Now that I’ve been in Melbourne for 48 hours, I feel I can authoritatively report on its nature and character.
The city is quite unique, but has something in its flavor that reminds me of southern California, Sicily, Nice, the garden district of New Orleans, the outskirts of London, a less gritty Thayer St, a dash of Bellingham WA, the most affluent parts of Costa Rica, a touch of India. I couldn’t really say what of each of these is here, but they come to mind.
It’s very lovely, clean, tropical, urban, beachy, young, sunny, open, colorful, hip, lots of graffiti. Smells good: dry grass, salt, eucalyptus, white tea, old wood, milk soap, juniper, glass, line-dried laundry, whiffs of sweet flowers and coffee and saccharine auto exhaust and curry and seaweed and biscotti. The quality of light is refreshing, crisp but not white, rich but not golden, more diffuse than such clear skies warrant, fantastic for photos. It reminds me a bit of the light on Prince Edward Island, but falling on much brighter colors.
Everything is unfamiliar, which is fun but disconcerting: trees, bushes, birds, cars, architecture, words, signs, clothes, haircuts, social signals, stereotypes. I’ve never ever seen most of them before. I’m accustomed to knowing the name and history and edible/medicinal properties every single plant and animal, accurately reading people in one glance, knowing how to get anywhere by the most scenic and efficient route, and knowing where to expect to see the sun. The sun’s on the wrong side of the sky. It keeps throwing me off. I think we’re driving east, and we’re going west. I can’t express how unsettling it is.
Because it’s such a fashionable, urban place, I keep being surprised by the fact that it’s right on the ocean, that it’s a beach city. Most places I’m familiar with are either cities that happen to be on the coast or beach towns that happen to have a lot of people living there. This is equally a beach town and a city. It gets cold at night and intensely sunny in the midafternoon, and there are urban wind tunnels. There are lots of sailboats and jetskis, and there are businessmen in slick suits and powermoms with strollers and yoga pants and pugs, chic cafes and hotdog stands, flipflops and Dolce, Jeeps and Smart Cars. There’s a great public transit system (Petra says it’s like Portland). People drive like maniacs, and there are plenty of sun-blissed beachers.
The populace in general seems quite relaxed, kind, forthright, affluent, clean, wholesome, and fun-loving. I’m not saying they necessarily ARE all of those things, they just seem so. But I think there is a real truth to their being so much more relaxed than I’m used to. The social services and health insurance and education and everything here is so so so much better than at home that people don’t have to worry as much about just coping as we do.
It’s especially notable in all the parents of young children (of which there seem to be a lot). The parents are like people at home who don’t have kids. I don’t quite know how to put it. At home, if there’s a young 30-something couple and they have a kid, they’re almost certainly going to seem more exhausted, more suspicious, more performative of responsibility, more miserly, less fashionable, less happy, less open, less social than their same-aged childless cohorts. The parents here seem relaxed, hip, social, comfortable. The kids seem to blossom as a result—they all seem calm, happy, mature, intelligent, healthy. All of them. I haven’t yet seen an exception, a single frazzled kid or parent. And with standard 12-month maternity leave, regular free childcare, excellent socialized health care, and free or practically free education all the way up through the end of college, why not relax?
More impressions soon.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Sunday, February 10, 2008
i’ll fly away, oh glory!
We’ve arrived in Melbourne safe and sound. Erika is shocked to report that Australia really does exist, and isn’t a mythical land after all. Here’s how we got here:
Petra:
First we packed. A lot. It took us about 20 hours to pare our worldly possessions down to 4 checked bags of a total size less than 208” and less than 50 pounds each, two carry on bags of less than 45” and 15 pounds, and a personal item each. But we did it. Erika is a god of real-life tetris. See, those hours on the Gameboy really did pay off.
(After hours of baggage research, we’re pleased to inform you that should you ever wish to include antlers in your checked luggage, American Airlines regulations specify that they must be removed of all debris and that the skull must be fully wrapped and the tips protected. You may bring one (1) hang glider for an additional charge of $80, a charge which also applies to the one (1) javelin or set of oars you are allowed. Bowling balls must be packaged in a carry case with accompanying shoes. Unfortunately, no vaulting poles or kayaks are allowed.)
Our departure committee of my parents, Erika’s mom, and us woke up at 3:30 this morning to pack the car (the Tetris God blessed us once more by fitting all of our bags in the boot of one small SUV). By 4:40 am we were driving to Logan through the gross and slopping snow, which made us not so sad to be leaving New England after all. At the time of this writing we are at the airport and through security, eagerly awaiting the start of our 32 hour plane adventure. More soon!
Erika:
The flight from Boston to LA was uneventful except for the remarkably pitiful service on this Delta leg of our trip. The airline seems determined to deprive and depress passengers as much as possible: flimsy sweaty blankets, horrid lighting, no food, very little water, wacky cabin air, and of course tiny seats. Yet there were very few people on the flight, so we each got a three-seat row to stretch out on. Erika actually claimed six seats, three on either side of the plane, and spent a good hour popping back and forth to see the different scenery. This was especially exciting when we flew over the Grand Canyon.
Upon arriving in LA, we had to find our way outside, walk about ¾ of a mile past two other terminals to get to our new terminal, check in again, get new boarding passes, re-check our bags even though we didn’t have them (the hidden baggage gnomes did), go back through security, freak out because the official told us we were going to miss our plane, find out the plane was in fact delayed and we had an hour and a half to wait, mentally shake our fists at the official that made us freak out, and wait to board. And stare at the plane that would take us all the way across the Atlantic in one go. The really, really, really big plane. I get so used to the 747s that I always forget how big these others are: two levels, with wings that are so wide they curl up at the end. It was like Air Force One. But bigger. Whoa.
I meant to ask how many people the plane fit, but forgot. My educated guess would be about 1000 passengers. Seriously. It was 10 seats wide, and we were in row 65, and were a little more than halfway down the plane, so there were probably about 80 rows in economy, plus business and first class, and I don’t even know about the upper level. We’re talking a big plane here. And in the lovely economy class, we were each granted about 22” x 30” for our 15 hour flight.
They made it about as good as it could be, considering. Most of the food was rather tasty, especially the melon creamsicles and the hot cocoa, and they kept it coming. Plenty of water and juice. A little stretching area outside the bathrooms. No seatbelt light the whole flight. About 50 personal-choice on-demand movies, TV shows, and video games on your own TV screen. (Between us we watched Elizabeth, The Darjeeling Express, The Bee Movie, Stardust, Désaccord Pafait, a documentary on Australian linguistic phonics, and played Tetris.)
Our rowmate, who had the aisle seat, was thankfully patient with our frequent bathroom and stretching breaks. I felt really bad for the people sitting with his friend, though. His friend was extremely obese, and had no legs, and had the aisle seat. No joke—and he certainly had no sense of humor about it. So the people sitting in the inner seats from him were pretty well trapped for the whole flight. Not an ordeal I would wish on my theoretical worst enemies.
I was totally excited about watching movies for 14 hours straight. After three movies, though, I was ready to call it quits. It turns out that’s not as much fun as it sounds. Unfortunately, the 6 hours I’d filled wasn’t even halfway through the flight. I spent the second half of the flight wishing I wanted to watch more movies, and feeling increasingly like a pile of toxic withered grout. By the time we arrived in Sydney, I wasn’t sure if I could stand up, let alone walk or maintain basic bodily functions. I was pushing serious exhaustion at this point, was quite dehydrated despite my best water-guzzling efforts, and was irrationally convinced they wouldn’t let me through customs and would send me home on another 15 hour flight without my ever seeing Australia. I was sure this ordeal would kill me, and was resigning myself to death by plane travel.
Of course, the immigration officer was a lovely man who kindly chatted with me and Petra, welcoming us to Australia with tips on how to find supportive communities and sincerely sharing how glad he was that we were joining his beloved country. My visa seemed to do the trick, and we didn’t even get our oddly full and lumpy bags checked by customs. We were in.
In the Sydney airport, at least. Where we still are. Six hours later. It’s 3:30 am local time, and we have two hours to go until we get to check in for our last leg to Melbourne. We found the sad little corner of the airport where they let ridiculously-layover-ed people like us sleep, claimed our over-armrest-ed set of seats for the night, and settled in. Not so bad, really. There’s a bathroom and water fountain around the corner, and they stopped jackhammering an hour ago. Here’s to hoping for an uneventful conclusion of our travels.
Petra:
The flight from Sydney to Melbourne was blissfully short and uneventful. We arrived in Melbourne at 7:30 am, and my uncle John and cousin Matt were there to meet us. Our baggage was not, though. It was still in Sydney. (The friendly Australian baggage handlers will deliver them to us tomorrow.)
After figuring that out, we took a scenic drive to John’s place in Brighton where we’re staying, had showers and some coffee, and found a second-hand clothing store (“Op Shop”) and discount warehouse (“Bond shop”) where we gratefully procured clean clothes.
John then took us on a day-long driving tour of Melbourne to get Erika oriented and me re-oriented. A lot has changed in the three years since I’ve been here—lots of new building. We visited my grandmother (“Nonna”—Italian) Nella, who was having a very good day, and my grandfather’s grave as well. Erika was excited to see the University of Melbourne campus, which looks reassuringly like a real university campus, with nice gothic brick and stone buildings and ugly things from the 70s. She’s still not entirely convinced that this place isn’t a dream, since everything is backwards—not only the roads and seasons and all, but even the sun’s on the wrong side of the sky.
It’s currently 76 degrees and sunny. Everyone’s friendly. The food is delicious—even the milk is better than at home. It’s good to be here.
Petra:
First we packed. A lot. It took us about 20 hours to pare our worldly possessions down to 4 checked bags of a total size less than 208” and less than 50 pounds each, two carry on bags of less than 45” and 15 pounds, and a personal item each. But we did it. Erika is a god of real-life tetris. See, those hours on the Gameboy really did pay off.
(After hours of baggage research, we’re pleased to inform you that should you ever wish to include antlers in your checked luggage, American Airlines regulations specify that they must be removed of all debris and that the skull must be fully wrapped and the tips protected. You may bring one (1) hang glider for an additional charge of $80, a charge which also applies to the one (1) javelin or set of oars you are allowed. Bowling balls must be packaged in a carry case with accompanying shoes. Unfortunately, no vaulting poles or kayaks are allowed.)
Our departure committee of my parents, Erika’s mom, and us woke up at 3:30 this morning to pack the car (the Tetris God blessed us once more by fitting all of our bags in the boot of one small SUV). By 4:40 am we were driving to Logan through the gross and slopping snow, which made us not so sad to be leaving New England after all. At the time of this writing we are at the airport and through security, eagerly awaiting the start of our 32 hour plane adventure. More soon!
Erika:
The flight from Boston to LA was uneventful except for the remarkably pitiful service on this Delta leg of our trip. The airline seems determined to deprive and depress passengers as much as possible: flimsy sweaty blankets, horrid lighting, no food, very little water, wacky cabin air, and of course tiny seats. Yet there were very few people on the flight, so we each got a three-seat row to stretch out on. Erika actually claimed six seats, three on either side of the plane, and spent a good hour popping back and forth to see the different scenery. This was especially exciting when we flew over the Grand Canyon.
Upon arriving in LA, we had to find our way outside, walk about ¾ of a mile past two other terminals to get to our new terminal, check in again, get new boarding passes, re-check our bags even though we didn’t have them (the hidden baggage gnomes did), go back through security, freak out because the official told us we were going to miss our plane, find out the plane was in fact delayed and we had an hour and a half to wait, mentally shake our fists at the official that made us freak out, and wait to board. And stare at the plane that would take us all the way across the Atlantic in one go. The really, really, really big plane. I get so used to the 747s that I always forget how big these others are: two levels, with wings that are so wide they curl up at the end. It was like Air Force One. But bigger. Whoa.
I meant to ask how many people the plane fit, but forgot. My educated guess would be about 1000 passengers. Seriously. It was 10 seats wide, and we were in row 65, and were a little more than halfway down the plane, so there were probably about 80 rows in economy, plus business and first class, and I don’t even know about the upper level. We’re talking a big plane here. And in the lovely economy class, we were each granted about 22” x 30” for our 15 hour flight.
They made it about as good as it could be, considering. Most of the food was rather tasty, especially the melon creamsicles and the hot cocoa, and they kept it coming. Plenty of water and juice. A little stretching area outside the bathrooms. No seatbelt light the whole flight. About 50 personal-choice on-demand movies, TV shows, and video games on your own TV screen. (Between us we watched Elizabeth, The Darjeeling Express, The Bee Movie, Stardust, Désaccord Pafait, a documentary on Australian linguistic phonics, and played Tetris.)
Our rowmate, who had the aisle seat, was thankfully patient with our frequent bathroom and stretching breaks. I felt really bad for the people sitting with his friend, though. His friend was extremely obese, and had no legs, and had the aisle seat. No joke—and he certainly had no sense of humor about it. So the people sitting in the inner seats from him were pretty well trapped for the whole flight. Not an ordeal I would wish on my theoretical worst enemies.
I was totally excited about watching movies for 14 hours straight. After three movies, though, I was ready to call it quits. It turns out that’s not as much fun as it sounds. Unfortunately, the 6 hours I’d filled wasn’t even halfway through the flight. I spent the second half of the flight wishing I wanted to watch more movies, and feeling increasingly like a pile of toxic withered grout. By the time we arrived in Sydney, I wasn’t sure if I could stand up, let alone walk or maintain basic bodily functions. I was pushing serious exhaustion at this point, was quite dehydrated despite my best water-guzzling efforts, and was irrationally convinced they wouldn’t let me through customs and would send me home on another 15 hour flight without my ever seeing Australia. I was sure this ordeal would kill me, and was resigning myself to death by plane travel.
Of course, the immigration officer was a lovely man who kindly chatted with me and Petra, welcoming us to Australia with tips on how to find supportive communities and sincerely sharing how glad he was that we were joining his beloved country. My visa seemed to do the trick, and we didn’t even get our oddly full and lumpy bags checked by customs. We were in.
In the Sydney airport, at least. Where we still are. Six hours later. It’s 3:30 am local time, and we have two hours to go until we get to check in for our last leg to Melbourne. We found the sad little corner of the airport where they let ridiculously-layover-ed people like us sleep, claimed our over-armrest-ed set of seats for the night, and settled in. Not so bad, really. There’s a bathroom and water fountain around the corner, and they stopped jackhammering an hour ago. Here’s to hoping for an uneventful conclusion of our travels.
Petra:
The flight from Sydney to Melbourne was blissfully short and uneventful. We arrived in Melbourne at 7:30 am, and my uncle John and cousin Matt were there to meet us. Our baggage was not, though. It was still in Sydney. (The friendly Australian baggage handlers will deliver them to us tomorrow.)
After figuring that out, we took a scenic drive to John’s place in Brighton where we’re staying, had showers and some coffee, and found a second-hand clothing store (“Op Shop”) and discount warehouse (“Bond shop”) where we gratefully procured clean clothes.
John then took us on a day-long driving tour of Melbourne to get Erika oriented and me re-oriented. A lot has changed in the three years since I’ve been here—lots of new building. We visited my grandmother (“Nonna”—Italian) Nella, who was having a very good day, and my grandfather’s grave as well. Erika was excited to see the University of Melbourne campus, which looks reassuringly like a real university campus, with nice gothic brick and stone buildings and ugly things from the 70s. She’s still not entirely convinced that this place isn’t a dream, since everything is backwards—not only the roads and seasons and all, but even the sun’s on the wrong side of the sky.
It’s currently 76 degrees and sunny. Everyone’s friendly. The food is delicious—even the milk is better than at home. It’s good to be here.
Monday, January 28, 2008
we're really going!
After three years of dreaming, two years of planning, a year and a half of paperwork, and seven months of bureaucratic morass:
1) Erika actually has her visa
2) and she’s officially a graduate student at Melbourne University,
3) we have our plane tickets, and
4) we’re actually moving to Australia.
We’re leaving at the crack of dawn on Feb. 7th. Going away party TBA.
As an added bonus, I already have a job interview lined up!
Yay! (Now off to pack...)
Saturday, January 26, 2008
home for the holidays
The past month and a half since we got back to Massachusetts have been busy, festive, and delightfully filled with friends and family. My mother's brother John came from Melbourne for Christmas, flying in the day after we arrived back home. He was lucky enough to arrive just ahead of one of the most beautiful snowstorms of the season. Actually, given the beautiful snowstorm, he was lucky to have made it through Chicago in the first place. I woke him up early the next morning to see the lovely snow. While he did seem genuinely appreciative of the view from inside the house, he was strangely reluctant to accept my offer to teach him how to shovel the driveway.
Concord is a delightfully Norman Rockwellian place to spend Christmas. The town decorates the 50 foot pine tree in the center of the town green, and every year about 300 people show up to sing carols on Christmas Eve. This year I was especially happy that Erika's mother Lilli and sister Lisa could come up for Christmas Eve, which we spent at my mother's best friend’s house with the usual crowd. Mum made a gingerbread house, I decorated it, and the several toddlers present a Christmas Eve joyfully decimated it with a hammer at the end of evening.
After a lovely Christmas morning at my parents’, characterized by gifts of interesting books, delicious food, and the collecting of commemorative quarters, we said a temporary farewell to Lilli and Lisa. Mum, dad, Erika, me, and John all piled into the car and drove north. Four hours later we arrived in my father's hometown of Lancaster New Hampshire, to celebrate Christmas with my state-side extended family. They're wonderful. Aunt Sylvia made oyster stew. Cousins Chris and Lorna teased us about being flat-landers and Democrats, cousins Peter and Dennis continued my education in the key New Hampshire industries of hunting and skiing, and we all ate a bit too much.
Taking the very very scenic route home via my parents’ new summer place on the coast of Maine, we were surprised to come upon an Elk farm. I love Maine. And I love elk. My uncle John was delighted by them.
We got a chance to visit twice this holiday season with Erika's older brother Reed and his wife Sue. As they wound their way from North Carolina to northern Maine, we met up at their uncle's house in Connecticut for great food, visiting, and carol singing. We were lucky enough to corner them again on their way back down for New Years at Lilli's house. We played with our new Christmas toys (webcams! bwa ha ha, you’ve been warned), learned a new card game, and ate ALL of the delicious food in pretty boxes that mysteriously proliferates around the holidays. Despite valiant efforts—no, really, we didn’t even try—none of us stayed up until midnight. We’re officially old.
Since then we've been continually preparing for overseas moves: first helping Lisa get ready for a four-month teaching engagement in Siena, Italy (where she is now), and then preparing for our own move to Australia. More news on that front soon!
Concord is a delightfully Norman Rockwellian place to spend Christmas. The town decorates the 50 foot pine tree in the center of the town green, and every year about 300 people show up to sing carols on Christmas Eve. This year I was especially happy that Erika's mother Lilli and sister Lisa could come up for Christmas Eve, which we spent at my mother's best friend’s house with the usual crowd. Mum made a gingerbread house, I decorated it, and the several toddlers present a Christmas Eve joyfully decimated it with a hammer at the end of evening.
After a lovely Christmas morning at my parents’, characterized by gifts of interesting books, delicious food, and the collecting of commemorative quarters, we said a temporary farewell to Lilli and Lisa. Mum, dad, Erika, me, and John all piled into the car and drove north. Four hours later we arrived in my father's hometown of Lancaster New Hampshire, to celebrate Christmas with my state-side extended family. They're wonderful. Aunt Sylvia made oyster stew. Cousins Chris and Lorna teased us about being flat-landers and Democrats, cousins Peter and Dennis continued my education in the key New Hampshire industries of hunting and skiing, and we all ate a bit too much.
Taking the very very scenic route home via my parents’ new summer place on the coast of Maine, we were surprised to come upon an Elk farm. I love Maine. And I love elk. My uncle John was delighted by them.
We got a chance to visit twice this holiday season with Erika's older brother Reed and his wife Sue. As they wound their way from North Carolina to northern Maine, we met up at their uncle's house in Connecticut for great food, visiting, and carol singing. We were lucky enough to corner them again on their way back down for New Years at Lilli's house. We played with our new Christmas toys (webcams! bwa ha ha, you’ve been warned), learned a new card game, and ate ALL of the delicious food in pretty boxes that mysteriously proliferates around the holidays. Despite valiant efforts—no, really, we didn’t even try—none of us stayed up until midnight. We’re officially old.
Since then we've been continually preparing for overseas moves: first helping Lisa get ready for a four-month teaching engagement in Siena, Italy (where she is now), and then preparing for our own move to Australia. More news on that front soon!
Thursday, January 24, 2008
the french quarter
We’ve realized we didn’t actually tell you about the French Quarter, the only part of New Orleans most of you have ever seen. It is the oldest part of town, originally settled by the eponymous French settlers, though it was later held briefly by the Spanish before becoming nominally American. It is hands-down the most European neighborhood I’ve ever seen on this continent, with truly glorious architecture, and has a history more rich and dramatic than its measly (by Continental standards) 400-some-odd years of permanently settled existence.
It’s disgusting, though. Rivulets of piss, vomit, spilled alcohol-swill, and god-knows what else trickle down the old worn gutters. The lights and music and crowds at night cast a forced revelrous aura, but in the day the reality is unavoidable. Tacky plastic signs (tacked irreverently to gorgeous facades) advertise tacky plastic merchandise and tacky plastic women for sale. It’s all much, much too much. It smells terrible, and is at this point so entirely self-aware that there is no joy left, just commerce.
I would strongly recommend to anyone visiting New Orleans: go to the French Quarter once, during the day; explore its nooks and crannies, but don’t look too close; pay a boatload of money to eat at one of the gazillion fine eating establishments that have been there since Napoleon, and don’t ask what the delicious thing you’re eating actually is; hold your breath the whole time; and then leave. The rest of the city is actually wonderful, not trying to be.
(P.S. Petra liked it better than me. I think that’s ‘cause she doesn’t have a very good sense of smell. Or self-preservation. :) She, of course, would disagree.)
It’s disgusting, though. Rivulets of piss, vomit, spilled alcohol-swill, and god-knows what else trickle down the old worn gutters. The lights and music and crowds at night cast a forced revelrous aura, but in the day the reality is unavoidable. Tacky plastic signs (tacked irreverently to gorgeous facades) advertise tacky plastic merchandise and tacky plastic women for sale. It’s all much, much too much. It smells terrible, and is at this point so entirely self-aware that there is no joy left, just commerce.
I would strongly recommend to anyone visiting New Orleans: go to the French Quarter once, during the day; explore its nooks and crannies, but don’t look too close; pay a boatload of money to eat at one of the gazillion fine eating establishments that have been there since Napoleon, and don’t ask what the delicious thing you’re eating actually is; hold your breath the whole time; and then leave. The rest of the city is actually wonderful, not trying to be.
(P.S. Petra liked it better than me. I think that’s ‘cause she doesn’t have a very good sense of smell. Or self-preservation. :) She, of course, would disagree.)
it's the off season for a reason
My sister Lisa had stopped into my uncle’s house the Tuesday evening of our drive home on her way home from her own mid-American road trip, which was a fun coincidence. Six people in a very small two-bedroom apartment was a squeeze, but my family was very accommodating—my uncle slept under the kitchen table, and one of my cousins curled up on the loveseat. We all slept surprisingly well, perhaps because our bellies were happily full of my uncle’s hearty stew.
We left at the same time as Lisa Wednesday morning—she on a 14-hour leg to Boston, and we on an ill-fated northerly diversion to Niagara Falls. It started out well: we stopped in Erie, Pennsylvania on the shores of Lake Erie so that I could appreciate this great lake up close for the first time. I’ve never been to any of the Great Lakes before, and the lack of sea smell and salt taste in the face of so much water disturbed me. I had to taste the water myself before my body would believe its freshness. It tasted like melted freezer burn or old ice cubes. I don’t recommend it.
In Ohio we had already realized that we didn’t possess the correct attire for the ever-more-northern climes toward which we were advancing, but we were undeterred. We’re New Englanders, after all. A little cold wind and snow wasn’t going to hinder us. We layered up and drove on. To Niagara Falls. Where it was really, really, really cold. Right.
Why is it that we continue to think it’s a good idea to visit popular tourist destinations in the off season? There’s usually a reason the season is off. Especially in [expletive deleted] Niagara Falls. Despite newly-purchased hats, gloves, and scarves, our hearty selves only lasted about 45 minutes outside in our first walk down by the falls, and that only through the awe of the fall’s splendorous plume (you could see the flame-like spray from 10 miles away) and sheer determination overshadowing our bodies’ pain (PAIN!). It was probably around 10 degrees out, combined with a strong wet wind, and felt like something around -20 or colder. So we cut our losses and went back to the hostel, where it turned out our radiator was broken such that our room was approximately 130 degrees all night, even with the window wide open and snow blowing in on my pillow.
We “woke up” the next morning (having never really fallen asleep) ready to face an exciting new day. We treated ourselves to a tasty breakfast at the delightfully-named and Jetsons-décored “Why Diner”. Part way through breakfast, it started picturesquely snowing.
Before leaving town we swung by the Canadian side of the falls. The strength of the biting wind driving ice shards toward our faces unfortunately made it so we couldn’t even look in the general direction of the falls. Even when we bravely peered through our fingers toward where we thought they might be, we couldn’t see twenty feet past our noses. So much for the view—though it really did seem much better than the view from the American side. I’d recommend Canada to anyone visiting Niagara. We could feel the rumble of the falls beneath our feet, and its pummeling roar permeated the air. Quite the impressive force of nature. SO MUCH WATER.
By the time we got on the road (having almost been not allowed back into the US by the extremely ornery American customs official), the picturesque snow had turned into a proper blizzard that mucked up the roads very efficiently and followed us all day long. Driving 30-45 mph across most of upstate New York in horrible horizontal snow for eight hours gave me a new appreciation for a number of things: windshield wipers, snowplows (our modern angels), the well-designed drainage ditch system of the New York department of transportation, the surprising persistence and proliferation of the Seneca tribe, and books on tape.
By 6 pm we still had 100 miles to go to our intended night’s destination, Albany; Petra, my fearless driving wife, was exhausted; and the roads were getting even worse. We gave up in Westmoreland, and happily ensconced ourselves at the wood-paneled and quilt-covered Carriage House Motor Inn, where we took approximately 37 hot showers before sleeping like hibernating bears.
The next day was a long and thankfully boring drive across the remainder of upstate NY and all of Massachusetts (the long way) to finally safely arrive at Petra’s parents’ house in Concord. We were very, very glad to be home.
We left at the same time as Lisa Wednesday morning—she on a 14-hour leg to Boston, and we on an ill-fated northerly diversion to Niagara Falls. It started out well: we stopped in Erie, Pennsylvania on the shores of Lake Erie so that I could appreciate this great lake up close for the first time. I’ve never been to any of the Great Lakes before, and the lack of sea smell and salt taste in the face of so much water disturbed me. I had to taste the water myself before my body would believe its freshness. It tasted like melted freezer burn or old ice cubes. I don’t recommend it.
In Ohio we had already realized that we didn’t possess the correct attire for the ever-more-northern climes toward which we were advancing, but we were undeterred. We’re New Englanders, after all. A little cold wind and snow wasn’t going to hinder us. We layered up and drove on. To Niagara Falls. Where it was really, really, really cold. Right.
Why is it that we continue to think it’s a good idea to visit popular tourist destinations in the off season? There’s usually a reason the season is off. Especially in [expletive deleted] Niagara Falls. Despite newly-purchased hats, gloves, and scarves, our hearty selves only lasted about 45 minutes outside in our first walk down by the falls, and that only through the awe of the fall’s splendorous plume (you could see the flame-like spray from 10 miles away) and sheer determination overshadowing our bodies’ pain (PAIN!). It was probably around 10 degrees out, combined with a strong wet wind, and felt like something around -20 or colder. So we cut our losses and went back to the hostel, where it turned out our radiator was broken such that our room was approximately 130 degrees all night, even with the window wide open and snow blowing in on my pillow.
We “woke up” the next morning (having never really fallen asleep) ready to face an exciting new day. We treated ourselves to a tasty breakfast at the delightfully-named and Jetsons-décored “Why Diner”. Part way through breakfast, it started picturesquely snowing.
Before leaving town we swung by the Canadian side of the falls. The strength of the biting wind driving ice shards toward our faces unfortunately made it so we couldn’t even look in the general direction of the falls. Even when we bravely peered through our fingers toward where we thought they might be, we couldn’t see twenty feet past our noses. So much for the view—though it really did seem much better than the view from the American side. I’d recommend Canada to anyone visiting Niagara. We could feel the rumble of the falls beneath our feet, and its pummeling roar permeated the air. Quite the impressive force of nature. SO MUCH WATER.
By the time we got on the road (having almost been not allowed back into the US by the extremely ornery American customs official), the picturesque snow had turned into a proper blizzard that mucked up the roads very efficiently and followed us all day long. Driving 30-45 mph across most of upstate New York in horrible horizontal snow for eight hours gave me a new appreciation for a number of things: windshield wipers, snowplows (our modern angels), the well-designed drainage ditch system of the New York department of transportation, the surprising persistence and proliferation of the Seneca tribe, and books on tape.
By 6 pm we still had 100 miles to go to our intended night’s destination, Albany; Petra, my fearless driving wife, was exhausted; and the roads were getting even worse. We gave up in Westmoreland, and happily ensconced ourselves at the wood-paneled and quilt-covered Carriage House Motor Inn, where we took approximately 37 hot showers before sleeping like hibernating bears.
The next day was a long and thankfully boring drive across the remainder of upstate NY and all of Massachusetts (the long way) to finally safely arrive at Petra’s parents’ house in Concord. We were very, very glad to be home.
basketball court update
For those of you who astutely noticed that the basketball court that I built didn’t have backboards and hoops in the pictures you saw: indeed, we had to go back a second day to complete that rather astoundingly-difficult task. You’d think sticking some backboards on some poles wouldn’t be hard, wouldn’t you? It took six people all day to do it, and it was hard work. At least we got more delicious fried chicken and sausage po-boys out of it. And at the end of the day, the kids came and shot some hoops, and all was well with the world.
I’d encourage you to read the thank-you notes written by some of the students at the school to all the Hands On New Orleans staff. They’re absolutely wonderful. The text of the letters are here.
I’d encourage you to read the thank-you notes written by some of the students at the school to all the Hands On New Orleans staff. They’re absolutely wonderful. The text of the letters are here.
katsup
No, no, not the condiment. We're just going to start writing posts about all of our favorite things from our trip to New Orleans that we haven't told you about yet. So be prepared! Blog-o-rific deluge of catch-up coming!
Friday, December 14, 2007
home sweet home
After some adventures with snow and more snow, we're home in Concord safe and sound. Tales of our last two days will have to wait until we've had some sleep.
4,558 miles since we were last home.
If you're in the southern New England area, we'd love to see y'all--we'll have some free time between now and Christmas, so give us a call.
4,558 miles since we were last home.
If you're in the southern New England area, we'd love to see y'all--we'll have some free time between now and Christmas, so give us a call.
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
oh, me oh my-oh, look at miss ohio
We're staying at my uncle's place outside of Canton. Ohio is rather an unfortunate waste of space, but I love seeing my family. They're awesome. And it's great to have a day off the road.
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