Back to the Future

I don’t usually make concrete New Years’ resolutions. I do, however, find some meaning in that moment when the calendar rolls over to the next year. It’s a time to reflect on the past year, put away its baggage, turn the page, and look forward. With all that in mind, while I wanted to add a final chapter to the story of Steve and the Magical Boat, after the new year it just felt strange to cross that line in the other direction. So I was ready to be done with this trip, for blogging purposes at least.

But just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.

We’ve discussed this before, but let’s take a moment to revisit one of the purposes of this whole operation I’ve got going on here. As all 3 of my longtime readers know (actually, now that I think about it, there may be more like 6), I’ve always tried to use this space to capture my impressions of an activity, a place, or a time, and to preserve them. That’s why I often stay up far too late just to be able to write an entry on the day its events occur (protip: you can tell how late I stay up by the quality of the writing, which is inversely proportional to the number of hours since I last saw the sun). Even when my computer self-destructed in Kanab, I made sure to write out the day’s entry longhand on a legal pad (why I thought to bring a legal pad on that road trip is still a mystery).

That’s why, when I got home from the Land of the Midnight Derricks and was too tired to write anything coherent, I resigned myself to the fact that the moment had passed and that the last day would just have to remain a mystery, much like the last day at Yosemite (when, by the way, I climbed up 1,000 feet in a mile and a half. There. Now it’s in the blog.).

But apparently my mid-sized sedan full of followers is a vocal bunch. So, since today’s New England sowgasm has left me with an unplanned day at home, I figured I’d give it a shot.

Where did we leave off?

I’m On A Boat

Current conditions: Bustin’ five knots, wind whippin’ out my coat.

As the Carnival Exculpation begins winding its way up the Mississippi River, this strange odyssey is nearly at an end. All that remains is getting off the boat (which apparently is quite the production), a morning in New Orleans (which must include the requisite vat of seafood, still), and a flight back to Newark before returning home, hopefully to a new salt-free pump waiting for me. Today, though, was my second and final “fun day at sea.”

Never Really Been So I Don’t Really Know

A surprisingly peaceful day, considering the main attraction was one of the Seven (Existing) Wonders of the Ancient World.

Today, I went to Mexico.

The Life Aquatic

I may have been a little hard on ol’ Steve yesterday. This cruise thing may be growing on me. A little. Maybe.

People In Every Direction

“Welcome to your new home.” 

Ominous words spoken over a loudspeaker by a faceless creature known only as “Steve.” I have a home, Steve. It’s in Boston, among my people. My home has culture and variety and authenticity. Your boat seems to have none of these. It is certainly not my home. Five days from now, I don’t envisioning this iron leviathan becoming my home, either.. And honestly, Steve, your little “welcome” sounded awfully cultish.

A Thoroughfare for Freedom Beat

This is a public service announcement to all Canadian taxpayers: Your government has been stealing from you.

You pay the equivalent of over $4.50 a gallon for gasoline, much of it taxes, yet you have the highway infrastructure of a third world country. Either your government is full of waste, fraud, and abuse (more than even the US government), or the Trans-Canada Highway (which, as far as I can tell is not yet complete) is being built across the most hostile terrain ever encountered by road makers. I’m skeptical about the latter, since they manage to make roads out of ice every year. So boreal forest can’t be that tough to build on.

Yet there I was, paying $63 for a tank of gas when I’d never before paid more than $50, and yet every local road I took until mercifully limping onto the big 104 was as unpaved as unpaved could be. I’d call them dirt roads, but dirt would have been a welcome alternative to the ridiculousness I encountered.

The World’s Your Oyster Shell, But What’s that Funny Smell

Whenever I’m on these adventures, as I think of something I want to remember to mention in that night’s entry, I use the iPhone Notes app to write myself… well, a note, as the thought hits me. The stuff left from last summer’s note includes “open space, self-determination, no deadlines, only chance.” Today, I only wrote down one word: “Punished.”

You’ve Already Won Me Over, In Spite of Me

Nova Scotia, you’ve been holding out on me. After today, it’s clear that you’ve just been teasing me – showing me your less attractive features so that your best qualities stand out that much more starkly.

Pack the Car and Leave This Town

For the most part, this was your typical “driving day.” In a nutshell, I went the 410km (which I assume is about 975 miles) from Halifax to Ingonish on Cape Breton Island. However, since it was an international driving day, there were some extra added dimensions to this leg of the journey.

Hello City

I awoke this morning to the dulcet tones of some horrible bird-rodent shrieking in a tree above my tent. This was followed shortly by what I thought was a raccoon stealing the sealed screw-top bowl of Gordo food I’d accidentally left on the picnic table. Much to my surprise, when I peeked out to see how many of the diseased monsters were working on this half ounce of dry dog food, I instead saw a chipmunk trying to drag the bowl up a tree. You know, the way an ant would drag something, if it didn’t have that super ant strength. Rather than throwing my shoes on an chasing it away (I knew from Bryce Canyon trail mix experience that he’d only come back with reinforcements), I feebly tried clapping once to scare it off, and went back to bed. I figured that if it was able to get something larger and heavier than itself up a tree, it deserved the dog food. An hour later, I was a little disappointed to find the bowl still on the ground, but twisted open and emptied of its contents. I’m still not sure how many dozen of these creatures lacking in opposable thumbs it took to open it.

One Does Not Simply Walk Into Canada

Tonight I find myself in the New Brunswick of the north, east of eastern standard time – at site 287 of the Chignecto North campground in Fundy National Park. The first leg of a journey that will largely revolve around the park’s namesake, I consider it something of an accomplishment just to have made it here at all. Whenever I’ve prepared to cross the border into Canada (all 2 times), I’ve developed somewhat irrational fears that I won’t be allowed in. First it was the dog and how I almost wasn’t able to get a copy of his rabies certificate, but I was able to get that straightened out so that wasn’t it. Then it was the thought that the border agent wouldn’t like what I had planned, but his only complaint could have been that my itinerary wasn’t concrete enough and if that’s what he thought, then I would have had serious doubts about the mental faculty of the people guarding this country’s borders. Maybe my failed car inspection sticker would keep me out, but why would an agent of the Canadian government care whether my car’s tire pressure was up to Massachusetts’ standards? After persuading myself that all of these reasons were no cause for concern, about 20 miles from the border I remembered reading about some international car insurance documentation which I didn’t have and obviously couldn’t get at this point. But I’d been to Toronto for more than 24 hours only a few months ago and hadn’t needed it, so why would the rules be any different at this crossing?

Running On Empty

Today, my 3-day adventure to the land of the Mainiacs ended in grand fashion, with the best weather (and not coincidentally, the best pictures) of the trip.

Waterworld

Water, water everywhere. Except I’m really not that thirsty.

If Captain Planet were real (don’t tell Don Cheadle it’s not), the girl with the 4^th ring would have loved today, because it was all about water. It made its presence known before today technically began, by way of a massive rogue thunderless storm whose path was trained directly on Mt. Desert Island from 10pm until about 3am. I know because it woke me up and kept me nervously checking the corners of the tent for the water that never did manage to get inside.

I’m Not Dead Yet

The reports of my and my blog’s death have been greatly exaggerated. I know I haven’t posted in a few days even after promising that I would, but the truth is that, even though I’ve been plenty busy gallivanting around central New Jersey over the past few days, there just isn’t as much notable stuff to write interestingly about now that my trip is pretty much over.

On Thursday, my sister and parents took me to Joe’s Crab Shack for my birthday dinner. I’d only been to one Joe’s Crab Shack before – an experience which I’ll never be able to completely replicate, since that restaurant now sits at the bottom of Galveston Bay thanks to a hurricane. This time, it involved a big pot of shellfish and a certain person being forced to do a hula dance against his will all because he was fortunate enough to survive 27 years without dying. There may be pictures of that, but they won’t be appearing here. Sorry. But not very sorry.

Save Me, San Francisco

Take note of that title, folks. It will be the only time you see me reference anything by Train, since it’s the only good song they’ve written in about 13 years. That, and the fact that XM decided to play it about 5 times on the way up here yesterday.

So today was my day to “do” San Francisco, and to do it better than I “did” Las Vegas. This task was certainly made easier by the fact that in order to get the full experience of this city, I wouldn’t’ have to smoke, drink, gamble, or hire a prostitute.

 Getting up bright and early, I brought out the nicer long pants I packed (on account of being in civilization and needing to look halfway presentable, without Yosemite dirt all over myself). It was in the high 50’s when I first walked outside and rose to the mid 60’s by midday. In short, perfect weather. I later found out that it’s like this year-round, which gives this place a few more points in the “perfect place to live” column (along with friendly people, a social conscience, a healthy dose of liberalism, and some fantastic scenery). It was overcast – the remnants of what I’m sure was a foggy morning which I slept through – but the iPhone assured me the clouds would burn off by lunchtime. Of course, it was right.

I drove over the Golden Gate Bridge again, this time seeing it but still forgetting to try to take pictures of it, since it was the hour and not me that was bright and early. Tomorrow should bring no shortage of pictures of the bridge, though. It’s basically the only thing on my agenda. I then made my way to the Fisherman’s Wharf area, where I was to pick up my scheduled “cruse” to Alcatraz. Although I’ve never been on a cruise, I’m pretty sure a 12-minute 1.3-mile boat trip doesn’t’ qualify. I’d call it more of a pleasant ride, once the boat got moving. I was told there were porpoises surfacing all around the boat, but I couldn’t see any of them. (More on absentee sea life later.)

"I take pleasure in guttin' you, boy."

Arriving at Alcatraz, I was relieved to see that there was basically only one road and that everything was along it. When I had first heard that visitors were free to wander the island, I imagined literally wandering in circles around the island, trying to find the interesting things to do and see. As it turned out, just following the path up to the cell block on the top of the hill allowed one to see just about everything there was to see.

At the cell block, everyone gets a free audio tour, from a little headset you wear as you’re directed where to go. In it, after meeting the virtual narrators, you’re told to walk a certain distance in a certain direction before stopping and listening to information about what you’re looking at. There must be several different versions, because people were moving all over the place, appearing to be following the directions of some invisible hand. (I don’t think it’s likely that someone would be walking at a normal pace down the hallway and then just suddenly make a sharp left turn towards something they had been ignoring only moments earlier.) This made it feel like you were getting an individual tour, instead of being herded through the cell block like a sheep. Also, since everyone was listening to a headset, and there was no tour guide yelling to a large group, even though there were a few hundred people in the relatively small space, it was unusually quiet. The tour itself was great. It gave very accurate directions and never made you feel like you had even a chance of getting lost.

After exploring the island, it was on to the gift shop. I had expected some cute tongue-in-cheek items there, but that was just the beginning. When I found excerpts from the prisoners’ rules and regulations printed on large sheet metal signs, the teacher light bulb went off. Just think of all the things a teacher could do with a sign that says “Rule #5: You will do whatever work you are told to do.” Or, “Regulation #23: If you make groundless complaints for the purpose of creating dissatisfaction and/or stirring up trouble, you will be subject to disciplinary action.” My only reservation is that I’m not sure what kind of message I’d be sending by putting up prison rules in my classroom. Well, no I know exactly what kind of message I’d be sending. I’m just not sure if that would be a good thing to do.

Leaving Alcatraz, I headed back to my car to feed the parking meter before I got a ticket (I planned on getting back just as the meter expired.) But when I got there, there was already a ticket waiting for me. But something about it didn’t smell right. I arrived at 9:15 and paid for 4 hours of parking, giving me until 1:15. But the ticket for an expired meter was written at 11:37. Needless to say, when my credit card statement with the date and time of my payment comes, I’ll be contesting this one.

After moving the car to a lot where cops can’t write tickets, I went back to Fisherman’s Wharf for lunch. Wandering around for a while, I managed to find a row of crab stands, all basically selling the same stuff for the same price, which made my decision of which to frequent that much more difficult.

Crab is definitely the king of all seafood. It’s half the price of lobster, and actually has some flavor. All of the crab legs available in supermarkets are prefrozen, so when the chance to have fresh crab arises, I always jump at the chance. Choosing a vendor, basically at random, I ordered a crab sandwich and a bowl of clam chowder. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. Why travel all the way across the country to get something that’s famous in New England? I had the same thought, until I realized that the clam chowder here came in sourdough bread bowls, and San Francisco is home of the world’s best sourdough bread.

After lunch, I did some more wandering around Fisherman’s Wharf. I particularly wanted to see the group of sea lions that had commandeered one of the piers, but after walking to both ends of the area, I couldn’t find them. Turns out, just as suddenly as they had appeared, they just up and left about 2 years ago. Very sad day. No porpoises and no sea lions. Lots of seagulls though, and huge ones. Huge ones who weren’t afraid of people and begged for food like a dog when you’re eating pizza.

There were some street performers, including one unconventional man who hid behind 2 palm fronds and, as unsuspecting people walked by, he’d jump out and scare them, as the crowds laughed. It was very funny. I took a video, but I don’t know how to post it (or if it was even uploaded from the camera with today’s pictures). So if you want to see it, I’ll have to show you in person.

After that, I had some time to kill before dinner, so , in the spirit of not having any deadlines or rules, decided to drive halfway across the city to see Twin Peaks – a pair of 600-foot hilltops on the outskirts of the city that afford sweeping views of the entire Bay Area. By this point, the clouds were long gone, so I had clear skies to the horizon in every direction.

Then, just because I can’t go a day without climbing something, I took a short trail to the very top of one of the peaks to see what I could see from there. Well, I couldn’t see much, but the wind up there reminded me of Mt. Washington and for someone who’s never cold, even on a 55-degree day, the cool breeze was refreshing.

From there, I drove back across the entire city to meet my cousin Nanci, who lives out here and who we decided I haven’t seen for in over 15 years, for dinner. Over pasta and pizza (the first pizza I dared to try since leaving the pizza haven of New Jersey), we talked about the city (including the strangely constant weather and the interesting off-the-beaten-path destinations), family stuff, and compared notes on cross-country driving and visiting the national parks in the area. Afterwards, she pointed me in the direction of the baseball stadium (as my mother would be quick to say, because I could have never found it myself) and we went out separate ways. It was a nice change of pace to meet up with someone along the way, especially when they’re family.

So, as I hinted, from there I headed over to AT&T Park, home of the San Francisco Giants. The stadium was clean and modern, like most of the new stadia, but what surprised me were the fans. I got there in the top of the 3^rd inning, and the place was completely full. Not only were there people in every seat, but they were fully invested in the game and hanging on every pitch, even at that early stage. Keep in mind, this was on a Monday night, too. I’m not sure even the fans at Fenway would give such a strong show of support on such an occasion, especially if they were playing the Arizona Diamondbacks.

In the end, after only 2 hours and 37 minutes, the Giants lost after their pitcher, Matt Cain, imploded in the 6^th inning and gave up 5 runs, which would prove to be more than enough for Arizona. I found it funny that I got to see Carlos Beltran hit a triple in a Giants uniform, and JJ. Putz get his 25^th save of the season as a Diamondback. Yet more proof that former Mets who may have been terrible while with New York, always leave the city and immediately become all-stars.

On the way back to the hotel, I decided to stop at the Marin Headlands, just north of the Golden Gate Bridge, where you have a great view of the bridge and the city in the background.

Although I’m planning on going back tomorrow to see it for real, I don’t know when I’ll get another opportunity to see the city from above at night, so I couldn’t resist. Even though it looks like the half of the road with all the scenic turnouts may be closed, I was still able to get to one overlook and take a few cool pictures:

Tomorrow I wrap up my mini-exploration of San Francisco before Greggles Goes North, continuing up Highway 1 into Oregon on my way to Crater Lake.

Spinning On Our Heels, So Far Away From Real

Let’s say that this trip is like a relay race on Field Day in elementary school. If that’s the case, then today I touched the cone on the far end of the field, so that I could turn around and complete the lap. Except instead of a field it was… well, I guess a field, just a really big one… that my car ran across. And instead of a cone, it was the Pacific Ocean.