Settling In

We've been home a little while now, almost two weeks. There is a transition period that seems unavoidable when arriving home, or where one spends most of their time. It includes a fear of being overwhelmed, or even worse, finding yourself obsolete. It is a fine balance. To a degree, we treat our return as a secret in effort to sift back in to everything at a reasonable rate.

In regard to reasonable-ness, we chose to return home 4 days earlier than we planned. We left ourselves these days so that, if we couldn't tear ourselves away from the road, we wouldn't have to. But since we've had a nice, full time of it this summer, we chose to get back and get on with things. It is a kindness to our selves to plan days for reintegration. There are bills, mail and banking things; also work related things, collaborative projects that need our end fulfilled and home projects with gardens, food re-stocking and laundry; usually all tended to within an immediate, painful 24 hour period. Not us, we've done this before, and we know it's better to spread all of it out over a few days. Perhaps there is a formula: for every day you are gone, you get 4 hours of reintegration, or something like that. In fact, I would go as far as saying that the measure of a seasoned traveler is the amount of time allotted for settling in.

Socially, we have reintegrated in layers; parents first, then studio mates and close friends, then a few clients, then the rest of the world. We spent a lovely Labor Day weekend with my folks and some of their pals. We happened to all be travelers, and though ours was the most recent and “unique” adventure, we all shared stories of trips taken. We had a lot of wisdom between the 8 of us. We could have formed a travel agency, if such things still exist. Then the Pirate's folks had us over for a wonderful meal with some other motorcycle enthusiasts. The Pirate's mom wrapped up so much food for us to take home that we avoided grocery shopping for two days. Between our parents and our close friends, we've been hosted beautifully since we've been back.

One homecoming ritual that we seem to have is that we sort through everything we own once we return. We did it last year as a necessity of our divorces (that is another story), and without any arm twisting we sorted through it all again this year. It's cleansing, and we are in the perfect mindset to do it. Our energy is fresh, and we haven't laid eyes on any of this shit for two months, so it's easy to get rid of things. I, personally, reduced my belongings by about a third.

Just down the road from us is the coolest super-secret station for sifting one's unwanted things you can imagine. We were able to bring all of the cardboard and trash, and also all of the things that are usually taken to a thrift store. Upon arrival to this place, there are rows of dumpsters with people sorting through all of the “trash” and chucking it into the appropriate receptacle. Stepping out of the car, we hear a grind-y punk rock pumping from a nearby office, and combined with the sounds of breaking glass, compactor motors and general chatter of the people who are sorting, it makes an ideal soundtrack. This entire place is run by two chicks. They are a breed of “pirate”, queens ruling an underworld of free flowing, discarded booty. They dress in black, their wild, curly hair piled on their heads or stuffed under tough looking hats. They are adorned in jewelery as most women, but theirs consists of carabiners and chains, or in some cases, bandages around smashed thumbs. This is their domain, make no mistake. You would be wise to ask their permission before leaving anything, or taking anything. They can cut you with a look, and if that doesn't work, they can kick your ass for real. These pirate queens, holding court in their hot little corner of the world, surrounded by mountains of booty, are no joke. There should be a comic book inspired by them, or at least an animated short film.

We seem to have revisited the cycle of the traditional school year. We take the summers off, and when we return it feels like the beginning of a “new year”. We do our personal budgets, making damn sure that we can leave for the summer again next year. We make lists of projects for the house, and we request each others help for individual projects too. There is a distinct freshness to this time of year, with the lessening light and cooler temperatures. We have coordinated our own energy to take advantage of this, and we hit the ground running.

Roll the Credits

Day 62

The ride today makes up for the one two days ago. The weather is perfectly dry and sunny, with big silvery gray clouds here and there. The morning is absolutely wonderful. My tailbone is still very sore, so I am wiggly today. I must admit, I have never been so acutely aware of my coccyx, and how much I balance the entirety of my weight upon it when I am sitting.

Lunch is in Blowing Rock at the Village Cafe, a quaint little eatery best found by meandering down a fern lined path from Main Street. The Village Cafe has been around forever, I think. In all of it's years, it has probably seated millions of Izod, Talbot's and Liz Claiborne clad asses. It is a sight as interesting as going to the zoo, in my opinion. It's anthropological, to watch these cookie cutter rich folks, whose lack of outward eccentricity diminishes the very wealth that they are so proud and protective of. Anyway, the meal was as uncreative as the majority of the folks eating it, so I won't go in to it's description.

I really love the section of the Parkway between Floyd and just north of Boone. It's my favorite part. It does not have the grandiose features that the Boone section has, like the viaduct or Grandfather Mountain, it's almost because of this that I find it so beautiful. The entire length of the Parkway from Floyd to Asheville is truly magnificent, favorites aside.

We roll into our driveway that we left 62 days ago, peaceful and happy. We are not overly thrilled to be home, nor are we sad that the trip is over. We are simply in the flow, a state of mind that seems to have crept into our psyches without much effort on our parts. It is a nice feeling, to simply be content with whatever is in front of us. We end this trip much as we did the last one: feeling that as long as we are with one another we are home.

The Girl, however, would kiss the ground if she could. We have limped her home, for sure. She still has a bit of a gas leak. Her stator is dead. None of her gauges work: the clock died in the rain on MDI, and the speedometer and tacometer died during her diagnostic surgery in Harold Jackson's garage. The Pirate has become an intuitive pilot, feeling when to get gas, and the correct speeds.

But now, dear readers, about you. You have kept us company on this grand adventure, and for that we are so very grateful. You have been loyal, encouraging, inspiring and constant. You were grounding when we felt lost, interested when we triumphed and patient while we kept you waiting. Thank you. We are humbled and flattered that you stayed with us.

There were a number of people who helped us out directly, and kept us moving along on this adventure like the smooth, seamless castors of a conveyor belt. Thanks to the support crew who looked after us while we were away: Jessamy and Charles & Marlene. Thanks to the folks who let us rest our heads in their homes: Lach, The No-Nox Crew, Amy & Harold Jackson, The Blueberry Campers, Colleen & Cliff, and Elizabeth & Douglas. And thanks to everyone, whether we formally met you or not, who reached out and showed us kindness along the way.

We could never have completed this trip without all of this support and encouragement. But while we're at it, we'd like to ask you for a couple of favors.

~ Find 'The Pirate & The Mermaid' on facebook and 'like' us. Feel free to share our posts.

~Let us know if you'd like for us to keep posting, and about what (motorcycles, food, adventures, restaurant reviews, all of it, none of it...). You can write us on our facebook site, or send an email to pirateandmermaid@yahoo.com.

Well, I guess this is goodnight, ya'll. See you soon.

Giving it a Rest

Day 61

And by “it” I mean my pore, sore ass. Dang. When we woke up this morning, my tail was throbbing, my lower back was sore and my left ribs felt like they were all bruised. Some little bruises on my legs popped up. The Pirate is a little sore, but not nearly as whiny as me.

We mostly rest on the couch today. I write, while The Pirate watched movies. We take sojourns out to the porch in the sun, and then come back in and rest some more. We are worn slap out.

I was thinking today about all of these blogs I've written. They were all written under different circumstances. Sometimes I'm tucked in a nice hotel bed, sometimes I'm in someone's home. I've written these babies at picnic tables, and propped up in our tent, hoping that the battery will last. Sometimes loud ping pong games are going on, or kids laughing or crying, or public transportation is streaming past. People are sometimes speaking French, sometimes English. Sometimes there is land beneath me, sometimes ocean. Each of these entries is banged out and proof read maybe once. I appreciate that you have forgiven all of the effects that should have been affects, within instead of with in, into instead of in to, and etc, ad nauseum. We certainly didn't have a fact checker, a graphic designer or anyone with IT in their official job description. It has been interesting, exposing ourselves in such an unpolished way. It's a vulnerable feeling. Also, after all of this time, I lost my phone charger, so I can't take photos. It's hard not to get frustrated about these things.

The main thing is, The Pirate and I are both creative and project oriented. This blog is our project. It grounds us, and helps direct our otherwise restless creative energy. At first I thought it would feel too task-like, but it's actually more like a pressure release valve. Everyday I fill up with all of these experiences- the sensations, reactions, interpretations and memories in the making-and to get them posted on the blog is like getting the photos off your phone and onto your computer so there's room for more. It's cleansing, and a relief.

So, thanks for reading.

Pain in My Ass

Day 60

It's raining this morning. We're completing this trip as hurricane season revs up; not ideal for motorcycle travel. We get an early start this morning, hoping to get away from this rain as we ride south to Floyd, the very first place we stayed on this adventure.

We enjoy the free breakfast from the hotel very much. So much, in fact, that I pack us lunch from it, too (mix the bacon into the cream cheese that comes in the little packages, and use it as a spread). We're on the road by 9 am, excited that in a few miles we'll pick up the Parkway and ride it all the way to Floyd.

Soon, we're in a downpour. Stupidly, I decided to take my rain pants off about 5 minutes down the road while I was getting my sunglasses out that I had forgotten. I mistook a break in the clouds for clearing skies. In a few seconds, I'm drenched, but I'm not cold, so I figure I'll just go with it and dry out later.

In Fort Royal, we miss a turn (the road signs are confusing). Realizing our mistake, The Pirate begins to navigate a U-turn using the entrance of a parking lot. At first glance, this seemed fine, but as we got closer we see that about two feet of the entrance of the parking lot is concrete, concrete that is slick from the rain. Already into the turn, the Girl almost makes it when she begins to slide and spin. She whips us around 180 degrees, and then her back tire flies out from under us. Though we are falling to the left, I am thrown off the back so fast that I land hard on my tail bone and right butt cheek. The Pirate falls into my lap and nearly somersaults backward. The Girl falls on top of our left legs, still running.

We both immediately check in with each other if we're OK, and then kill the motor. I can sense that my ass feels uncomfortably numb where it slammed into the pavement, but I think I can stand. We crawl out from under the bike, pick her back up on a three count, and push her out of the road. I'm shaking, so we hold each other for a long while. The Pirate kisses the top of my head. He's worried, he asks if I want to go to the urgent care clinic down the road. I am shaken up, but I don't think I need attention.

We get back on the road, and as the numbness subsides, I can feel that my coccyx really hit hard. It's starting to hurt, and throb. I make up my mind not to panic, and to continue a “systems check” as we ride, monitoring my body for anything serious. The real obvious suck of this situation is that I fell on my ass, and now I have to sit on it for the next two days. I manage to sit forward on my thighs, but that means I can't lean on anything. This will be a long day.

We finally get to the Parkway, only to discover that in Virginia it's the “Skyline” and it costs a motorcycle $10 to ride it. Great. Fine. We hand over our $10, and then the Girl won't start. We've been running her headlight all morning because of the rain, and now because of her bad stator, the battery has died. At this point, it's official, it's one of those days.

The Pirate rolls the Girl forward and starts her, and swings back around to pick me up. We head south on the Skyline, catching a rare view here and there, but mostly looking at clouds. As it's name suggests, the Skyline runs the ridges, hoisting us up into freezing cold, wet, gray clouds. At times, we can see the Shenandoah Valley to the west, which looks sunny. We decide to get down there, and out of these $10 clouds. First we stop at a rest area for our picnic lunch and to add some layers. The Pirate also insists on checking me out, so we go in to the restrooms and he looks me over. We determine that I am banged up, but nothing is severe.

We began this day looking forward to a lovely ride down the parkway, and we end up on I-81, the granddaddy of awful interstates. We decided to get out of the mountains, where it would be warmer, and on a direct route, since we're both feeling the accident as the days wears on. The Pirate's arm is hurting, and also his left leg where the Girl landed. I am at the height of discomfort since my little back seat pretty much demands that I sit on my tailbone. The Pirate intervenes and, despite my initial protests, gives me a Percocet, a scary opium based pain killer that he promises will have me feeling better and singing Jimi Hendrix in my head in no time.

It works. I'm relaxed and I can endure the rest of the ride. Soon we are in Roanoke where we get off the highway and on to good old 221. We ride this through the gorgeous countryside of Virginia all the way to Floyd. We decide on cheap Mexican for dinner, a very specific genre which we have not had since we left 60 days ago. It's good, especially on drugs.

Soon, we are back at Lach's place. The flowers in bloom are different from when we were here last. The crickets are singing, and the katydids join in once the sun is down. It's lovely to see this place in essentially two seasons. This place has become a sanctuary of recuperation for us; last time we were here we had colds, and now we've had a bike accident. We open all of the windows and let the cool night air come in, and then we settle onto the giant couch and enjoy the hell out of Netflix On Demand.

Well Worth the Wait

Day 59

Six years ago, I came through Winchester, VA for the first time. While I was here, I had dessert at Violino, an Italian restaurant on the pedestrian mall in the historic district. Since those fateful profiteroles, I have vowed to come back. In fact, as we were planning this trip, Violino became a must for the way home. Yes, I will go out of my way for food, if that wasn't already obvious.

I make an early reservation for dinner, 5:30, because I want to take our time over this meal, and I don't want to go to bed stuffed. We go downtown a little early and stroll around the civil war era buildings, admiring their modest size and design. We arrive as maybe the second or third party at Violino, just as it's beginning to sprinkle outside. The hostess guides us through the sea of aqua blue clothed tables and tucks us in to the corner, where I will be able to hear and no one will walk past us on the way to the ladies room.

This restaurant glows. I don't know if it's the lamps on the tables, the prominent aqua blue theme, the staff, or what, but there is a twinkle about this place. Throughout the restaurant there is a musical theme, in tribute to it's very name Violin. Musical instruments cover the tops of the room dividers, and photos and programs from operas line the walls.

We begin the feast with house cured venison thinly sliced and arranged in a fan beside an heirloom tomato and soft cheese napoleon, topped with a pecan stuffed fresh fig. We also get a carafe of Montepulciano, a Sangiovese variety that I've never heard of. To our delight, the carafe is not the tallish clear glass piece I had imagined. It is instead a stocky ceramic pitcher with a colorful folk-y Italian design. I love it. I am turning all of my pitchers into wine serving devices as soon as we're home.

The server is pleasantly surprised by us, I think. We appear pretty rough around the edges, being straight off the bike and out of our helmets with a two month old wardrobe that is looking pretty tired. And yet, we know our stuff and we order about 6 courses. And yet, we are not pretentious about that, either. The server's assistant, who I admit has a sexy dominatrix thing going on, likes us too. She brings us water before the lonely ice cubes can clink against the bottom of the glass, takes our plates the minute they are clean, removes all of the silverware that has even touched the food so that it will not taint the next course, pours us wine from the pitcher, and asks us how our meal was just as our next course comes out, which catches her off guard once and only once.

The secret to our stamina is that we never order our own plates. We split everything, which in the end is more enjoyable in that we both get to taste a lot of things, but we don't get so stuffed. It's also romantic. We must sit shoulder to shoulder, and we often begin a meal by feeding each other the first bite. There is nothing worse than when a restaurant, bless their hearts, decides to split a plate for you. This actually happened to us at a fancy B&B in Hot Springs, NC one Valentines Day. We ordered in our typical way, by saying that we wanted to share, and then they split it and brought it out on two plates. On Valentines Day! The very night when Lady-and-the-Tramping a kiss somewhere during the meal is at it's all time best. And don't even get me started on restaurants that do a “split charge” for sharing. That is shitty and cheap. Period.

OK, anyway, after our venison we have a beautiful salad with magenta radicchio and green arugula with shaved parmigiano and a lovely vinaigrette. Then, the Ossobuco with saffron risotto. Oh my, even though I am well aware that this is the flesh of a baby cow, it is divine; tender and glistening in it's own juices. The risotto is the color of a temple's golden roof. It is beautiful. It is at this point that the soft notes of an actual violin drift through the place. We look over to see a sweet redhead playing in the corner. This place is enchanted, truly.

Holy Cannoli

After this, the chef sends out a little treat to cleanse the palate: fresh melon and blueberries with port. Goodness. Next, we have fettuccine with wild mushrooms and rosemary sauce. With properly prepared pasta, the starch is the star, not the sauce. This dish is perfect; mounded ribbons of soft semolina with mushrooms generously studded throughout, the sauce is discernible only by tasting it, or by it's delicate shimmer in the light.

Finally, we go with a classic: cannoli and port. This is no ordinary cannoli. There are two, balanced on top on one another, their ends dipped in pistachios (not the usual chocolate chips). A rich, purple fruit sauce and a chocolate sauce is drizzled over the plate. The deep purple port was the perfect pairing.

We get back to the hotel, and happily collapse in bed. The Pirate fall asleep watching NASCAR as I write, and once I am finished, I change the channel and catch the last few minutes of Julie & Julia, where Julia gets her book published and Julie finishes writing her blog. I chose to take that as a specific portent of good.

Must We?

The Chair of Sovereignty

Day 58

There is no way around Pennsylvania. At the start of this trip, we endured the not-so-wonderful aspects of it along Lake Erie, and by the end of today we will have endured the not-so-wonderful aspects from it's northern border beside New Jersey all the way to Reading. As I have not traveled every mile of this state, perhaps it is fairest to say that Pennsylvania does not do borders very well, whether it is with another state or a body of water. It gets busy, poorly distributed and sprawl-y. You can tell that the snow in the areas will end up a grayish yellow by the end of the day in which it fell.

Anyway, this morning we pack up all of our things which have been strewn around High Valley for the last four days. Elizabeth and Douglas walk us to the Girl and send us off with waves and blown kisses. We drive one last time along the lovely stone walls, and head south on the Salt Point Turnpike. In Poughkeepsie we cross a stunning bridge spanning the Hudson and head west on the 44/55 and find this ride to be quite beautiful.

Once we're hungry, magically the most adorable bakery pops up ahead of us in Gardiner, a little unsuspecting town at the foot of the Shawangunk ridge. Their menu is vast, so we go with the first thing on it, The Natural, a grilled chicken, bacon and tomato sandwich that is just perfect. We finish that off with some local ice cream: Almond Joy and Kahlua Calypso.

After lunch we ride up and over the mountain range that seems to rise from the earth out of nowhere. At the top, we get a grand view of the Hudson Valley. It is spectacular. We enjoy our gorgeous ride a little longer, then we're in Pennsylvania.

At the end of this 200 mile day is Reading, PA, a town that we chose because of it's proximity between Elizabeth's and Winchester, VA. I'm sure this town is great once time is spent here, but initially it's a confusing knot of highways. We Priclined a room last night, so we have to find it instead of throwing the white flag and staying somewhere we can actually see from the highway. Ah, Priceline, it is always a gamble.

The hotel is really nice once we find it. We settle in and then go to some we're-not-a-chain-but-we-look-just-like-a-chain eatery called Viva. It's only appeal is that we can walk to it in our flips flops, and not get suited up and back on the bike. The food is fine there. You can get five tapas plates for $20. Staring at all the people getting light-up margaritas for their birthdays, we eat and recover from the long day.

Shift Happens

Day 57

Before we are all the way awake, we hear Elizabeth's quiet footsteps in the wet grass on her way to her Tai Chi practice on the dock. This is a lovely way to wake up. Before long, I am up too, and decide to have a hot shower and make the Pirate some coffee and peppery rice (it's all the food we have).

We do coffee and breakfast by the lake again, since it is yet another beautiful day in the valley. We take our time this morning, since most of our fun will be tonight. Elizabeth has generously invited us to the dress rehearsal of a performance she is singing in. She doesn't tell us too much, only that it is more of a pageant, or tableau, than a play. And it's being performed at Rokeby, a 195 year old Hudson Valley mansion in which the 10^th and 11^th generations of the original families still dwell.

When the Pirate and I arrive at Rokeby with Elizabeth, it takes us a moment to fully absorb this setting. The grand house sits on 420 acres, some which roll down to the river toward the west, where the sun is beginning to set. The house is lovely and haunting, the way a tattered wedding dress found in an attic is. It is at once grand and crumbling. The front porch of Rokeby is slowly filling with the players for tonight; people in black lace veils, or kimonos with fake bloody boobies; priests, satyrs, ladies in black and white with flowers crowning their heads, and on and on. Elizabeth guides us around, introducing us like close friends and under-the-radar celebrities. She first says our names, and then says The Pirate and The Mermaid, which is their cue to say “oooh, you're the ones on the motorcycle”. Can we tell you how cool we feel?

The lady of the house, a striking woman with blue eyebrows, greets us and lets us know that it's OK to take photos, so I waste no time. The show goes on at exactly 7:10, and we plus one of the players' husbands are the audience in its entirety. The performance, by the way, is called Shift.

At 7:10 on the nose, it begins. Over the next hour, we are treated to a voyage through the phases of the moon and the phases of the heart. The performance is outside, so as the sun sets and paints the valley in pinks and salmons, we are sung to, meandered beside, and encouraged to let go of the things which are keeping us from our own inevitable shifts. It is moving, and beautiful, and perfectly timed in the scheme of our own journey.

The Pirate and I have been on the road for nearly two months. We have traveled a good bit, literally and figuratively. We are not the same people that began this trip 57 days ago, and yet, just like the moon shifting from full to dark, we are. We needed to witness this performance very much, without realizing it. When the play is over, and the players are doing notes on the veranda, the Pirate and I slip down to the front steps, and whisper about how we have shifted, as individuals, as a couple and as members of many communities. We both say how grateful we are for this night that has so artfully reminded us to take our shifts into account with the same importance as we will check our mail and tend to our work when we get home in a few days.

It is a magical night, indeed. To be here with Elizabeth, bringer of Maeve, the character who has been so influential in shaping my perspectives around independence, service, love and history is such a profound joy. And to be here with my Pirate, with whom I can apply these perspectives so effortlessly, is sublime.

Hyde and Go Seek

Day 56

Sleeping in the tent by “Lake Almosta” was heaven. Tucked under the big conifers, we were shaded from the early sun. We were awakened by little red squirrels squeaking and chattering above us. We watched the two Green Herons glide back and forth over the lake. A falcon flew through the tree branches just overhead. With a setting like this, we end up having our coffee out here too. Elizabeth and Douglas join us. They have a busy day ahead, so this is all we will see of them today. They have suggested a myriad of adventures that we might like, and given us pages and pages of written directions.

We decide to first check out Rhinebeck, a hip little town just to the north. Apparently, it is home to the oldest inn in the country, the very place that Bill and Hillary stayed for Chelsea's wedding. Unfortunately, we are starved blind by the time we get there, so the visit became mostly about balancing blood sugar.

No better or healthier way to do this than pop in to Pete's Famous Restaurant and eat syrupy waffles and a tuna melt. These are the unfortunate food combinations you get when you wait too long to eat after having a tad too much coffee. Though we would recommend Pete's for both the service and the food, don't go in too hungry. The counters are full of muffins and doughnuts, there is a fridge full of cakes and pies within view, and plates of onion rings come out of the kitchen at lightning speed. It's too tempting. Before you know it you have a tuna melt with chips and coleslaw, and a waffle, and two eggs, and three kinds of breakfast meats. Don't worry, we learned our lesson.

Full and lethargic, we decide we need to go somewhere a little less crowded and relax a while. We have directions to Mills State Park, which will allow us to finally see the mighty Hudson River. The park turns out the be Staatsburg, the former residence of Ogden and Ruth Livingston Mills, a family who got to live it up on these shores during the legendary “Gilded Age” (1885-1917), a period marking the growth of the United States as a “world power” and the unprecedented wealth within. This “autumn residence” is an ostentatious Gothic looking thing that looks as though it could have been a courthouse, or a library. The mansion is perched on a rolling lawn, several hundred yards uphill from the shores of the river. On the other side of the mansion, about the same distance away, are the railroad tracks.

We bask on the shore of the Hudson, watching barges plow upstream, silent kayakers, and a couple in a steamy make-out session just up the hill. It was so very peaceful, I can just imagine how lovely it must have been to have this as my yard, once upon a time.

Inspired, we decide to ride down river to Hyde Park and see some of the other famous Hudson Valley homes. We see only the grounds of two more: the Vanderbilt place (autumn residence of Frederick, our local boy George's big brother) and also Springwood, home of FDR and the first Presidential Library. With it's lack of Grecian pillars and cheerful green shutters, Springwood is downright homey compared to the Vanderbilt and Mills places.

Since we're in the neighborhood, we head over to the CIA, the Culinary Institute of America. It is a sprawling campus with impressive, castle like buildings visible from the road. We enter the campus via it's roads named for herbs, and find the Craig Claiborne bookstore. I love Craig Claiborne. First, I use the recipe for bourbon balls every Christmas from his book, Southern Cooking. Second, he is famous for winning a no-price meal sponsored by American Express in an auction, and racking up a $4,000 dinner for two in Paris in 1975. Apparently, Craig Claiborne left his entire estate to the CIA, so the least they could do was name the bookstore after him.

Because we were there around 5 pm, we were treated to the chaotic hour in which all of the white jacketed students must eat before they are expected in all of their various roles within the CIA's five or six restaurants. Standing outside of their no doubt fabulous cafeteria and watching big white plates mounded with food, we decide that we should eat, too.

Even though we are on campus so early, we have no luck getting a reservation. We end up at Al Forno (I think that's the name), the little pizza place on campus within the gorgeous Italian restaurant, and enjoyed some nice prosciutto, a flat bread pizza and a dish of sorbet. The service was horrible, mostly because the servers are students, not professional servers. Fortunately, tipping is not allowed.

By now, we are worn out from our day in the valley. We ride back to High Valley with full bellies and heavy eyelids. Once home, I write a little, and then crawl in to the tent beside the lake and listen to owls sing to each other, thinking about how cool it is that I get to write just a few yards away from where Elizabeth writes. It's quite an honor, truly.

High Valley

Day 55

After a lovely sleep, we get up and get going bright and early. We have a big day ahead. We're riding down to Poughkeepsie to do some important errands, and check out the train terminal which we'll use to get into The City.

We take the Salt Point Turnpike/115 south to Poughkeepsie. We pass so many idyllic farms and forests, it's hard to believe that we are a mere two hours north of Manhattan. Poughkeepsie turns out to be fairly hubbub-y. It's the town with a big mall, movie theaters, and all things “big box”. It's not long before we're overheated and overwhelmed. With most of our missions accomplished, we pop in to the train terminal to investigate. We learn that for $31.50 each we can ride the train round trip to The City, about an hour and 40 minutes each way. We also learn that there is no motorcycle parking, no lockers to store helmets and leather jackets, and no security at all for any of these things that would ordinarily remain with the Girl.

We make the not-so-hard decision to skip NYC this time. Although we have been very excited about getting to see The City since we began this adventure, somehow it seems less than ideal now. We're tired from constantly navigating and searching things out, and it's hot as hell. Plus, the Hudson Valley really deserves some attention. It's absolutely beautiful, and Elizabeth tells us that we're being treated to some rare weather with sunny skies and very low humidity. Thus, we opt to be country mice for the remainder of this adventure.

Since we're in the mood for flexibility today, we also decide not to go to the Dutchess County Fair this evening, which was our plan. Once we're back at High Valley, we find that Elizabeth is just as worn out from her day as we are from ours, so we stay put. We spread a picnic blanket out by the lake and finish all the wine and cheese from the night before. We hear Douglas' tales of college at an all boys school in Maine, of being in the Army in Turkey and Germany, and of riding the Audubon.

Dinner is vegetable soup and bread around the outdoor table. We laugh and tell stories. We get to tell Elizabeth about our whale. Soon Douglas brings forth his homemade maple syrup wine. I have experienced more ways of enjoying maple syrup on this adventure than I ever thought possible. Now if I ever do that Master Cleanse again, I'll have Maple Syrup frozen yogurt and wine to choose from. That fast is looking better and better!

We end the evening in our tent by the lake tonight. We decided that this setting is too lovely to resist, we can't possibly sleep inside knowing that a lake with a chorus of bullfrogs and cicadas under a star speckled sky awaits. During the night we also hear coyotes in the distance, and watch shooting stars through our screened ceiling.

Over the River and through the Woods

Day 54

Our morning began, again, with wonderful dark roast, dog petting and chats with Colleen. We get up early enough today to watch the fog from the river cover the farm, then slowly lift, revealing a bright blue sky and a perfectly sunny day. When the weather is like this, I chomp at the bit to get on the road. It's a type of high, I think, to glide through the countryside on the back of the Girl when the weather is just so.

We leave Cobb Hill with gratitude to Colleen and her family for hosting us so beautifully; sharing this rare Utopia with us. We hope to come back one day soon. Our ride this morning is along Rt. 5 south, snaking back and forth between New Hampshire and Vermont following what I think is the Connecticut River. In Brattleboro we hang a right and ride directly west on Rt. 9 through the famed Green Mountains. Now, truly, these beauties are green. This is where people who mix paint colors come for inspiration when it's “green day”. Rt. 9 lifts us way up into the peaks where the air is cold, and I am grateful for the sunshine on my back. We pass many, many shops selling cheese and maple syrup specifically.

In Bennington, we decide to stop before we head south into New York. In no time we see that this is an AT town, as through-hikers with their obvious backpacks and well defined calves are peppered along the sidewalks. The fashion of the through-hikers has seriously evolved away from Goretex, hiking shorts and those long sleeve shirts with the mesh armpits. For instance, we see girls with bright pink hair wearing all black who hike, apparently, in mini skirts. Maybe it's punk rock to hike the AT these days, who knows.

We end up at the Madison Brew Pub and have a surprisingly fabulous lunch. We get the “Triple Treat” which is three types of sausages on a bed of “beer drenched sour kraut” and also a salad with brie and eggplant. The Pirate goes for one of their house beers, and I go for their house root beer. Now, root beer, I can drink. Just call me Shirley Temple. Anyway, the lunch is so surprisingly hearty that I'm afraid we've accidentally ruined out appetite for dinner.

Back on the road, we ride south for awhile on Rt. 22, then we pick up the Taconic Parkway, developed for folks commuting to and from NYC, which we ride for probably 50 miles or so. Only later are we informed that motorcycles are not allowed on this lovely thoroughfare. How we avoided a cop for 50 miles is a miracle for which I am beyond grateful. We had no clue. It did occur to us later that we didn't see any other bikes...oh well.

After our illegal cruise, we pull off at Clinton Corners in the Hudson Valley and begin our visit with Elizabeth Cunningham and her husband Douglas Smyth. I met Elizabeth years ago, just as she was launching The Passion of Mary Magdalen. If you have not yet read this, run, don't walk, and get a copy. It is a beautiful story. I am not being dramatic by saying that it changed my life.

Elizabeth and I have been visiting one another for maybe about six years. She often comes to Asheville to read at Malaprops, and I come up with excuses to come up here and see her. She and Douglas live now at High Valley, a former school that Douglas' mother and father began in 60's. It is a now a quiet collection of aging buildings surrounding a lovely spring fed lake. To get here, you ride along roads lined in low rock walls that snake along for miles beside the roads or through the woods. These rock walls have come to define the Hudson Valley for me.

Since we arrive right at cocktail hour, the party gets started right away. We gather on a stone patio near the lake and start with soft brie and herb covered goat cheese, red and white wine, and lots of conversation. We last saw these two in Asheville in mid May, but even so we have a lot of catching up to do and stories to tell. For dinner, we move inside to their apartment which is the top floor of the “big house” and former dorm for the kids who boarded here. We have a savory vegetable stir fry with produce straight from their garden and quinoa. We also have garden fresh corn on the cob. I am liking this trend of friends feeding us from their gardens.

When we've all finally all had our fill, we retire to our little guest room just off the big kitchen downstairs. We will sleep well tonight, grateful for the hospitality of these dear friends.

Heart Land

Day 53

Today we sleep in, which is easy to do in the delicious dim light of a north facing room. When we hear the coffee bean grinder, we make our way downstairs for the strong, dark coffee we can sense is brewing. We sit in the sunny windows to sip coffee and rub Stella. Colleen whips up an amazing breakfast: veggie and goat cheese scramble, sliced tomatoes and cantaloupe. One of their neighbors, who they also share their “extra garden” with, pops by and joins us for a bit.

The Pirate and I decide to stay off the Girl today and hang around here. The weather is beautiful, and we're beyond curious about this place. We venture down to the flat area where all of the farming happens. First, we visit the watery-eyed baby cows, who come up and lick us and let us scratch them behind the ears. Then we meander over to the flock of sheep, who are guarded by a llama, Effie. Then we check out the Farm Stand, the professional endeavor of some of the Cobb Hill residents exclusively featuring all products made from these acres. Within, there is fresh and frozen meat, eggs, maple syrup, ice cream and sorbet, award winning cheese and produce. Next we visit more baby cows, the “extra gardens” of the residents, a herd of horses, and the chickens. We also tour the community building, where the kitchen is no joke. There are two stoves, two dishwashers and three refrigerators, just to start. It's such a wonderful thing when you encounter a project that had been done right.

From our little tour we walk a half a mile or so to a little pond, where we bask and float the afternoon away. It's hot today, but the water still feels cold. We are mostly content to watch bullfrogs and dragonflies, and gaze at the fields and distant mountains that remind us so much of home.

Late afternoon is a good time for naps, showers and writing. Perched in the shade of our guestroom I knock out four days worth of blogs. How do you spell relief? Soon we are hitting the road, all of us piled in the shiny new Subaru, and heading to the Harpoon Brewery. Yes, the Harpoon Brewery, home of the Harpoon IPA. Sundays at the brewery bring a particularly special treat. A friend of Cliff and Colleen's who grinds his own flour pulls up with a portable pizza oven and busts out little 10 inchers with a choice of four toppings for a couple of hours. These pizzas are delicious-o. The flour really does make a difference. Our table starts out with two pies, and then quickly ups the order to three.

On the beer front, this pub is wonderful. Walking in the front door, you are first presented with a row of tap handles lined up like colorful tin soldiers, ready to bow and pour forth the fermented goods. The bar tender lets us sample several beers: the classic IPA, a White IPA, and a Rye IPA. I bravely decide to order a beer of my own, a first for this little Mermaid. I can throw back wine, whiskey and gin, but I have never had a taste for beer, a heartbreaking aspect to my character when you consider that my very own Dad is an award winning beer maker. In the end, as predicted, the Pirate has to finish the White IPA that I ordered. I made it through about a quarter of it, then gave up.

After our feast of pizza and beer, we head back to Cobb Hill for dessert. We have maple syrup frozen yogurt made right here, drizzled with maple syrup harvested from the farm's “sugar bush” and boiled down on a neighboring property. It is delicious, and if I ever do that Master Cleanse again, you can bet what form my Maple Syrup will be in.

Live Free or Die

Day 52

When Fred, the innkeeper, was getting us settled yesterday, he told us to come hungry in the morning because they serve a world class breakfast. I admit, I was skeptical. However fancy and trimmed out, B&Bs usually leave me wanting to boot the cook out of the kitchen and cook breakfast myself. Not this time. The beautiful little dining room is laid out with sliced fruit, yogurt, actual from-scratch blueberry muffins and two types of home made bread, plus their very own house blended coffee. Fred greets us and asks if we'd like blueberry pancakes, or an omelet with Vermont cheddar and breakfast potatoes with caramelized Vidalias. Well, well, one of each we say.

Guest room bouquet

These are the best potatoes I've ever had. The omelet is fluffy and filled with just enough perfectly melted cheese. The pancakes are moist, crispy on the edges, and chocked full of blueberries. If this breakfast wasn't already world famous, I'd make sure it became so.

Once we're fueled up on all of this deliciousness, we jump on the Girl and continue our westerly ride inland. We are riding through New Hampshire all day, and have decided to try and stay in the White Mountain range as much as possible. This means taking the Kancamangus. The Kanca-what?? Also known as route 112, the Kancamangus guides you through the very heart of the White Mountains, up and over some pretty good sized peaks, and along side about 30 million other bikers. The weather is so beautiful we can hardly stand it: bright blue skies with fat white clouds; shining sun and fall-like temperatures. This is the first time to be in New Hampshire for us both, and we like it.

Cliff on the grill

We stop at an overlook and eat boiled eggs. Soon after this we swear off boiled eggs. We are so sick of our on-route food: boiled eggs with hot sauce, water crackers, granola bars, blah blah. I would rather get the whole kitchen out and cook than eat this anymore. It was funny when we both came to this realization at the exact moment. We each had a cheek stuffed with egg, and looked over at each other rolling our eyes. We cracked up, and swore them off for the rest of the trip. To be clear, we would still eat deviled eggs, egg salad, Hungarian potatoes, etc, but not boiled eggs with hot sauce.

At the end of the Kancamangus, we travel slightly south on the 118, passing through forests and tiny villages. Soon, we are in Vermont and heading to Colleen and Cliff's place in Hartland. I met Colleen several years ago at a retreat where I was doing massage and an anointing oil talk. The next year when I was back doing another anointing oil evening, Colleen was there as well. She bought one of the gorgeous anointing oil pouches that Natasha Shealy and Lisa Mandle and I collaborated on during the spring of 2010. Since then, Colleen has followed this blog and remained in touch via good old facebook. She was kind enough to offer us a place to lay our heads should we ever pass through Vermont. We have decided to take her up on it.

Stella

Colleen and Cliff live in Cobb Hill, an intentional community with several beautiful, modern homes, many acres, by laws, cows, sheep and a farm stand. It's an actual manifested version of what I've overheard idealistic hippies and the green-riche discussing for years. Houses are separated by flower lined pathways rather than roads. Neighbors greet us with warm curiosity as we walk up one of these paths in our leather, looking for Colleen's house.

Once we find it, we're greeted by not only Cliff and Colleen, but also Stella, the sweetest little back and white dog ever. We all chat for awhile, then we are settled into our room, a north facing sanctuary with a lovely antique bed and a cool loft space. We unpack and get into more comfortable clothes, and join everyone back down stairs near the kitchen. Isaac, their 17 year old son, has joined us, and there is no time wasted before tales of his road side potty training are told and giggled about. He sails through it gracefully, then leaves. Poor kid.

Poor kid, mostly because he misses out on this dinner. We all decide to eat at the picnic table outside. As we carry plates, wine and food out to the table, a hot air balloon drifts over the river, so close we can see the pleats of the balloon. This feast is a true celebration of season local fare. When I say local, I mean just about every morsel of this meal came from these very acres. We have a fresh cucumber salad, sliced tomatoes, grilled eggplant and squash, roasted peppers and onions and, drum roll...barnyard burgers. Barnyard burgers are two parts ground beef (from here), 1 part ground lamb (from here) and 1 part ground pig (from down the road). They are divine, grilled to perfection by Cliff and scarfed up with relish by us.

We sit at the table talking and laughing so long that Stella digs a hole under our feet to sleep for the night. We talk about travel, fresh food and Ohio. Cliff is from Cleveland, and Isaac was also born there. We decide that all roads lead to Ohio. We compare Cedar Point stories, and stories of life-on-the-lake. Once the evening chill settles on us, we move the gathering indoors, laughing and telling stories until we're all yawning and it's time for bed. This is exactly how I always pictured Vermont; super friendly, outdoor-centric, locally gourmet and cool in the evenings.

Roll With It

Day 51

Last night was blessedly dry. Our things seem to have dried out for the most part. We will need to spread it all out again in a day or two to avoid mildew. We skip coffee and breakfast, knowing that if we can shake a leg and get ourselves up to Ellsworth, we can have breakfast again at the Maine Grind.

The bagels and lox at the Maine Grind are glorious. We pair it with their fabulous french roast and have ourselves a feast, saving room for ice cream, as everyone does at breakfast time. Across the street from the Maine Grind is Morton's Moo, a homemade ice cream place that Kate Amberg recommended. It does not disappoint, and it is a perfect finish to the breakfast. We go for a waffle cone with “nutty bovine” (chocolate ice cream with toasted coconut and almonds) and double dark chocolate. Though we are fans of Ultimate Ice Cream forever, this was some seriously good stuff.

After all of this we head east on the 3, riding through Bucksport, Peneobscot and Belfast. We travel over beautiful bridges and past harbors full of boats, bidding it all a heart felt farewell since we are heading inland today.

The interior of Maine is just as beautiful as the coast, in my opinion. The forests are dense and expansive, the sky is big, the towns are quaint. It is a quick 160 miles today. We decide to stop in Bethel, a town very near the border of New Hampshire.

Bethel, at this time of year, is quiet. In fact, it's the official off season, with reduced rates and everything, even though it is the most glorious weather imaginable. It seems that we are close to some big ass mountains, and that Bethel is actually a ski town. After being on MDI during hyper-peak season, this is a welcome and unexpected change.

We settle on the Chapman Inn, an enormous white house at the end of the main drag. This is a B&B, but it also has a dorm. They ingeniously converted the original carriage house into a space that will sleep 20 or more. In every nook and cranny, in every former hay loft, gable and attic corner, there is a made up bed with a nicely folded towel. The first floor is a full kitchen with a fridge that can fit a keg, a pool table, a TV room, two bathrooms and two saunas. Though the rooms within the official inn are filled, the Pirate and I are the only ones over here. It's $35 a piece, and it includes breakfast tomorrow morning.

The innkeeper recommends Suds Pub that is about four blocks away. Since it is a beautiful evening, we take our time strolling down there, admiring the grand old homes with top knots that are now mostly inns. The town is quiet, but full of beautiful planters and hanging baskets and porches lined with rocking chairs.

Lobstah Roll

Suds Pub is in the basement of one such inn. When we realize we're plunging into the depths of this building, we get excited. The pub is wonderful, classically dark and subterranean. We pull up to the bar, and our order is taken by a real Mainer with a real Mainer accent. We end up with chicken wings and a lobster roll crammed full with mayonnaise-y whole claws. It's the perfect last supper.

After dinner we head back to our dorm for showers and TV watching. This is our last night in this eastern most state and it's been, forgive me, Maine-ly awesome.

The Soggy side

Rainy day doodles

Day 50

After last night, I have learned to trust the weather underground forecast. After we finished blogging, we walked back to our tent in the dark, noticing that the stars weren't out. I had read the forecast, and it said it was about to break loose and rain like crazy. We decided not to put two and two together.

A few hours after we crawled into the tent and snuggled up for the night, we heard it begin to rain. Because of my experience as a trail guide in the Shining Rock wilderness, I can sleep through the rain. Apparently, I slept through about 8 hours worth of torrential downpour.

We awoke to wet feet, which is never a good sign, even for a mermaid. Further assessment proved that one end of the tent was now a puddle, and all of the sides of the tent were wet. Plus, the rain had not let up in pitch or tempo in several hours. We began to brainstorm.

As I mentioned, I worked as a backpacking trail guide when I was 19 and 20 at a camp at the base of Cold Mountain. The two summers I did this were some of the rainiest in history. This rainy morning on MDI has stirred a cellular memory of functioning comfortably though I am very wet. I prioritize warm over dry, and turn my frown upside down. I decide that I will be the one to leave the tent and trek down to the office to see if any cabins are available. The new rain pants I bought for this trip work like a charm, the twenty year old rain coat not so much. My top is wet and my bottom is dry; the opposite of what a mermaid generally prefers.

It turns out that there is a cabin, but it's not open for another 4 hours. No worry there, I have had to slop through rains like this for days at a time with no respite in sight. I can do 4 hours. Back at camp, I decide to make coffee. The stove is soaked and will not light. It takes some coaxing, and finally catches. I am tempted to use the many inches of water we have collected in our cups and pots over the night. As the water works at boiling, I sit hunched over letting the rain pelt my back, and remember those summers in Shining Rock that now feel like so long ago.

Needless to say, I get a few points for making coffee and delivering it to my Pirate. We spend the next 3 hours sipping our dark brew and eating granola bars dipped in peanut butter. Time flies. Miraculously, just as the clock struck 1 pm, the rain lets up to a relentless mist. We begin hauling our things over to our tiny camping cabin. The final load is carrying the tent still set up, which must have been a sight.

Scrabble score: The Pirate Lost

Our cabin is one room with a covered porch. The already set up clothes lines are filled in minutes. The bunk bed is strewn with the things which are merely damp. We gather things in piles that need to be totally washed, and things that can go straight to the dryer. We throw away soaked cardboard egg containers, cracker boxes and ruined food. We hang the tent, still set up, from the side of the cabin.

Once we're in dry clothes, we start doing the rounds of laundry, which requires a short hike through the woods and over the roaring brooks that run through the campground. While the clothes are processed, we sprawl out on our luxurious double bed and play scrabble, drinking scotch on the rocks. We're so warm and cozy after about 11 hours of being soaked. I tell the Pirate that this is just as fun as eating lobster or seeing a whale, and I mean it. The two of us seem to have indiscriminate fun as spiritual practice.

Cadillac Mountain

Day 49

Since the sunny weather is holding out, we decide to devote another to riding. We're heading over to Acadia National Park via some new back roads. We take Pretty Marsh Road, Indian Point Road and Crooked Road to get there. It's a lovely drive through the country, past, as you might imagine, pretty marshes filled with cattails, blooming lotus and other grasses, horses pastures and old barns. The western shores of the Quietside seem rather down to earth.

Our first activity in Acadia is to summit Cadillac Mountain, along with the throngs of other visitors. The ride up is a spectacular panorama of the island-filled waters surrounding MDI. The water from up here appears dark sparkling blue. The islands are emerald green, with white, wispy clouds here and there. The water is full of boats, particularly sailboats. At the top, there are endless granite expanses covered in light pink and green lichen to scramble over. The air is cool and lovely, and the views are worth putting up with these crowds for.

In addition to the views, the top of Cadillac Mountain also has some nice maps to help with orientation. I appreciate this. Here on MDI, we are still in the Bay of Fundy, just east of Nova Scotia. From our time on PEI learning about the Acadian people, I remember that their earliest settlement in North America was on the Bay of Fundy, on the southwestern shores of Nova Scotia. I gather that naming this park “Acadia” is a nod to that earliest settlement. Also, it was a French man who named his place Mount Desert Island in the 1600s, when he found the tops of these mountains to be rocky and barren.

Next we meander through the park on the lovely roads, soaking up the cool air and the deep green of the forests. We accidentally leave the park and come out at Seal Harbor. We take the opportunity to lurk around a fancy looking yacht club and ogle boats. We also drive through the neighborhoods that likely house the yacht club members. This gives new meaning to “summah homes”, Banner Elk has nothing on these folks.

We ride over to Northwest Harbor and decide to walk through the Asticou Azalea gardens, something that the Pirate spotted yesterday, and I had just read about in the ElleDecor (yes, I live in a tent for the summer and subscribe to ElleDécor). The gardens were established in the mid 1950's, I think through a grant. They are classic in every way: immaculately manicured beds of moss, rhododendron and azaleas, raked gravel pathways, a calm lotus pond, austere benches and sculpture. It's cool and calm, and has the intended effect on us.

Once again starving, we head north, and find Abel's Lobster Pound and Shore Food. To get to this place, you must wind through tall warehouses used to maybe store or build boats. Just when we think we've made a wrong turn, the harbor is before us with a lovely marina, and a restaurant. Outside, a covered building holds all of the live lobsters, and a wood fired pot of salt water that boils constantly for cooking the bugs. Though the interior of the restaurant is beautiful, we elect to sit by the water at a forest green picnic table and watch the boats. This place is a little pricey, so we end up with a ½ quart of steamed clams and a burger, with a nice Pinot Grigio for me and a local dark ale for the Pirate. It's all delicious, made more so by the fantastic service. We wash everything down with a slice of blueberry pie (which, truly, pales next to mine) and vanilla ice cream.

Stuffed and sleepy, we head back into the Park and find a nice sandy beach to lay on. It's a little cove with pebbles, soft sand and giant rocks in the water. The tide is quickly coming it, and with it a thick band of fog. We stretch out in the sun-warmed sand and relax, listening to the gulls and the children laugh near the water.

After a few big days, we decide to hit the grocery store and keep it simple for tomorrow. Well, we might have to have one more lobster, since it will be our last day by the ocean, after being by her side for well over a month. We will head west to Vermont and then slowly, slowly south, like a leaf drifting to the ground.