Friday, October 2, 2009

From the Big City to the Quiet Country by and by

For most of this trip I have not visited large cities. I was in San Francisco the first night and I flitted around the perimeter of LA. But for the most part, I've been sticking to the byways, the rural areas, and the college towns. I have a strong city boy streak, however, so maybe it was inevitable that I would cave in for a few days. I left Gettysburg bound for Philadelphia, New York city, and points Northeast.

Because I had tarried so long on the road, it was almost 10 o'clock before I was confronted with the traditional choice: Geno's or Pat's King of Steaks for my cheesesteak. Having had Pat's once before, I opted to give Geno's a try. The main difference, as near as I can tell, is that Pat's chops their steak up and Geno's leaves it as more of a whole piece. Here's the thing...and this might only be true for me...I don't think either of them is the best steak in Philadelphia. The best steak I ever had was at a corner deli near some hotel downtown. It was totally unremarkable, and I certainly couldn't tell you the name of the place. It doesn't matter. The point is, by the time something is built up to the point where the name identity, Pat's or Geno's, matters more than the content, I just lose interest. Random corner deli steak is made with lower quality meat by a guy who's just waiting for the lunch rush to end. That's the best steak in Philly for my money. Visiting as if you just lived there is the way I like to do it. Finding things by chance is better than following the guide book. The best stuff is rarely the stuff you hear about.

The next day I cruised up the Jersey turnpike to visit my friends Brian and Karla David-Marshall and spend a day in New York City. I got a later start than anticipated and, long and short of it, I only spent an afternoon and evening in the city visiting a bookstore, having a few cocktails, and going out for some fine Peking Duck. I like taking the subway in New York, really in any major city. People express opinions on the relative strengths and weaknesses of the systems in New York , London, Tokyo, Paris, Chicago...whatever. In one important respect they are all the same. It's as if there are two cities, the above ground one and the subway. The interface between the two worlds is that instant where you climb up the steps and emerge onto the street. Whenever I cross that threshold I'm always disoriented, regardless of how well I know the town. You travel on the train for a while, hopefully going in the general right direction. You get off closer to your inevitable destination than when you started. But eventually you come up into daylight and you don't know precisely which way to turn. It takes me some time to get my bearings, but I always manage.

I have picked up forward momentum again, lost partly during my unexpected stay in Florida. Although I had only the shortest of visits to New York, I wanted to move, move, move. Off I sped to the outskirts of Boston and my friends John Lavery and Shannon May. I know John from my college days. I'm pretty sure I thought he was a jerk when I first met him. How we wound up becoming friends I can't quite explain. But that we are. From John I have learned something extremely important: how you do a thing can matter as much or even more than what you do. For instance, John taught me how to tie a bow tie. It's not enough to merely wear a bow around your neck. One simply must have a proper bow tie, and learn how to tie it oneself. These days, John is devoting his time to being a country squire, as near as I can tell. I arrived just in time to help John unload about half a chord of firewood he was laying in for the fall. Honestly, it felt great to enjoy some work in the fall air, and I am a bit of envious of John's country squire life. They have a very nice house out in the country, in the small town of Carlisle, MA. John has heavily renovated it. They have populated the grounds with various 'producing' animals, notably about a dozen chickens and several bee hives. Urban and part-time farming, especially chickens, seems to be an absolute fad these days. My friend and former co worker Casey Reeter is raising chickens back in Seattle. John and Shannon have theirs. And my friend Dave, from whose house I'm posting, has his. Me, I grew up around enough farms that I think I'm still burned out.

The next day I was moving again. The area around Boston represents the final turn of my lap. From here on out, I'm on the home stretch. I started this final leg with a visit to the historic town of Concord, just south of John and Shannon's place. Concord is the sight of what Emmerson called "The Shot Heard Round The World." In April of 1775, some British regulars were dispatched from their barracks in Boston to investigate rumors of an arms store held by some of the local seditious rebellion lot. If the rumors were true one supposes they were to seize it. Crowds of those seditious folks dogged the British march, some shots were fired at a place called Lexington Green but they amounted to little. In Concord, though, the Minute Men and various militias from Concord, Acton, Lincoln, and the surrounding area confronted the British at The Old North Bridge. Here a bonafide order to fire was given by the American militia major in charge. Three soldiers were killed, and the Brits opted to withdraw rather than fight an actual musket battle with what must have seemed to these regular soldiers like an armed mob. This is generally regarded as the start of the American Revolution. The poor British: at Concord they opted to not massacre the crowd and they lose the PR war and the colony. At Amristar they opt to massacre the crowd and they lose the PR war and the colony. They just can't win for losing!

This was the first of October, and I would spend the day crossing New England and upstate New York bound for the old Northwest Territory. I had meant to start my entire roadtrip earlier. I thought I could split the summer; one half in Seattle and one half traveling the road. But one thing led to another and I find myself on the road as summer has given way to fall. It's ok, and in any event its better than the alternative. For most of my life I have looked forward to the fall. It always seems to be the most reliably good season. New England, they say, is where fall is best appreciated. Indeed, the trees are just starting to come out in all their bright glory here. Maybe two weeks later and it would be even better. This specific day, though, was gray and overcast. Periodically I was subjected to rain. If I'm here a day or two earlier or a day or two later, I might have the picture-postcard-perfect clear skies and bright red and yellow hillsides you see in the brochures.

Time is like that. I can feel Time sitting on my shoulders. It urges me forward and reminds me that it's there. But it doesn't help me to figure out what to do. It only warns me of the dire consequences of doing nothing. Stay or go. Take the north or the south road. Study or work or play. Fish or cut bait. Time won't help me figure out the path, it only forces me to do _something_.

But I thoroughly enjoyed what color I could. And by the end of the day, as I was nearing the end of New York state, crossing into Erie Pennsylvania bound for Cleveland, the clouds partially parted. I could see sunlight streaking down to earth, looking the way it does at the end of movies. And although evening was approaching, it felt like a new day.

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