbest looking staff and the worst burgers. We did discover Mrs Fields on the I-90, though. At the outlet we stopped at a matronly lady actually sang to her customers, smiled infectiously, and served delicious muffins and pretty good coffee.
Then into Vermont, which was green, and hilly. Green beyond belief. Absolutely fresh with spring. Bought another bottle of top grade maple syrup to take home because the Vermonters say theirs is the best in the world. We stayed the night in hippy country, had a sandwich and a glass of wine at a happy little country pub — these little places are such a pleasure, especially when there’s a live band, as there often is — and slept in an OK motel. Red Roof Inn and Motel 6, like the Buick, have become like old friends. Just avoid with the complimentary continental breakfast unless you’re desperate. There’s always coffee and bagels somewhere down the road. Or a McMuffin.
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And on through beautiful New Hampshire (state motto: Live Free Or Die) to stay the night with a customer, Phil, and his rather home-sick Canadian wife. Sue had built her own log cabin as her graduate work in alternative living. You had to be impressed. Phil’s a very nice guy, an ex-hippy, ex Dead Head, who hung out in Haight-Ashbury when it was the place to be. I went to sleep reading a text book on what bears can do to you and how best to prevent them doing it. Lying in the foetal position so it’s harder to disembowel you didn’t seem adequate somehow.
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After half a life time listening to Van Morrison sing about sailing Into The Mystic, I was dead keen to see the New England coast. Cape Cod is lovely if you can get away from the tourists and towns. We drove out to look at the sea and the long reaches of sand. It made me think of Farewell Spit — if you can imagine Farewell Spit with a heavy population and 350 years of busy history.
We visited another customer, Kate, in a village near Mystic. She lived in a very old house that she and her architect husband had rescued from dereliction and made into a beautiful home.
The highlight for me was Mystic Seaport. We had a delicious lunch at the museum restaurant and talked America’s Cup with our waiter, who was seriously determined that Their Cup was Coming Home. Keep the faith.
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Next day it was pouring with rain and we had to take the Interstate down to Pennsylvania. What a nightmare — driving three lanes wide through an absolute curtain of spray thrown up by endless trucks. Minimal visibility, total focus. All we saw of Boston was a tangle of rusty steel freeways stacked one on top of the other, flanked by high rises.
Later we were racing through a maze of freeway intersections — me leaning forward in the seat, eyes bugged out at the signs, Heather’s finger tracing our progress across the map — when we suddenly realised that we were on the lower deck of the George Washington Bridge. Hell, that was Manhattan back there!
We drove on. Whatever, we did Boston and New York in 1980.
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Eventually the freeways petered out into country roads and we came to our next little American picture postcard, the old town of New Hope in Pennsylvania. Next day we went down into Amish territory — lovely rolling farm country with all the normal farm buildings, but no telephone wires or power lines, and with horse-drawn buggies instead of cars. Or rather as well as cars, because here be tourists.
Interesting, really. It was a bit like whale watching. The whales don’t organise the tours, they’re just the subject of the tours. Same with the Amish. It must be like living in an aquarium.
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We thought we’d have lunch at a (genuine) Amish Restaurant. Fixed price, and very reasonable. The waitresses had made every effort to look pretty within their dress restrictions. They brought us lemonade and the menu. We were quietly sipping the lemonade and wondering what to order when they brought everything.
Home-made sausage, chicken (legs, thighs and breasts), ham loaf (“our own recipe”), two sorts of buttered home-made bread, candied sweet potatoes, noodles with browned butter, corn, string beans, chow-chow, apple sauce, apple butter, pepper cabbage.
Ooof. It was great.
When we’d beaten this into submission we started to worry, because the menu went on to list dessert as fresh shoo-fly pie, cherry crumb pie, apple crumb pie, carrot cake, German chocolate cake, tapioca pudding and ice cream. Plus a selection of beverages. Fortunately we were allowed to get away with Shoo Fly Pie and coffee.
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Jeff’s group of Philadelphia photographers loved the product, and all bought Starter Kits, so that was that — we could head back to Toronto to fly out. Still, we had a few days and wanted a rest (from exertion and the American dollar) more than we wanted to go back to New York.
So we looked at the map and there, between us and our plane, were the Finger Lakes. Talk about striking it lucky. It was another beautiful area. We stayed at a retired couple’s B&B outside a town called Ithaca, home of Cornell University. There was a reunion on, so we were lucky to get a bed. The other couple staying at our little place were going to it. Well, they missed the morning events while the four of us sat around and chatted, and Joyce fussed around saying “anyway” and fixing us more full country breakfasts.
Ithaca was a pleasant town. We visited the terrific Cornell Museum of Glass and hiked one of the trails.
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Yesterday we drove back to Toronto. The weather was again spectacularly bad — another nightmare drive into sheets of rain. But we made it, and went to see our last prospects — who lived in an apartment set spectacularly over the lake — before going, very tired, for what we decided was our Most Memorable Meal at a little Armenian restaurant. Our host added a few extras to our plate and insisted that we hold hands — “look at the others!” — and insisted also that we have more red wine, despite my pointing out that we had to find, first, our car, second, our freeway and third, our hotel.
Now we’re in LA, with one more sleep before we fly home. We’ve missed it so much. We should be proud. Actually we should be more proud. After seeing the Maple Leaf flying (not to mention about a million Old Glories) we’re converts to changing the flag.