These few days in Cooperstown have been like the first pages of a really enthralling book: there's a rich and rewarding story ahead, if only I get a chance to read on. In fact, I fear I'm in danger of becoming the token outsider in a Northern Exposure/Ballykissangel style scenario.
I milked a cow for crying out loud.
Saturday, 31 July 2010
Day 8: Cooperstown NY
When the boys were 4 and 2 we did a big family holiday to Venice and the Veneto with Mike's mum and her family. It was a wonderful trip, but one incident sticks in my craw. We were sat outside an unpretentious cafe for lunch, and William was regaling us with stories of knights and princesses, inspired by the mediaeval towns we'd visited that morning. As the meal drew to a close, a couple left the table next to us, and the woman leant towards us and said, "About your son...". We smiled and laughed, expecting a "Goodness, there's a one", or a "What a charmer" - this after all was Italy, the land where the Boy Child is King, and this woman was American, from the country of hospitality and openness. But no, to my horror she launched into a lecture about how we should control him better; how we'd ruined her lunch; how we were bad parents. We were so shocked all we could do was apologise fulsomely - I've spent the last four years coming up with the answers I wish I'd given.
Today rather put that unpleasant episode to rest. Try as I might, Americans were determined to adore my children. To start with, we went to the Farmer's Museum (another St Fagan's creation - this time small-town America in 1845). The boys couldn't have been more handsomely treated in every building, but there was one exhibit of children's toys - cup-and-ball, hoops, Jacob's ladders, etc. I swear one delightful member of staff spent half an hour with Bill and Chris, going through how to make every letter with a Jacob's Ladder, and coaching them through their first checkers game.
Then this evening we headed back to Nicoletti's. We were late - the Hawkeyes' match had eventually been called at gone 8pm (we English would say bad light stopped play - American's would say, I think, what do you mean, "no floodlights"?). Then there was a wait for a table. I was nervous whether we were being way too optimistic about the boys' staying power. But the table came up, and as we sat, the lady at the table next to us leant over and said exactly the phrase I'd expected three years' ago: "Your boys are just the cutest things I've ever seen". I responded saying I hoped she still felt that way after we'd finished our meal; and we were set. We talked for hours. Chrissy gave up and went to sleep on my lap; William filled the gap (no surprise there). We laughed uproariously; we swapped intimate stories. If anyone was disturbing the restaurant at large, it wasn't William. We eventually left together (carrying Chris - and his dinner), with lighter hearts and with a ghost laid to rest.
Today’s statistics:
Today’s Discoveries:
Today rather put that unpleasant episode to rest. Try as I might, Americans were determined to adore my children. To start with, we went to the Farmer's Museum (another St Fagan's creation - this time small-town America in 1845). The boys couldn't have been more handsomely treated in every building, but there was one exhibit of children's toys - cup-and-ball, hoops, Jacob's ladders, etc. I swear one delightful member of staff spent half an hour with Bill and Chris, going through how to make every letter with a Jacob's Ladder, and coaching them through their first checkers game.
Then this evening we headed back to Nicoletti's. We were late - the Hawkeyes' match had eventually been called at gone 8pm (we English would say bad light stopped play - American's would say, I think, what do you mean, "no floodlights"?). Then there was a wait for a table. I was nervous whether we were being way too optimistic about the boys' staying power. But the table came up, and as we sat, the lady at the table next to us leant over and said exactly the phrase I'd expected three years' ago: "Your boys are just the cutest things I've ever seen". I responded saying I hoped she still felt that way after we'd finished our meal; and we were set. We talked for hours. Chrissy gave up and went to sleep on my lap; William filled the gap (no surprise there). We laughed uproariously; we swapped intimate stories. If anyone was disturbing the restaurant at large, it wasn't William. We eventually left together (carrying Chris - and his dinner), with lighter hearts and with a ghost laid to rest.
Today’s statistics:
- Auditions heard: 13
- Cows milked: 1
- Sheep rounded: 12
- Bridesmaids on crutches: 2
- Innings watched: 13
- Home runs cheered: 1
- Favourite placename: Skinny Atlas, NY (ok, it's spelled Skaneateles, but that only makes me like it more.
- Breakfast: Our apartment
- Lunch: picnic at the Farmer's Museum
- Dinner: Nicoletti's, Cooperstown
Today’s Discoveries:
- A Nintendo DS can be dropped from further than you think it can.
- It is possible to get things back from under bleacher seating (see 1).
- No ties in baseball...
- Cooperstown really is full of good neighbours.
Friday, 30 July 2010
Day 7: Cooperstown NY
I'm going to have to learn how to do this quickly - I'm actually genuinely working for the next few days. Well, as much as trying to be nice to people and listening to beautiful music is ever work.
I promise to be witty and bitter again before the trip's out, but today was just a Good Day. Apologies to Laura M and Ken, whose work days back at base were slightly less satisfying.
Today’s statistics:
- Opera seen: 1
- Auditions heard: 22
- Friends met: 3
- Games of mini-golf won: let's not talk about it :)
- Favourite license plate: DEVIENT (sic)
- Batting average: .013
- Breakfast: Black Cat Cafe, Sharon Springs
- Lunch: Sal's Pizzeria, Cooperstown
- Dinner: Thaw's Pavillion, Glimmerglass Opera / our living room
- Mozart's Aprite un po' quegli occhi = Elvis' (You're The) Devil in Disguise.
- Samuel Morse lived in Cooperstown (but didn't invent baseball).
- Chelsea Clinton's wedding tomorrow is just down the road but we weren't invited.
- Christopher is a marvellously good loser. Don't know who he gets that from.
Breakfast, Baseball and Global Thermo-Nuclear War
There was one fly in the ointment today: the thrashing that Laura gave me at mini-golf this afternoon. But even that is not cause for complaint, being so well deserved. At least I have a few more years before the boys are as difficult to beat as she is.
Cooperstown is as lovely as last night's brief exploration promised. The boys and I sauntered around the village (officially it is a village and not a town - I had no idea America had villages, apart from Greenwich). We got pastries and coffee for breakfast and sat on the shores of Lake Otsego whilst grey-blue waves lapped at the rocks and jetties. This is a special place, full of character. It's the sort of small-community-in-a-spectacular-setting that one would expect to find in a BBC1 Sunday night drama. In fact, quick, pass me the number for WGBH-Boston, I feel a co-production pitch coming on.
The 'Cooper' of Cooperstown was a Judge William Cooper who bought the land in 1785. His son was James Fennimore Cooper who wrote tales about the area, including Last of the Mohicans. It was he who gave the nickname 'Glimmerglass' to the narrow, but nine miles long, Lake Otsego that fills the valley to the north of the town. Glimmerglass is now also the name of an opera company that runs a summer season on the western shore and it's this that has drawn us (or rather Laura) to Cooperstown whilst we're on our travels. I'm not complaining about this either.
The opera is a big draw for many people, but it is more famous for the baseball. After breakfast and before mini-golf, the boys and I went and sat on the bleachers and watched some games. During the summer, for $500, your local amateur or kids' team can come and play a game at the mystical, ahem, 'birthplace' of baseball: Doubleday Field. It's free to get in and very casual. Today it was almost empty. We watched the last three innings of one match and the first three innings of another - all kids teams, perhaps Under 15 or so. A perfect introduction for William to learn how the game works, and an even better introduction for me to how to explain how it works without sounding like I was making it up as I went.
No doubt about it, baseball is a great sport. It's fun to watch, it makes sense and it has a natural rhythm unlike the ugly stop-start incomprehensibility of (American) Football. Before today I hadn't appreciated quite how important the pitcher is or how much of the narrative of the game is weighted around his performance. He is literally central to proceedings and the mental stamina required in the Majors must be phenomenal. One of the boys today had a visible crisis of confidence out there on the mound and a tightly controlled innings unravelled about him. With two Outs, two Strikes and no Runs on the board, he was utterly in control. Cries of 'Finish them!' came from the scarily zealous parents in the empty stands. But a series of no balls followed. He had choked and the previously cowed batter was given a free walk to 1st base. The next guy up slammed the ball deep over the heads of the fielders and they ended up scoring five from the innings. The pitcher never recovered and was relieved in the third.
Yes, I am trying to show off that I think I have developed an insight into baseball having spent three hours watching teenagers play. It's either this or I write about the mini-golf.
Oh there was one other thing that happened today that was marginally less traumatic than Laura's crushing victory. It's a small town. Full of character. At 12 noon, with no warning, an air-raid siren roared into life. For a few seconds I felt compelled to doubt my safety. It's an incredible noise, an urgent drone, very loud and high and low at the same time, insistent and unignorable. Immediately it conjured up images of blitz-stricken cities and hitherto vague memories of childhood. It's odd suddenly remembering being lectured on the possibility of nuclear war as a small child. Small children just accept ideas like that - there's no other way of dealing with the information, I suppose. But part of me, I think, part of my brain anyway, has been waiting thirty years for that noise to sound. There was no catharsis.
Of course, within seconds I had checked the not-at-all-panicked expressions of passers by and rationalised away my own unbidden anxieties. I unclenched my hand from the shoulder of the son that I had been able to reach.
I found out later, from the delightful Kiwi woman who owns the place where we're staying, that the noise is a daily practice for the alarm that calls the volunteers of the Cooperstown's Fire Department when there's an emergency.
This made me wonder how I'd react if it went off in the middle of the night.
Then the next thought I had, I shared with her. "Oh right," I said brightly, thinking of all those Blue Peters. "Just like the lifeboat back home." The thought after that was me remembering that just because she wasn't American, it didn't mean she was British and she probably wouldn't have a clue what I was talking about.
"Oh yes," she grinned. "We do that back home too."
Such a lovely place.
Cooperstown is as lovely as last night's brief exploration promised. The boys and I sauntered around the village (officially it is a village and not a town - I had no idea America had villages, apart from Greenwich). We got pastries and coffee for breakfast and sat on the shores of Lake Otsego whilst grey-blue waves lapped at the rocks and jetties. This is a special place, full of character. It's the sort of small-community-in-a-spectacular-setting that one would expect to find in a BBC1 Sunday night drama. In fact, quick, pass me the number for WGBH-Boston, I feel a co-production pitch coming on.The 'Cooper' of Cooperstown was a Judge William Cooper who bought the land in 1785. His son was James Fennimore Cooper who wrote tales about the area, including Last of the Mohicans. It was he who gave the nickname 'Glimmerglass' to the narrow, but nine miles long, Lake Otsego that fills the valley to the north of the town. Glimmerglass is now also the name of an opera company that runs a summer season on the western shore and it's this that has drawn us (or rather Laura) to Cooperstown whilst we're on our travels. I'm not complaining about this either.
The opera is a big draw for many people, but it is more famous for the baseball. After breakfast and before mini-golf, the boys and I went and sat on the bleachers and watched some games. During the summer, for $500, your local amateur or kids' team can come and play a game at the mystical, ahem, 'birthplace' of baseball: Doubleday Field. It's free to get in and very casual. Today it was almost empty. We watched the last three innings of one match and the first three innings of another - all kids teams, perhaps Under 15 or so. A perfect introduction for William to learn how the game works, and an even better introduction for me to how to explain how it works without sounding like I was making it up as I went.
No doubt about it, baseball is a great sport. It's fun to watch, it makes sense and it has a natural rhythm unlike the ugly stop-start incomprehensibility of (American) Football. Before today I hadn't appreciated quite how important the pitcher is or how much of the narrative of the game is weighted around his performance. He is literally central to proceedings and the mental stamina required in the Majors must be phenomenal. One of the boys today had a visible crisis of confidence out there on the mound and a tightly controlled innings unravelled about him. With two Outs, two Strikes and no Runs on the board, he was utterly in control. Cries of 'Finish them!' came from the scarily zealous parents in the empty stands. But a series of no balls followed. He had choked and the previously cowed batter was given a free walk to 1st base. The next guy up slammed the ball deep over the heads of the fielders and they ended up scoring five from the innings. The pitcher never recovered and was relieved in the third.
Yes, I am trying to show off that I think I have developed an insight into baseball having spent three hours watching teenagers play. It's either this or I write about the mini-golf.
Oh there was one other thing that happened today that was marginally less traumatic than Laura's crushing victory. It's a small town. Full of character. At 12 noon, with no warning, an air-raid siren roared into life. For a few seconds I felt compelled to doubt my safety. It's an incredible noise, an urgent drone, very loud and high and low at the same time, insistent and unignorable. Immediately it conjured up images of blitz-stricken cities and hitherto vague memories of childhood. It's odd suddenly remembering being lectured on the possibility of nuclear war as a small child. Small children just accept ideas like that - there's no other way of dealing with the information, I suppose. But part of me, I think, part of my brain anyway, has been waiting thirty years for that noise to sound. There was no catharsis.
Of course, within seconds I had checked the not-at-all-panicked expressions of passers by and rationalised away my own unbidden anxieties. I unclenched my hand from the shoulder of the son that I had been able to reach.
I found out later, from the delightful Kiwi woman who owns the place where we're staying, that the noise is a daily practice for the alarm that calls the volunteers of the Cooperstown's Fire Department when there's an emergency.
This made me wonder how I'd react if it went off in the middle of the night.
Then the next thought I had, I shared with her. "Oh right," I said brightly, thinking of all those Blue Peters. "Just like the lifeboat back home." The thought after that was me remembering that just because she wasn't American, it didn't mean she was British and she probably wouldn't have a clue what I was talking about.
"Oh yes," she grinned. "We do that back home too."
Such a lovely place.
Thursday, 29 July 2010
Gettysburg, PA / Cooperstown, NY
Any day that starts with a banana and Nutella crêpe and ends with a Peroni is a Good Day. Today even had additional great stuff in between.
After breakfast we spent the morning in Gettysburg, then there was another loooong and almost mind-numbingly beautiful drive up through Pennsylvania and into New York before we finally arrived at Cooperstown.
How exciting to be in towns with such visible age; in Houston an 'old' building might possibly date from the 1980s. The venerable nature of today's settlements beamed from their bricks and timbers; they crackled, radioactive with History. Both these towns share something else too - they each have one unique theme that dominates their tourist shops, streets and economies.
For Gettysburg, of course, it is the Civil War battle of July 1863 that looms over everything. The fronts of houses, shops and museums are frilled with ubiquitous flags and banners; there are 'ghost walks', Victorian photography studios; adverts for dioramas and memorabilia, plaques to commemorate this or that cover almost every wall. Obviously, this is a great source of income for a small town, but it's hard not to see it as echoes of a terrible trauma that has not yet loosed its grip on a community: for three days thousands of men fought here, in and around the town - fields and streets and houses were packed with dead and wounded men for weeks afterwards. Once hasty burials had commenced, hard rain re-opened the shallow graves and it wasn't until November that a service could be held to dedicate land for a national war cemetery. Even if the memory of the battle could ever fade, the address given by Abraham Lincoln that day would ensure that Gettysburg would never be allowed to forget its pivotal moment in American history.
Perhaps the reverse is true of Cooperstown, which has been bestowed a reputation that it almost certainly does not deserve. In 1906 an elderly resident was interviewed and announced that baseball had been invented there by his friend in a cow pasture in 1839. Although extremely unlikely, this was seized upon by a local hotelier who built the National Baseball Hall of Fame museum there in 1939 as a way of drumming up business. If baseball is nothing else, it is a very effective way of manufacturing and selling stories; no one wanted to disbelieve the myth. Today it is the 'Home' of baseball and in the centre of the town of 2000 people sits a 9000-seat stadium. Like Gettysburg, the beautiful main drag is littered with shops that are devoted to its USP - a display of waxworks of legendary players is a mundane example of the sort of thing available. Never mind, it is an utterly charming place and we'll explore more tomorrow.
One last thought about Gettysburg - it is a stunning place, well looked after and with a fantastic visitors centre. But, being English, I find sometimes there is an absence of judgement in coverage of the Civil War, by which I mean sometimes it feels like representations of the Confederacy are kept neutral, as if to avoid causing offence. The movie in the museum pulled no punches thankfully. Morgan Freeman's narration made clear not only the battle's significance to the war, but also the importance of the end of slavery for the United States, connecting forward to the Civil Rights movement and Dr Martin Luther King Jr as well as to the Suffragettes. The moral case of the North, the Union and of Lincoln was made unequivocally. But five minutes later in the gift shop it was possible to buy Confederate uniforms for children. It felt utterly inappropriate, like finding children's SS uniforms for sale, well, anywhere. No matter how complicated or nuanced the relationships between North and South and between races have been in Antebellum America, I cannot believe that anyone would unthinkingly choose to dress their kid up as someone fighting to defend slavery. Can anyone explain this to me?
I can't help thinking that, if history is written by the winners, then victory, ultimately, is ensuring the losers believe your version of events.
After breakfast we spent the morning in Gettysburg, then there was another loooong and almost mind-numbingly beautiful drive up through Pennsylvania and into New York before we finally arrived at Cooperstown.
How exciting to be in towns with such visible age; in Houston an 'old' building might possibly date from the 1980s. The venerable nature of today's settlements beamed from their bricks and timbers; they crackled, radioactive with History. Both these towns share something else too - they each have one unique theme that dominates their tourist shops, streets and economies.
For Gettysburg, of course, it is the Civil War battle of July 1863 that looms over everything. The fronts of houses, shops and museums are frilled with ubiquitous flags and banners; there are 'ghost walks', Victorian photography studios; adverts for dioramas and memorabilia, plaques to commemorate this or that cover almost every wall. Obviously, this is a great source of income for a small town, but it's hard not to see it as echoes of a terrible trauma that has not yet loosed its grip on a community: for three days thousands of men fought here, in and around the town - fields and streets and houses were packed with dead and wounded men for weeks afterwards. Once hasty burials had commenced, hard rain re-opened the shallow graves and it wasn't until November that a service could be held to dedicate land for a national war cemetery. Even if the memory of the battle could ever fade, the address given by Abraham Lincoln that day would ensure that Gettysburg would never be allowed to forget its pivotal moment in American history.
Perhaps the reverse is true of Cooperstown, which has been bestowed a reputation that it almost certainly does not deserve. In 1906 an elderly resident was interviewed and announced that baseball had been invented there by his friend in a cow pasture in 1839. Although extremely unlikely, this was seized upon by a local hotelier who built the National Baseball Hall of Fame museum there in 1939 as a way of drumming up business. If baseball is nothing else, it is a very effective way of manufacturing and selling stories; no one wanted to disbelieve the myth. Today it is the 'Home' of baseball and in the centre of the town of 2000 people sits a 9000-seat stadium. Like Gettysburg, the beautiful main drag is littered with shops that are devoted to its USP - a display of waxworks of legendary players is a mundane example of the sort of thing available. Never mind, it is an utterly charming place and we'll explore more tomorrow.
One last thought about Gettysburg - it is a stunning place, well looked after and with a fantastic visitors centre. But, being English, I find sometimes there is an absence of judgement in coverage of the Civil War, by which I mean sometimes it feels like representations of the Confederacy are kept neutral, as if to avoid causing offence. The movie in the museum pulled no punches thankfully. Morgan Freeman's narration made clear not only the battle's significance to the war, but also the importance of the end of slavery for the United States, connecting forward to the Civil Rights movement and Dr Martin Luther King Jr as well as to the Suffragettes. The moral case of the North, the Union and of Lincoln was made unequivocally. But five minutes later in the gift shop it was possible to buy Confederate uniforms for children. It felt utterly inappropriate, like finding children's SS uniforms for sale, well, anywhere. No matter how complicated or nuanced the relationships between North and South and between races have been in Antebellum America, I cannot believe that anyone would unthinkingly choose to dress their kid up as someone fighting to defend slavery. Can anyone explain this to me?
I can't help thinking that, if history is written by the winners, then victory, ultimately, is ensuring the losers believe your version of events.
Day 6: Gettysburg PA - Cooperstown, NY
It's all better. Silly me. I hope Mike tells you about all the interesting stuff (ask him to talk to you about confederacy pride). In short, though, it's been a wonderful day: we started with good coffee; the boys were exemplary; Mike did all the driving; I'd forgotten how beautiful Cooperstown is; we have a huge apartment to spread out in for the next four days; we had a fantastic dinner; the laundry is done. I'm going to bed.
Today’s statistics:
Today’s Discoveries:
Today’s statistics:
- Started driving: 10.44
- Finished driving: 19.04
- Miles: 303
- New States: 1
- New State license plates seen: 1
- Favourite placename: Nanticoke, PA
- Favourite license plate: OMG 3KDS
- Breakfast: Cafe St-Amand, Gettysburg
- Lunch: Macdonalds, Harrisburg
- Dinner: Nicoletti's, Cooperstown
Today’s Discoveries:
- 15,000 men came from California alone to fight for the Union.
- William is a big fan of the International Declaration of Human Rights.
- Cooperstown (or at least the laundromat) is full of good neighbours.
- Good food cures everything (or as Lincoln would put it, Bite Makes Right).
Wednesday, 28 July 2010
Day 5: Roanoke VA - Gettysburg PA
So today the panic set in. I could spend a week in any of the places which, several months ago, looked a sensible distance apart on the map. I could spend a fortnight in some of the places in between. The kids have adjusted to the new time zone (hence today's early start), but with three weeks left ahead of us, I fear resorting to early mornings, lunch in the car and post-bedtime arrivals is a dangerous road. I look at the map of Gettysburg and feel like weeping- we have a 5.5 hour journey to Cooperstown tomorrow, yet before we set off I have to nail the Civil War...
I blame Frommer - we're now into guidebook territory, and every page shouts worthy suggestions which won't be fulfilled. The journey is no longer the purpose - we're now pinpointing destinations. We're going through towns rather than round them; going out of our way to see and do Things rather than setting cruise control and Shuffle.
I try to be a glass-half-full sort of woman. And yet travel for me is often about opportunities missed rather than things seen. A beautiful morning at Jefferson's Monticello leaves a yearning to see James Madison's Montpelier, 30 miles up the road. An afternoon spent driving down the Skyline Drive leads to regret I haven't seen it in fall. An evening wandering the streets of Winchester leaves me sad that we drove past Abingdon.
A facebook friend tonight has photos of her "favourite place in the world". Every journey I’ve made seems to have been a taster trip before the real in-depth study. And yet I rarely retrace my steps (Gettysburg is a exception - I stare at the map trying to pinpoint exactly the mound I know I want to see - will I recognize it sixteen years on if we find it?). I could never have a favourite place, as the indulgence of returning might mean a lost chance to go elsewhere. Is this because I've lived on three continents, and am struggling to find that level of knowledge and comfort everywhere I go? Or is it a natural response to encountering something extraordinary by refusing to admit you won't see it again? Do I have a favourite place waiting in every port?
We have four days and three nights in Cooperstown. Maybe that'll help me feel a bit more grounded. We might even do some laundry.
Today’s statistics:
- Started driving: 8.03
- Finished driving: 21.36
- Miles: 312
- New States: 3
- New State license plates seen: 1
- Statues of Presidents seen: 4 (at least)
- Stuffed animals soaked and scrubbed in the Family Restroom on the Skyline Drive: 3
- Favourite placename: Funkstown, MD
- Breakfast: Super 8 motel, Roanoke
- Lunch: Monticello cafe, Charlottesville
- Dinner: Union Bar, Winchester
Today’s Discoveries:
- I would not have made a good Mrs Jefferson. Nothing to do with Sally Hemings, but I would have HIT THE ROOF about having to cut holes in the brand new floor so that his stupid clock would fit into the front room. Honestly.
- There's more than one Strasburg. The one with the fabled mini-golf is not the one just off the Skyline Drive.
- You can do four states in 30 minutes on the I-31 between Winchester and Greencastle.
- It's ok to go to British pubs abroad when you don't live in the UK anymore.
Monticello
The Smoky Mountains smoked, the Blue Ridge Mountains have blue ridges: it's all very satisfying.
Monticello was very satisfying too. Thomas Jefferson's house was delightful to visit - and not just in a National Trust sort of way (the yellow walls in his dining room will live with me for a long time). It was very well presented, brilliantly explained and utterly beautiful. Most importantly, it brought the man to life. Unlike most stately homes, Monticello is not the product of a line of innumerable Dukes or Viscounts. Jefferson designed it himself and later inhabitants preserved it as best they could until a Trust took over the upkeep in 1923. We saw his books, his bed, his boots, his gadgets and clocks; we learnt his quirks and his habits. As a day out, it was brilliant and we all enjoyed ourselves.
Jefferson himself, however, although likeable does not quite satisfy. Unlike the mountains that do exactly what they say on the tin, the man contains an impossible contradiction. On one hand, he is the scribe of the Declaration of Independence, a champion of liberty. On the other, outside the mansion, on Mulberry Row, sit the remains of the houses of some of the slaves who worked his vast estates.
Their stories were just as fascinating as his. They seem to have been well looked after, for the time, but it was made clear to us that there was always an economic advantage for Jefferson to do so. He deplored slavery in his writings and tried to denounce it in the Declaration of Independence but had no hesitation in owning slaves if it was profitable to do so. Neither did he free slaves if he could help it; in his will he arranged manumission for five, but two of those were almost certainly his own children by Sally Hemmings, a mixed-race slave in his possession.
It's these contradictions which niggled as we got back in the car and came north, through West Virginia and Maryland to Pennsylvania. Jefferson's personal failure meant that his own slaves would suffer terribly after his death. Politically, his concept of liberty and fear of tyranny led him to support the powers of individual states against the nascent federal authority. By default, such policies supported the business interests of slave owners and prevented the issue of slavery from being resolved by the Founding Fathers - the task would fall to a later generation.
Just like our journey today, the road from Monticello would eventually lead to Gettysburg and the Civil War.
Monticello was very satisfying too. Thomas Jefferson's house was delightful to visit - and not just in a National Trust sort of way (the yellow walls in his dining room will live with me for a long time). It was very well presented, brilliantly explained and utterly beautiful. Most importantly, it brought the man to life. Unlike most stately homes, Monticello is not the product of a line of innumerable Dukes or Viscounts. Jefferson designed it himself and later inhabitants preserved it as best they could until a Trust took over the upkeep in 1923. We saw his books, his bed, his boots, his gadgets and clocks; we learnt his quirks and his habits. As a day out, it was brilliant and we all enjoyed ourselves.Jefferson himself, however, although likeable does not quite satisfy. Unlike the mountains that do exactly what they say on the tin, the man contains an impossible contradiction. On one hand, he is the scribe of the Declaration of Independence, a champion of liberty. On the other, outside the mansion, on Mulberry Row, sit the remains of the houses of some of the slaves who worked his vast estates.
Their stories were just as fascinating as his. They seem to have been well looked after, for the time, but it was made clear to us that there was always an economic advantage for Jefferson to do so. He deplored slavery in his writings and tried to denounce it in the Declaration of Independence but had no hesitation in owning slaves if it was profitable to do so. Neither did he free slaves if he could help it; in his will he arranged manumission for five, but two of those were almost certainly his own children by Sally Hemmings, a mixed-race slave in his possession.
It's these contradictions which niggled as we got back in the car and came north, through West Virginia and Maryland to Pennsylvania. Jefferson's personal failure meant that his own slaves would suffer terribly after his death. Politically, his concept of liberty and fear of tyranny led him to support the powers of individual states against the nascent federal authority. By default, such policies supported the business interests of slave owners and prevented the issue of slavery from being resolved by the Founding Fathers - the task would fall to a later generation.
Just like our journey today, the road from Monticello would eventually lead to Gettysburg and the Civil War.
Tuesday, 27 July 2010
Three Americas (and counting...)
We’ve just spent four days driving over a thousand miles across five states. And I still haven’t seen anything that makes me think I’m in the same country as New York City.
I mention this because tonight we’re in Roanoke, Virgina – a little more than 200 miles from Washington DC, a paltry 400 (or so) from NYC itself. Things are becoming compacted as the nation gets squeezed up into its New England natal tract, like galaxies shrinking as Time is rewound towards a colonial Big Bang. After driving across Texas in the Spring, and managing to drive out of the Lone Star State on Saturday, this is a heady experience. Tomorrow I think we hit four states in one trip – I may explode.
I think – and I'm still exploring so I may well change my mind – that there are three Americas. Please let me know if I’ve missed any.
There’s the Wilderness: the deserts of Western Texas, the empty prairies, the endless mountains and forests that we have driven through today, all these evoke the vastness and unspoilt natural wonder that was enjoyed for so long by the Native American Indians, and which so enraptured the European settlers who came after. Such awesome vistas are not unique to North America, let alone the USA. But the nature of the ‘discovery’ of this continent and the idea of the ‘New World’ are such unshakeable cornerstones of modern western culture that it is impossible not to look on these deserts, mountains and forests as anything other than an echo of an earlier world, untainted by the mistakes of developed human society. It’s powerful stuff that does ‘catch the heart off-guard, and blow it open.’
Secondly, there’s Small Town America. My least favourite bit, because I have my own prejudices. Nearly everybody I know comes from a small town of some sort, and it seems to be the most prevalent of the Three Americas. I don’t like it because, to me, it is either a) the Wilderness Spoilt or b) New York Under-developed. Small Town America is not so very different from Small Town Anywhere Else except that it must always hint at the wondrous pre-colonial continent, whilst simultaneously lacking the effervescence and vibrancy of the metropolis. This is also where I live: Houston, albeit a vast city, is merely the biggest Small Town I’ve ever seen.
Thirdly, but maybe not lastly – I’ve still much to discover – there’s New York, of course: the Metropolis. I haven’t been to Los Angeles, or San Francisco, or Chicago but all great American cities have this in common: their towers were raised from the soil of the New World and propelled into the sky by myriad different peoples, from Europe, Africa and Asia. Their ambitions, stories and traditions continue to mix and overlap each other in these exciting places. They are incredible human achievements.
I feel familiar now with the boundary between the America of the Wilderness and that of the Small Towns. We made this journey again, today, this time from the forests of the Smoky Mountains to the curvaceous farmland of Virginia.
As we move further north, I hope, I’ll be able to join the dots, to understand how these both can be connected to Metropolitan America.
I mention this because tonight we’re in Roanoke, Virgina – a little more than 200 miles from Washington DC, a paltry 400 (or so) from NYC itself. Things are becoming compacted as the nation gets squeezed up into its New England natal tract, like galaxies shrinking as Time is rewound towards a colonial Big Bang. After driving across Texas in the Spring, and managing to drive out of the Lone Star State on Saturday, this is a heady experience. Tomorrow I think we hit four states in one trip – I may explode.
I think – and I'm still exploring so I may well change my mind – that there are three Americas. Please let me know if I’ve missed any.
There’s the Wilderness: the deserts of Western Texas, the empty prairies, the endless mountains and forests that we have driven through today, all these evoke the vastness and unspoilt natural wonder that was enjoyed for so long by the Native American Indians, and which so enraptured the European settlers who came after. Such awesome vistas are not unique to North America, let alone the USA. But the nature of the ‘discovery’ of this continent and the idea of the ‘New World’ are such unshakeable cornerstones of modern western culture that it is impossible not to look on these deserts, mountains and forests as anything other than an echo of an earlier world, untainted by the mistakes of developed human society. It’s powerful stuff that does ‘catch the heart off-guard, and blow it open.’
Secondly, there’s Small Town America. My least favourite bit, because I have my own prejudices. Nearly everybody I know comes from a small town of some sort, and it seems to be the most prevalent of the Three Americas. I don’t like it because, to me, it is either a) the Wilderness Spoilt or b) New York Under-developed. Small Town America is not so very different from Small Town Anywhere Else except that it must always hint at the wondrous pre-colonial continent, whilst simultaneously lacking the effervescence and vibrancy of the metropolis. This is also where I live: Houston, albeit a vast city, is merely the biggest Small Town I’ve ever seen.
Thirdly, but maybe not lastly – I’ve still much to discover – there’s New York, of course: the Metropolis. I haven’t been to Los Angeles, or San Francisco, or Chicago but all great American cities have this in common: their towers were raised from the soil of the New World and propelled into the sky by myriad different peoples, from Europe, Africa and Asia. Their ambitions, stories and traditions continue to mix and overlap each other in these exciting places. They are incredible human achievements.
I feel familiar now with the boundary between the America of the Wilderness and that of the Small Towns. We made this journey again, today, this time from the forests of the Smoky Mountains to the curvaceous farmland of Virginia.
As we move further north, I hope, I’ll be able to join the dots, to understand how these both can be connected to Metropolitan America.
Day 4: Pigeon Forge, TN - Roanoke, VA
From one American classic song to another - goodbye, Old Smoky; hello, Blue Ridge Mountains. The Blue Ridge Parkway, celebrating its 75th anniversary, gave me all the timeless escapism that had been lacking from the park itself yesterday.
Editor's note: "Parkway" in England is not a word associated in any way with beauty or nature. Bristol, Tiverton, and my own personal favourite, Didcot, all boast 1960's railway stations called Parkways as part of a Modern Enhancement of British Rail. Basically, they were situated out of town and had carparks. See - carPARK, railWAY. Brilliant. No image could be further from the Parkway along the Blue Ridge mountains - a single carriageway in part designed and wholly managed by the National Park Service. I'm going to giggle every time I travel Cardiff-London on FGW from now on. Well, smile wryly, at least.
We were treated to glorious views on both sides, scarcely another car on the road, ancient forests softening each peak, wisps of cloud above us one minute, below us the next, as row after row of mountains disappeared into the distance. Smoky indeed. The tunnels had no lights - after the blinding sunshine of the high clear air, the darkness was breath-taking. Beautiful bright yellow daisies completed the colour palette along the sides of the road, matching the central line perfectly. Huge black and irridescent blue kamikazi butterflies divebombed the car as we drove along.
Then we crested a hill and the weather changed; the greens and yellows vanished as everything turned to blue and grey. Just as beautiful - completely different. We sat at lunch watching each mountain opposite cloak itself in cloud and disappear. We had managed only a quarter of our planned drive, but it was clear that if we stuck to the Parkway, half our journey would be in the dark; the weather was the excuse we needed to head down the hill and find a freeway. Happily, the Future I-26 West (I know - time travel, too) is a modern Parkway (of the good sort), and we soared over and raced through the Cherokee National Forest and were home in time for tea.
Editor's note: "Parkway" in England is not a word associated in any way with beauty or nature. Bristol, Tiverton, and my own personal favourite, Didcot, all boast 1960's railway stations called Parkways as part of a Modern Enhancement of British Rail. Basically, they were situated out of town and had carparks. See - carPARK, railWAY. Brilliant. No image could be further from the Parkway along the Blue Ridge mountains - a single carriageway in part designed and wholly managed by the National Park Service. I'm going to giggle every time I travel Cardiff-London on FGW from now on. Well, smile wryly, at least.
We were treated to glorious views on both sides, scarcely another car on the road, ancient forests softening each peak, wisps of cloud above us one minute, below us the next, as row after row of mountains disappeared into the distance. Smoky indeed. The tunnels had no lights - after the blinding sunshine of the high clear air, the darkness was breath-taking. Beautiful bright yellow daisies completed the colour palette along the sides of the road, matching the central line perfectly. Huge black and irridescent blue kamikazi butterflies divebombed the car as we drove along.
Then we crested a hill and the weather changed; the greens and yellows vanished as everything turned to blue and grey. Just as beautiful - completely different. We sat at lunch watching each mountain opposite cloak itself in cloud and disappear. We had managed only a quarter of our planned drive, but it was clear that if we stuck to the Parkway, half our journey would be in the dark; the weather was the excuse we needed to head down the hill and find a freeway. Happily, the Future I-26 West (I know - time travel, too) is a modern Parkway (of the good sort), and we soared over and raced through the Cherokee National Forest and were home in time for tea.
Today’s statistics:
- Started driving: 10.04
- Finished driving: 19.15
- Miles: 353
- New States: 1
- New State license plates seen: 4 (with a following wind. I swear it was South Dakota).
- Viewpoints stopped at: 4
- Tickets bought for Monticello: 4
- Phone number for Gun Runners, Blountville, TN: 423-323-AK47
- Breakfast: Smoky Mountain Pancake House, Pigeon Forge
- Lunch: Mt Pisgah Lodge, Blue Ridge Parkway
- Dinner: Cold pizza from yesterday and apple pie in Waffle House for the kids / take-out Mexican in the room at the Super 8 for Mike and me.
Today’s Discoveries:
- My sons already have a glorious and blossoming relationship in which I am completely incidental.
- When Mike wants a beer, he REALLY wants a beer.
- I was wrong about the stuffed bear; Christopher really does love it.
- A corkscrew can be used as a bottle-opener as long as a) you've tried everything else in the room that's made of metal; b) you've made your fingers bleed; c) you've damaged at least three pieces of motel property and d) you REALLY want a beer.
Monday, 26 July 2010
On top of Ol' Smoky
We didn’t go anywhere today, except up. Drove down the 441 through Gatlinburg (that’s what
They’re not biiiiiiig mountains, but the tallest peak, Clingman’s Dome, at 6643ft, is the third highest in the
Here you’ll find the log cabins and tiny white toy churches of the families who lived here, in splendid but crazy isolation, a mere century and a half before the invention of the internet would make such a lifestyle even remotely tolerable. In truth, I felt quite annoyed that the Europeans had dared to come in live in this beautiful place, clearing two thirds of the forest before the National Park was established. It seemed to me that it deserved to be left to itself and I found I had no problem with the thought of Cherokee Indians hunting amongst the enchanting stillness of the trees, as they had done for generations before President Andrew Jackson ordered them to be evicted from
As the afternoon wore on we began to wind our way up into the mountains. National Parks are enormous and consequently have good roads. But a combination of great distances, popularity and strictly enforced speed limits mean that a journey between sights of interest can take a surprisingly long time and you soon find yourself in a slow moving convoy of vehicles, snaking between switchbacks. By the time we had got up Clingman’s Dome to the trail head, five thousand feet above the valley, it was gone five o’clock, and the hot sun had succumbed to thickening clouds, leaving the air pleasantly cool and the sky grey.
At the top of Old Smoky there’s a half-mile path to the summit, paved but steep. There were already clouds below us, white wisps obscuring some of the nearer peaks. Above us the sky was darkening and rich with the echoes of approaching thunder. The climb felt longer than it was, I’m sure, and at the top we were rewarded with ghostly views of the nearby mountains, fading to white one by one as the storm approached. The viewing tower (another climb!) was still busy and people were still coming up the path behind us, but it seemed clear to us at least not to tarry. On the way back, the forests below us seemed to have vanished entirely into the cloud and the car park was becoming foggy as we packed up and got moving.
Within minutes the first fat rain drops were slapping into the windscreen and we slowed right down as the steep road down the mountain became slick with water. I was sure that we would end up in another interminable caterpillar of cars, creeping down through the rain as the natural splendour of the park was reduced to a tourist gridlock. But this didn’t happen – for whatever reason we didn’t see a single car.
The road turned this way and that down the mountain and we followed it. The countless trees pressed in on either side and the forest came to life about us as the water rushed all around, racing us down the mountain: cliffs of dark shiny rock spewed cataracts of white, the hairpins gushed with tiny rivers that ran across our path. The sky blackened between bursts of fork lightning that crashed against the peaks, but if there was thunder I couldn’t hear it over the noise of the rain.
Suddenly and momentarily we had the forest to ourselves. It seemed right. We were passing through, like the Cherokee.
Day 3: Great Smoky Mountains National Park
One of the most popular sections of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park (and the one we spent most of our time at today) is Cades Cove. This was first colonized in around 1820 (and yes, I mean first colonized – there is no evidence of Cherokee settlement before then), and in the 21st century it’s pretty hard to understand why. Today’s visitors are met with a St Fagan’s style collection of log cabins, smoke-houses, a mill and three (count them – three) churches.
The community was short-lived (in European terms!). Changes those first settlers could never have imagined led to the creation of the National Park in 1924. One inhabitant took his case to be allowed to keep his land to the Tennessee Supreme Court three times, but to no avail – he was forced to sell in 1937. Some residents chose to receive less for their land and retain the right to stay until their death – most of those actually moved away as the school shut, the facilities moved, the tourists came, the world changed.
Leaving aside the wanderlust (or wanderneed) of a bygone age, and my new-found desire to re-read Little House on the Prairie, the shred of story which struck me most was found in the graveyard of the Primitive Baptist Church. Two grave stones stand next to each other – one much newer than the other, but clearly intended to replicate the older carving. If I remember it correctly (and forgive me if I don't - this has grown on me over the day), the older said simply:
Lora Estelle
Dau of Mr and Mrs
Andy M Kenell
Born and Died
Feb 3, 1911
That points to a family tragedy which can be found in any country graveyard (and many times over just in that tiny plot – life was hard in Cades Cove). But the story which is still playing in my mind is the other stone:
Lura Louelle
Dau of Mr and Mrs
Andy M Kenell
Born Feb 3, 1911
Died Jan 24, 2004
What a poignant thing that a woman in her nineties chose to be buried next to the twin she never knew, with headstones as similar as their names. Was this shadow always over her life? Is that why she never married? Did she ever move away in spirit from this beautiful ghost town? Would she have liked to think that another similarly-named woman from across the ocean would think of her; call back her children to explain her story? Or would she have had no time for sentimental twaddle?
Today’s statistics:
- Started driving: 10.37
- Finished driving: 20.43
- Miles: 129
- New States: 1 (I think – the Tennessee / North Carolina border is a bit wibbly-wobbly)
- New State license plates seen: 5
- Deer seen: 3
- Wild turkeys seen: 11
- Bears seen: 0 (grr)
- Breakfast: Smoky Mountain Pancake House, Pigeon Forge
- Lunch: Picnic, Cades Cove
- Dinner: TGI Friday, Sevierville
Today’s Discoveries:
- Mike has a very high lightning threshold.
- Not all National Parks are lonely wildernesses.
- Houston has nothing to complain about, heat-wise.
- Sandwiches can taste better than they look.
The Sun King
Day Two: Little Rock , AR
Oh, Pigeon Forge. How sleepy and alpine you seemed when we read about your motels all those weeks ago. What a terrible surprise you had ready for us at the end of this long, long day’s journey…
About a million years ago, the four of us stood before the State Capitol in Little Rock , Arkansas Washington DC
But of course, and seriously, the federal government did come down here, to Little Rock Central High School
“And that still goes on today doesn’t it,” he said.
“Er, no,” we replied, trying to sound confident. “Segregation is illegal now.”
“But why are there boy restrooms and girl restrooms?” he insisted. “Why can’t everyone just share?”
Instead of answering that, we went and had breakfast. Loose talk of visiting the Clinton Presidential Library came to nothing – it doesn’t open until 1pm on Sundays. So with nothing else to keep us in Little Rock , we soon hit the road again, heading for the Mississippi River, the state of Tennessee and Memphis
It’s Arkansas all the way to the river, but the Mississippi
And, of course, we found it. The Sun Records Studio stands on Union Avenue Memphis
We took a forty minute to
ur about the building and found the authenticity we had wanted. The guide gave us the history of the place, played us music and showed us original recording equipment before finally taking us into the small studio itself where Elvis, Roy Orbison, Carl Perkins, Johnny Cash and Jerry Lee Lewis had all performed. But we discovered even more about the black musicians who had previously recorded here and influenced them: Howlin’ Wolf, the Prisonaires (who met in the county jail and won pardons due to their hit songs), Little Milton and Rosco Gordon. It was a fabulous place, miraculously preserved and, undeniably, the real deal.
ur about the building and found the authenticity we had wanted. The guide gave us the history of the place, played us music and showed us original recording equipment before finally taking us into the small studio itself where Elvis, Roy Orbison, Carl Perkins, Johnny Cash and Jerry Lee Lewis had all performed. But we discovered even more about the black musicians who had previously recorded here and influenced them: Howlin’ Wolf, the Prisonaires (who met in the county jail and won pardons due to their hit songs), Little Milton and Rosco Gordon. It was a fabulous place, miraculously preserved and, undeniably, the real deal.Then after a late lunch it was back in the car. Incredibly we now had to drive almost the entire length of Tennessee Nashville and on towards Knoxville Smoky Mountains of Tennessee/North Carolina border, and the sleepy little town of Pigeon Forge
Except that, on arrival we were presented with a incredible couple of miles of tawdry illuminations. Someone has had the idea to turn this place into some sort of Vegas-style strip, a miasma of neon restaurants, motels, aquariums, mini golf courses, cabaret theatres and other odd attractions of an uncertain nature. We’ll have to see what it actually looks like in the daylight, and I’m sure a lot of it will actually prove to be fun, but it wasn’t what we were expecting in the foothills of a National Park.
Sometimes America is too much Graceland and not enough Sun Records.
Day 2: Little Rock, AR - Pigeon Forge, TN
I've never been to the Vatican. Nor to Lords or Stratford. Nor to La Scala, actually. So I wasn't really ready for Gracelands. I find Elvis' music wonderful; his style ground-breaking; his life-story tragic. But I couldn't summon up the heart (or the cash) to fully participate.
I just don't think we Brits have anything approaching the reverence and enterprise which is required to create such a tangible cathedral for an individual, however extraordinary his talent; however sad his story. It's not just that we don't have a musician of that stature to worship (though maybe if you're one of a fab four, you can only expect 25% of the attention). And it's not just early death - where is the mecca for John Lennon fans? Strawberry Fields in Central Park. QED. Does anyone even know where George Harrison is buried? I wasn't even sure whether Ringo was still alive (apparently he was 70 last week - that's a sure-fire way to lose the public's attention and admiration, isn't it...).
I do have a plan, though. We'll take as read that I'm not so desperate for post-mortem glory as to self-destruct (and that I can't afford the planes and cars - but I don't think that would do it anyway - Beaulieu never made it). No, I reckon being buried in your own back yard is the way to draw the crowds. So, no-one's allowed to take my remains to Westminster Abbey where they can be viewed for free; I want a tomb on the patio in Plasnewydd Place.
And, in a small unbeautiful building on the rough side of town, I found my own way to stand amazed and enchanted by the Elvis' story, and the moments which changed not only his life but that of all musicians and music-lovers to come. I stood listening to the first radio broadcast of his first recording, in the studio where he and two others gathered round one solo mic; where the song the producer leapt on was simply an end-of-a-bad-day, is-this-ever-going-to-happen jam just to make themselves feel better. There's a lesson, if ever there was one.
Today’s statistics:
I just don't think we Brits have anything approaching the reverence and enterprise which is required to create such a tangible cathedral for an individual, however extraordinary his talent; however sad his story. It's not just that we don't have a musician of that stature to worship (though maybe if you're one of a fab four, you can only expect 25% of the attention). And it's not just early death - where is the mecca for John Lennon fans? Strawberry Fields in Central Park. QED. Does anyone even know where George Harrison is buried? I wasn't even sure whether Ringo was still alive (apparently he was 70 last week - that's a sure-fire way to lose the public's attention and admiration, isn't it...).
I do have a plan, though. We'll take as read that I'm not so desperate for post-mortem glory as to self-destruct (and that I can't afford the planes and cars - but I don't think that would do it anyway - Beaulieu never made it). No, I reckon being buried in your own back yard is the way to draw the crowds. So, no-one's allowed to take my remains to Westminster Abbey where they can be viewed for free; I want a tomb on the patio in Plasnewydd Place.
And, in a small unbeautiful building on the rough side of town, I found my own way to stand amazed and enchanted by the Elvis' story, and the moments which changed not only his life but that of all musicians and music-lovers to come. I stood listening to the first radio broadcast of his first recording, in the studio where he and two others gathered round one solo mic; where the song the producer leapt on was simply an end-of-a-bad-day, is-this-ever-going-to-happen jam just to make themselves feel better. There's a lesson, if ever there was one.
Today’s statistics:
- Started driving: 7.44am (CST)
- Finished driving: 23.23 (EST)
- Miles: 570
- New States: 1
- New State license plates seen: 18 (and another Alaska – incredible)
- Favourite place-name: Soddy Daisy, TN
- Total towns called Carthage so far driven through: 2
- Breakfast: Starbucks, Little Rock
- Lunch: Macdonalds, Memphis (even that's a tiny bit rock'n'roll)
- Dinner: O'Charley's, Cookeville
- Sunday morning is not a good time to be a tourist in Little Rock.
- Neon is alive and well in East Tennessee.
- The time-zone doesn't even follow the State border here; it's county by county. I can't work out what that means for commuters.
- The Mississippi River is bigger than you think it is.
Sunday, 25 July 2010
Day One: Houston, TX to Little Rock, AR. 439 miles.
Saturday, 24 July 2010
DAY 1: Houston, TX – Little Rock, AR
So, Grandma died more than eighteen months ago. But the estate took a while, and I guess it was only at the end of last year that I actually received the legacy she’d left. She’d given us the perfect amount – too much to fritter away, too little to feel I had to invest it or pay off the mortgage. “Do something nice,” my Dad said. “Do something for yourself. Grandma was very fond of you.”
So the seed was sown – Grandma was phenomenally supportive about our move to the US, though I knew she was sad to see me go (and especially to say goodbye to her great-grandkids, with whom she was so indulgent it made my Dad and Uncle goggle). How better to spend her gift than on the trip of a lifetime – seeing a huge chunk of this enormous country we now call home.
It’s always struck me as unfair that I spend my year travelling around the country when I’m the one who’s seen a lot of it before. When we first came to Houston, Mike had seen no more of the States than the boys had; I had two branches of family over here, and had visited on several occasions both with parents and independently. We managed a weekend in Manhattan as a family earlier this year, but the rest of the country is still a book to be read; a road to be travelled.
Today the travel started. We are, basically, driving to Boston, and then back again. The plan is 18 states (plus DC), 4200 miles and 24 days. As well as parks, landmarks and museums, there’s some opera thrown in (when isn’t there?), and a visit with family, and a big, serendipitous goodbye. I can’t promise I’ll write every night, but I’ll try.
Today’s statistics:
Today's discoveries:
So the seed was sown – Grandma was phenomenally supportive about our move to the US, though I knew she was sad to see me go (and especially to say goodbye to her great-grandkids, with whom she was so indulgent it made my Dad and Uncle goggle). How better to spend her gift than on the trip of a lifetime – seeing a huge chunk of this enormous country we now call home.
It’s always struck me as unfair that I spend my year travelling around the country when I’m the one who’s seen a lot of it before. When we first came to Houston, Mike had seen no more of the States than the boys had; I had two branches of family over here, and had visited on several occasions both with parents and independently. We managed a weekend in Manhattan as a family earlier this year, but the rest of the country is still a book to be read; a road to be travelled.
Today the travel started. We are, basically, driving to Boston, and then back again. The plan is 18 states (plus DC), 4200 miles and 24 days. As well as parks, landmarks and museums, there’s some opera thrown in (when isn’t there?), and a visit with family, and a big, serendipitous goodbye. I can’t promise I’ll write every night, but I’ll try.
Today’s statistics:
- Started driving: 11.39
- Finished driving: 21.22
- Miles: 439
- States: 2
- State license plates seen: 20 (including Alaska – an audacious start)
- Favourite place-name: Uncertain, TX
- Back-seat vomits: 1
- Rooms turned down at motel because of bugs / dirt: 3
- Lunch: Jack in the Box, Diboll
- Dinner: Cracker Barrel, Arkadelphia
Today's discoveries:
- This isn’t going to be a gastronomic trip.
- We should have bought two copies of New Super Mario Bros.
- Family Dollar is a great store for cleaning supplies.
- The boys don’t like dumplings.
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