Life’s one big to-do list; regret is when you’re too old to check items off the list.

That’s the only thing I can come up with, five years out of college. Now that life has settled back to normalcy, after a crazy week at work and getting organized from the trip, I’m happy to say more and more items are getting checked off my list. Running a 5k anytime soon won’t be one of those, but one has to know one’s limitations.

I’ve always been a fan of projects. And there are always a few going at once. Recycling has an e-waste drive coming up, and I’m in charge of our printed materials. I just bought a new bike to replace my old one, which means the Falling Water Trail will be explored. All my vacation materials need to be organized into a coherent whole. I still have to organize my year of Rotary.

…on and on it goes.

That’s life, right? We’re never done living, unless we give up early. But I’ve got too much to see. Now that I’ve covered our wonderful country’s four corners, there’s still Alaska and the Gulf Coast states to explore. And some foreign countries.

Barack Obama has seen his share of foreign countries, unlike our sitting president. I don’t trust people who haven’t seen some share of the world. Their view is narrow, and their conversation dull. A president who has seen the world, and has learned something from it? I guess we can be thankful both candidates share the similarity.

Unlike our president, Obama grew up in a fractured family, was raised by his grandparents, and had to wonder what life would be like if his parents stayed together. In other words, he’s now considered a “normal” American, despite the awkward name, and I trust him more than some rich ape from Massachusetts who lived a life of privilege but takes to wearing cowboy hats when it suits him. But this isn’t the place for that rant.

No, this is to realize that there are too many great things to do on Earth to be holed up in some dark room watching a glowing box while kids play frisbee outside.

When I played outside at Walden, a 90 year old man taught me that you’re never to old to go swimming. Who can argue with that? By paying attention to the birds that sing in the spring and to the flowers that bloom in my grandma’s lush garden, I’ve learned that you’re never too old for anything. Or too young.

Some of my friends know this. My little brother made a gamble: he moved out to California with his girlfriend and now lives an interesting life. I couldn’t be more proud. And his sister is moving to Pennsylvania on another gamble that I know will pay off, too. I wish her (and Jimmy!) lots of luck.

Rapture could come any day now. There’s no excuse not to say “To hell with this,” and move to a different state to see what else the wide world holds. It’s another item on life’s big to-do list. Your friends will be there when you get back.

So will the TV. Which is why you should shut it the hell off and get some fresh air. Life’s too short. There’s a chilly pond somewhere in the wilds of New England just waiting to greet you. It waved to me, and it waved to a guy who sat on its shore for two whole years and thought and wrote and tended his beans. He lived.

Thoreau’s to-do list was probably longer than his life granted him. It’s a tragedy, but it’s the case for most of us.

Made it home safe and sound.

Was surprised to find that getting from upstate New York to Jackson, MI took a lot quicker than I realized. I guess I forgot that the Erie section of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania is a narrow one, and so I spent a few hours napping outside of Cleveland before shot-gunning home. Got home about 9-9:30, took a four-hour nap, and spent the day getting reacquainted with real life.

“That’s fine,” you say,”but Jesus, man, how much did you spend on gas?”

I have answers to that and more questions right here.

• Gas: $324
• States visited: 10
• Miles traveled: 2,800
• Money spent on toll booths/parking alone: $50-75
• Favorite part of the trip: Walden Pond
• Hardest part of the trip: My knee hurting when I needed it not to
• Nights I drank beer for dinner: Every single one
• Best meal: “The twins” – lobsters at Taste of Maine
• Funnest fact: Everyone in Rhode Island speaks like Peter Griffin in “Family Guy”
• Best roads for driving: Connecticut
• Most interesting thing learned: Benedict Arnold was a heroic guy, despite his flaws

I haven’t had time to process the whole trip just yet. I’m still thinking thoughts along the lines of, “A week ago, I was in New Jersey.” It kind of feels like I never left, which is a feeling that plagues me whenever I return home.

I’m glad I did this trip the way I did (with the Revolutionary War stuff as the focus), and I’m not sorry I missed seeing some of the sites. There are some points to return to, and some to avoid, and these kind of “greatest hits” trips make it easy to figure out what’s to like and what’s not to like.

But it does back up my thought the whole time: that we live in an amazing country, with an amazing history, and a lot of people rose up and fought back right when they needed to. These days, one can’t escape the feeling that a lot of what the Continentals and minutemen fought against has returned. America is in a weird spot right now. I feel like if every American took a trip to Old Philadelphia, or walked the Freedom Trail in Boston, or remembered the words of Thoreau, they might not be willing to put up with so much abuse or neglect or bullshit.

Hope springs eternal, my journalism professor and mentor Dr. Renner always told me, and so one can only hope that those men who stood atop Bunker Hill and went looking for a fight in Lexington aren’t being taken for granted.

Here’s the video I hinted at earlier. The wind was strong, so some of it it is hard to hear.

Yesterday, after leaving Fairfax, VT, it was time for the final stop on the trip: Saratoga.



Saratoga was the turning point in the war; a time when the Americans showed they had the mustard to defeat the British, and it ended up convincing the French we were worthy of help.



The battlefield rests along the Hudson River, just south of Lake Champlain, in a beautiful part of New York. It’s kind of out in the middle of nowhere, but I was getting used to that. So many of these random Revolution sites were in out-of-the-way places. That suits me just fine.

I pulled into Saratoga National Historic Park and talked with a couple of the rangers there, who gave me an overview of the battle and the layout of the park. It was a few mile drive around the park, with stops along the route, but before I headed out I caught the quick movie playing in the visitor center’s theater, and watched a fiber optic recreation (blue lights us, red lights them) of the battle that really helped cement it in my head.



The gist of the whole thing goes like this: British General Burgoyne lead a group of about 8,000 south from Montreal into the Hudson River Valley with hopes of taking all the forts along the way. Albany was the ultimate goal, by which the British felt they could end the war with control of almost all of New York.

But in Saratoga, General Gates and Benedict Arnold developed a defensive camp along the river. When the British came, the continentals met them head-on, and with bluffs and woods and a narrow stretch of land to maneuver (think Thermopylae), the Americans beat the British and earned their first full surrender. Pretty cool.



When word broke about Burgoyne’s defeat, the French decided to help the Americans, and the whole thing helped us win the war. I got excited just thinking about it.

And the amazing thing is it all happened on these modest wheat fields and among farms, then abandoned, that today looks exactly like it did back then. The only thing that changed was the addition of a road to travel around the park.



It was interesting to learn that Benedict Arnold was a hero of the battle, rallying American troops and even getting shot in the process. He later turned out to be our most famous example of a turncoat, but for Saratoga, he was a helluva guy.



Saratoga marked a fine final point on the trip. For one, I hadn’t visited a Revolutionary War site since Massachusetts, and two, philosophically it ends things on a high note.

From there, I made my way across upstate New York, bypassing the Adirondacks and hitting I-90 for a jet-fuel-paced race toward Michigan.

Here are a few things I’ve learned so far from this trip:

• Subaru is still in business because of the states of Maine, New Hampshire, and Vermont. They’re everywhere
• The nature-based parts of my trips are always the best
• Vermont may be the prettiest state in the union
• Route 1 and I-95 have followed me everywhere I go
• Because of parking and toll fees, my budget for this trip is totally shot
• I can’t drive with my wallet in my back pocket – it’s too damn thick
• My car can handle anything. Anything, that is, except Mount Washington

After leaving Mary Ann and Mike’s place, I hit a new road – US Route 2 – across the heart of Maine heading west. No ocean views this time, but Maine of course has a rustic beauty, much like northern Michigan. In fact, Maine resembles Michigan more than any state I’ve seen so far this trip.

Just before I reached New Hampshire’s border, I could feel the landscape change. Maine had modest mountains and rolling highways, but New Hampshire was a beast all its own. The modest shot up right on the border, and I knew I was in for something new.

I stopped into a visitor’s center to grab a few maps and brochures, and the older couple running the shop were bantering about the Old Man falling off the mountain, which to New Hampshire residents is like telling Dakota residents Mount Rushmore just erupted and Roosevelt’s mug now looks like a coked-out Whitney Houston.

I decided to give Mount Washington, the Terror of the East, a try – if not to drive, than at least to see. I have a love affair with mountains, but this one…



It was an imposing force of nature. I couldn’t even see the top because of the clouds, but I knew my Suzuki didn’t need one of those “My car climbed Mt. Washington” bumper stickers. It also didn’t need to fall off some high-born cliff. No, this was not a rental, and there was no need for abuse. I respected the mountain enough not to claim it as a notch on my bedpost, and drove away knowing that (a) I was safe and (b) I could get along on the trip faster without digging my car out of some granite boulder’s maw.



On the way out, I saw a section of the Appalachian Trail, which I’d like to put on my list of 100 things to do before I die. The path looked daunting and intimidating, but one can dream.

Plenty of mountains to see along northern New Hampshire, but they turned truly spectacular in Vermont.



Vermont is where God goes on weekends in the country. It’s a beautiful state – almost dream-like, because every hill and mountain has at least a green pasture, a picturesque forest, a red barn, a herd of cows, or some combination of those. Every hill. It’s like the Irish Hills back home, only multiplied by a million.



Vermont has some of the best driving, too, because of its winding mountain roads, and by the time I pulled into Montpelier I had developed quite a hunger. Montpelier is Vermont’s capital town, but it’s not like other capitals. It’s modest and quaint, like the state itself. The Supreme Court building is no bigger than our office back at work. And the governor works in an office building that looks pretty drab from the outside. Only the actual capital building put on a show:



I grabbed a bite to eat at Julio’s, a Mexican joint along the main drag on State Street, and hit Ben & Jerry’s (of course) for dessert. From there I found my way to I-89 heading north to Fairfax, where some truly stunning displays of earth-meets-skies gave the drive a dream-like quality.



As luck would have it, and since it was raining, a rainbow greeted me when I drove off the exit to the B&B. On the way I saw tons of cow farms and rocky rivers and covered bridges. The road leading to the B&B had a few characters:



And here’s where I settled in for the night. I just can’t believe it’s Thursday (as you’re reading this, it’s Friday) already. Friday I’m heading to Saratoga National Park in New York to catch the last of my Revolutionary War sites (which I’ve neglected since Boston) and then head on home. I should make it back by late Saturday or early Sunday, but if I get a chance I’ll post updates as I go.

See you soon!

Yesterday, I climbed my first mountain.

And it’s not a king-hell Rocky Mountains mountain. At 1,500 feet, Mt. Cadillac at Acadia National Park gets eaten for breakfast by most mountains. But it is the tallest mountain along the Atlantic coast north of Brazil. And it was a pain.

But I did it.

Before that, though, I had my first whole lobster – two of them, in fact – at a restaurant just north of Bath, Maine, on Tuesday night. Delicious. Just-off-the-boat delicious. The price was right too. No Red Lobster prices in Maine, no siree. No need.

I drove a bit more until I found the hotel I posted from last time – the one with the iMac, and woke up to a spectacular view:



That morning (Wednesday, yesterday for me now) I hit US-1 north to Acadia, which lies on Mount Desert (pronounced “dessert” – it’s French) Island, a park not on the scale of Yellowstone, but still impressive.



The park has several hiking trails, and two levels of trail that lead to Mt. Cadillac (named after the same Mr. Cadillac who founded our beloved Detroit). I chose the Northern Trail, the “moderate” level one, because…well, because I don’t want to die.

I parked my car and packed my bag, and hit the slope head-on. It wasn’t five minutes in when it started to hit back.



This was moderate? The trail guide said the whole thing ran 2.2 miles each direction, which, when I read the description during breakfast that morning, seemed like a breeze. If I can run three miles, surely I can hike…oh wait. Four-point-four miles. Ooops.



Thankfully, hikers have developed a system of what are called cairns:



They help guide you during hikes, and they’re really handy when it snows and you can’t see the little blue dashes along the trail. No trip, though, would be complete without a walking stick, and I found a great one. I didn’t need those silly four-legged poles some hikers used (I saw one guy with them, when I was on my way down). Just give me a broken-off log.



The black flies – notorious in Maine – were a bit annoying, as was the fact that I picked sandals to hike this thing. Sandals? They’d helped out on other trips: climbing waterfalls, clambering down cliffs at Yellowstone, trotting up Great Sand Dunes. But on this one they cost me.



This, dear reader, is what you get when you try to take your own picture along a granite cliff. You slip, and you feel such pin-point pain in your shin that a personal censor would’ve been appropriate for what comes flying out of your mouth.

No matter. Issues like rustling in the bushes, and a flare gun going off a mile behind me, commanded my attention away from the wound. The flare was totally random. Better them than me, I thought at first, but then I wondered whether I’d find a bear-mangled corpse on my way back down. Was this a cry for help? A kids’ prank? I never did find out. Maybe the bear dragged them, kicking and screaming for help, back to the den.



Eventually I reached a point that I thought was the top, and even filmed a little video to share the good news. I was wrong. I was only the mountain road I saw. There was still about a mile of hard, shear granite climbing left to go.

When I did reach the top, I felt like a sucker. There was a parking lot, and a bunch of L.L. Bean-wearing tourists scouting around the pathway, taking pictures, and not sweating their butts off. They can drive all they want – I knew my own accomplishment. The stiff ocean wind helped cool me off, and I grabbed a snack after I checked my bloodsugar and helped a couple take a picture. I traded them for one of me, at the top:



The climb down was a bit easier. The view was easier to enjoy, too, since I faced Frenchman’s Bay the whole way down. I only passed four other hikers, all of them together, on my entire hike, which surprised me. The solitude, however, couldn’t be beat. At one point I rested on a boulder and just…sat. It was perfect.



The next stop on the Acadia tour was Sandy Beach, the most cleverly-named part of the whole park. Why? Because it’s the only beach that had sand on it. Every other one was nothing but granite cliffs.



Notice the odd picture? It’s because I made friends with a seagull who wanted to steal my peanut butter and crackers:



He was sneaky. When I set my camera down on a boulder to grab my picture, and walked away, he snuck up from behind to steal my lunch bag. So during every picture I’m seen lunging to grab the bastard and throttle his salty neck. He was a large bird. And he followed me back to the stairs leading up from the beach, at which point I think he just gave up.



Acadia’s ocean views were everything you dream Maine looks like. Stark, rocky, noisy – but above all, beautiful.



The park is one big testament to glaciation. Stones and cliffs and ponds everywhere, and the best one was Jones Pond and the cool Bubble Mountains. I walked down to the pond and saw that it was a public water source, which meant no human could touch it. Strangely, boats could float it in. The German tourists that followed me down ignored the signs and started thrashing about wildly in the cool water. My Deutsch is a bit rusty, but I think one of them hollered “Zis is better than eating sauerkraut off a stripper’s butt!” Whatever that means.

The rest of the park followed uneventfully, but I was hungry, so I headed to Bar Harbor for chow. Let me tell you about Bar Harbor: I’ve heard good things, so maybe my expectations were high, but it seemed like one big tourist getaway. Nothing but theme restaurants and gift shops, all along the coast of Mount Desert Island. My pick for a theme restaurant? That was easy:



What else? I caught the sign driving through town, and immediately stopped in for a fried haddock sandwich and fries. Nice place.

After that it was on to my first bed and breakfast, the Bass Cover B&B.



Bass Cove is in Sorrento, Maine, just north of the park and Bar Harbor along US-1. I pulled in to introduce myself, meeting Mary Ann and Mike (and Jasmine, their cute cat), and unpacking my car. Mary Ann insisted I head into Sorrento-proper to see the sunset, which she said were famous.



She was right. The town had a public dock and a bunch of fishing boats in the harbor. It was the kind of place you think about when you think about coastal Maine. Just great.



I drove around town and found the backside of the peninsula to find true West and the best sunset I had seen the whole trip:



After that, I enjoyed the rest of the night watching “Lost” for the first time (with Mike, who – even as regular watcher – gets confused) and chatting it up. I almost fell asleep a few times during the show because I was so tired, so I caught some much-needed shut-eye and woke up to a marvelous breakfast of blueberry pancakes, coffee, and broiled grapefruit. This is the kind of thing I had been looking forward to: talking with locals, getting a feel for the area, and a hearty breakfast to boot.



Mike and Mary Ann were originally from Massachusetts, but opened up the B&B after Mary Ann’s mother moved out. They operate what’s called a “homestay” level of B&B, which means it’s small and cozy and personable – with one or two rooms in the house available to guests. Or, as I like to call it, perfect.

It was great having more folks to converse with. We chatted about the area, and about their story, and how a developer was trying to build a “green” resort on a nearby peninsula. After breakfast I packed my things and said goodbye, hitting to the road for my cross-Maine trip into New Hampshire and Vermont.

Which is where I’m at now – in Fairfax, Vermont, at the Wagner Road B&B. But you can read about that in the afternoon on Friday, when the next post will publish. Until then!

I read Henry David Thoreau’s Walden the summer after my junior year of college, and it changed my life. So it was with great excitement that I headed up to Concord to Walden Pond.

For two years, two months, and two days, Thoreau lived by himself in the Concord woods in a one-room shack he built by hand. Why? To be alone. I find honor and respect in his experiment, and I went to pay homage to the idea that people can be happy and useful in nature, by themselves, doing their own thing.



And it was everything I hoped for, and more.

It was a worthy juxtaposition against the bustle of Boston. Here, it was a massaging calm.

Along the shoreline I met “Old Bill,” a 90-year-old man that swims in Walden Pond. Everyday.



“I’ve been doing this for 27 years, and I’m still not usd to cold water,” Bill said. “It gets gusty, but you can take it for a while.”

He undressed right in front of me, put his swimmers cap on, and did a few backstrokes in the pond.

Bill and I talked for a while. He’s seen a lot of changes in the pond, like when the big developer tried to build an office building near the water, and how Don Henly of the Eagles bought the developer out and entrusted 500 acres of the area to conservation – an example, I think, of a famous person doing good and not looking foolish.

Bill helps out the crew at the pond because he loves it so much. He used to go around and pick up the trash, but can’t do all the trails anymore.

“I’m getting too old,” he told me.



Bill worked in quality control, and was in the Navy for 23 years before that, and even at 90-years-old can’t get enough of Walden.

“This is the freshest water around,” he said. “It’s so clear you can drink it.”

And he’s right. The pond was so beautiful, and so serene, and so clean, it’s not hard to figure out why Thoreau picked this spot to try his solitary experiment.



Another guy, he wouldn’t tell me his name, stopped by. I could tell that all the regulars at the pond knew of Old Bill. But Bill left, and it was just me and the guy (we’ll call him Frank). Frank was a plumber from Illinois originally, but moved out here due to family stuff. Frank has survived two bouts of cancer and comes to Walden to relax.

“There’s something magical about this place,” he told me.

We talked about the differences between Midwesterners and East-Coasters, how – in Frank’s opinion – the folks out here were friendlier. I countered, telling him about the guy in Boston who sneezed and, when I blessed him, he ignored me and kept walking.

“Sometimes you wonder if you’re from the same planet,” Frank said.



I left Frank to wind my way around to where Thoreau’s shack originally stood, on the far end of the pond.

The spot is against a small hill, a spot Thoreau picked to shield himself from the cold winters. A replica cabin is on the other side of the park.



All that’s left now is a pile of rocks and a marker showing where the hut stood:



It had a gorgeous view of Walden, and was close enough to the water’s edge to let Thoreau dive in or fish or drink or whatever.

The whole experience was transformative. The wind breezing through the beech and oak trees, the birds singing, the smell of the water. People always ask me why I take these big trips by myself, and it’s always hard to answer them. I usually say it’s because no one else has the time, or the money, or the patience to put up with me for a whole week.

But that’s not an honest answer. I do it for the same reason Thoreau built a shack and holed up in the woods for two years: to get to know myself. How else can one do it? Most people are afraid to be by themselves, with their thoughts, for more than a few minutes. For me, I’ll take a whole week of it.

Thoreau said “All good things are wild and free.” Even if only for a few days, I think his words count for something.



I said my goodbyes to Walden Pond and hit the road to head for Maine. I decided to skip a few of the lesser sites along the way just because I felt like I had seen enough for one day. I just wanted to drive.

And eat lobster. Thankfully, Maine wasn’t far away…

There’s no other way to put it: Boston is a strange and wonderful place. So full of history, so full of pride in itself, and so full of Red Sox and Celtics fans that it’s hard for a Midwesterner like me to feel comfortable.

From the winery it was a pretty short drive up to Beantown, except when I got there my Google directions sent me directly into the mouth of madness. I made a few wrong turns and was on the other side of town from my hotel before I knew what happened. Then, magically, I turned onto the right street. Zip. Just like that.



My hotel was the Bulfinch, and it’s shaped like the Flat Iron building in NYC. It’s a great place. I got my stuff settled in and, since it was only about 5 p.m., decided to hit the town to see as much as I could before night fell. That, and I was incredibly exhausted after waking up at 5:30 in the morning.



The Freedom Trail, a few-mile-long path that leads from one Revolutionary War site to the next, is a perfect was to see the city. It guides you, helps you learn the streets, and gives you a sense of order and place in a city where a “square block” is as rare as the dodo.





Back in the day, Boston was a helluva place. Rabble-rousers like Samuel Adams and John Adams all used this city as a launching pad against the British. The Old State House, the site of the Boston Massacre (it’s an intersection now, sadly), Bunker Hill – Boston takes great pride in these places, so much so that they’re all still being used for public purposes. Faneuil Hall (above, with Sam Adams) is now a shopping center.



I couldn’t make it across the bridge to Cambridge to see Bunker Hill Monday night because my knee flared up, but I did make it to the Italian part of town. Let me tell you how good it smelled. So good, in fact, I whipped into the Modern Bakery for some canoli. The ladies in front of me bought $47 worth of baked goods, but I couldn’t compete with that. Besides, it was dinner time, so I stopped into the Green Dragon Tavern for food and beer. I met a couple, Bill and his wife (I don’t remember her name), from England, who had a unique perspective on the place’s history.



Also, James and Shara from Santa Barbara talked our ears off. It was kind of nice. I hadn’t talked to anyone – really talked – the whole trip, so we chatted for hours. Another couple joined us (one of them another Brit) and we talked about American sports and soccer and United Nations and NGOs and the environment. The prototypical bar scene.



I limped home knowing I saw a lot of what the city had to offer. But I still had to see Bunker Hill, so I slept great (on a real bed!) and got up bright and early and hit the trail.



Bunker Hill is in Cambridge, which is across the river from Boston proper. As you can see, it looks just like the Washington Monument: a tall granite obelisk that you can see for miles around town. The actual hill is pretty modest, but I stood there thinking about those Boston trouble-makers, led by Prescott, firing down on the advancing Red Coats, and it was awe-inspiring.



As an American, you can’t help but feel proud of what those guys went through, and how brave they were to stand up to what was then the most powerful army on Earth.



After Bunker Hill, I came back into the city and grabbed a quick breakfast and coffee, and headed to the hotel to check out. A quick nap, a few right turns out of town, and I was back on the highway heading toward Concord and Walden Pond.

I’m typing this in what is possibly the coolest sea-side motel on Earth, on the outskirts of Rockport, Maine. Why, you dear reader, ask? Because it has an iMac:



A G3 Cobalt version at that, not too much different from my own G3 at home, except this one is running OS X 10.1 – a waaaay early version. Now my iBook has a buddy. But anywhoo.



Where to begin but where we left off: in Rhode Island. I woke up yesterday (Monday) morning on the coast of Connecticut, hit the road to see Rhode Island, grabbing a great breakfast at E & J’s Diner in Wickford, and zooming up to Providence.





It really is a lovely town. Did you know it floods during hurricanes? I kid you not:



It happened during the early 1900s. And did you know Brown University is there? THE Brown University? I didn’t. It was a pleasant surprise. I parked at a garage off Washington St. and pulled my bike out of the back of my car to finally give it a spin. Everything was going great until I actually tried to ride the thing. The rear wheel was rubbing against the frame, but I ignored it and took the bike downtown and up to where the college was.



That’s when things went horribly wrong. I walked the bike to the top of a giant hill, got back on the bike, started pedaling, and almost ended up flying over the handlebars in front of two toothsome college co-eds.

Clamoring off the bike, I noticed the tire was almost embedded into the bike frame, and the bike frame itself was bent. Seeing no hope, and figuring out no other options, my bike is now the proud resident of Rockafeller Library on campus:



I look at it this way: lame horses get shot. My bike could still have a long life for some broke student.

Depressed, I figured the best way to kill a few minutes was to try to use the internet connection at the library. Also a no-go.

ME: “I’m a guest. Is there a problem with me coming in to use the library?”

LADY [with funny accent]: “You have to come in with someone who has a pass. You can’t just get in here by saying you’re a guest.”

Right she was. After all, they pay her to be mean like that. Between the night before and the morning, Monday was off to a great start.



It’s a good thing Providence was small, because by abandoning my bike I had to hoof it back the garage. Brown was a beautiful place, and I got to check out the Rhode Island School of Design and its wonderful gift shop. There was a neat little cookie shop in this place called the Arcade, so I grabbed a quick snack before leaving town.



On my way out of Rhode Island, I picked up a few winery brochures. But first was Fort Barton in Tiverton, a bay-facing hill that gave a panoramic view of the sea.



Next it was off to Westport Rivers winery, just south of Westport, Mass (as they say). A guy named Chris helped me sample some bubbly wines (their specialty) and talked with me about the trip. This happens everywhere, but Chris was just a bit older than me, and I was surprised at his knowledge about the Revolutionary War.



The wine must’ve helped my thinking, because in the winery parking lot I realized I had to be in Boston that night instead of tonight (Tuesday), which makes more sense. I had to cut a few things out of the schedule to make it to Boston at a decent time. After all, there’s tons to see there. And we’ll get to it in the next entry. Stay tuned!

It’s hard to know where to start, two days and four states later, but oh well. Here goes.

Getting into New York was relatively easy; getting out of it, on the other hand, was wrist-slicingly difficult.



For an island that was traded for a bunch of beads, you’d think they would put more value into it. On the brighter side, I did get a nice clean windshield from a bum.



But whatever. I can safely say I can drive anywhere: LA, Chicago, New York. A 75-acre farm, however? That’s when I get stressed.

I made it from New York to the John Jay Homestead, but not before going down the same street in a small village not once, not twice, but thrice.



The farm was beautiful, when I got there. John Jay was the first Supreme Court Chief Justice, the second governor of New York, and a signer of the Treaty of Paris that ended the war. Plus he knew how to craft an herb garden.



From there it was on to Connecticut, a surprisingly beautiful state in its plain-ness. I stopped at Putnam State Park, named after Isreal Putnam, who escaped from British dragoons down a 100-stone-step slope.



Very picturesque, very serene and beautiful.



I took Route 58 past scenic lakes and more $1 million homes, jumped on the highway, and finally got my first glimpse of this end of the Atlantic.

But that’s when the fun began. Have you ever heard those stories about rest stops being the pick-up spots for gay men. Well it’s true.

I pulled into a scenic overlook to spend the night, when a guy gets out of his car, checks out the scenic overlook, and walks over to my car. He taps on the window, and I roll it down.

Rick from Connecticut, he was, and he asked me what I was up to. I told him I was stopping to relax and take a break, enjoying the view.

“Are you looking to do anything tonight?” Rick from Connecticut asked.

“No, I’m just taking it easy.”

“So, nothing besides a driving break?”

“No,” I answered, “I’m pretty tired.”

It didn’t dawn on me what was happening until I saw Rick from Connecticut go over to another guy’s car and do the same thing.

It’s a flattering thing to be randomly hit on by a decent-looking guy in a crewcut, but Rick from Connecticut was asking more of me than I was willing to give. Even on vacation.

So it was no wonder I slept in fits last night. That, and it was cold, and every car that pulled into the lookout was another potential sex fiend, in my head. I got up with the sun at 5:30, hoping to catch it rising over the Atlantic, but I couldn’t find a decent spot to watch it. Highway 1 looked like the most relaxing way to get to the next state, and it didn’t disappoint…

[Stay tuned for Rhode Island and Boston updates, coming up later today. I'm going to break these two posts into two smaller ones to make them more digestable. That, and I'm tired.

See you soon, and thanks everyone for the comments (you can leave them below) and e-mails!]