The Month That Was - August 2009: From a personal perspective the big achievement this month was getting through a revision of Misspent Youth. I am now comfortable with the idea that it is good enough for publication or, more accurately, it will be good enough for publication once it is further refined. The story is complete. The words are all written. My concern at this point is the structure. The timeline is lopsided in the early activity takes place over weeks and the later activity is condensed into a couple of days. Additionally, there are rapid and numerous changes of POV and there about ten characters to track. This is more complicated than anything I have written before and the structure of the chapters and divisions have a great importance. So my new goal is to nail down a workable structure then turn it over a beta release to some trusted eyes. There is much work to do, but I finally feel positive about its eventual release.
The other wonderful thing that happened this month is that I finally recovered from this horrendous ankle injury that was keeping me from doing any sort of running all summer. I was never really sure what was wrong, either a bad tendon tear or a stress fracture, but whatever it was I literally could not do anything that required me to push off my left foot with any force. Walking was OK, as was biking, but running or jumping were right out. This had continued for nearly four months. I tried everything short of doctors to get it rehabbed -- stretches, muscle activation therapy, ultrasound. I was seriously despairing of it being permanent and just another indicator of my mortality. Finally, I started using a foam roller to massage and loosen the muscles and either that worked or it luckily coincided with it healing naturally. Anyway, I am back to running again (and doing box jumps for that matter), although I am building very gradually. I had hoped to get up to doing the Mackinac Island 8-Mile run next month, but that may have to wait until next year. Still, I can feign immortality again, and that counts for something. Even if I did finally break down and buy a pair of reading glasses.
Noob of the Road
Hacker Smackers
Plane Foolishness
The Michigan Death Spiral Continues
Florida Reboot
Flick Check: Star Trek
Book Look: With the Old Breed
Travel Rewind: A Nondescript Quasi-Unknown Demi-Paradise
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
Noob of the Road
Noob of the Road: Apropos of nothing but my late life appreciation of road trips we have none other than Paul Theroux -- who has traveled throughout the world, from some of the more remote and undeveloped areas to great sprawling Asian cities, from railing across continents to sailing across oceans -- now in his sixties and taking his first road trip across the U.S. having seen pretty much none of his own country.
Yep. Nothing compares to flyover country. Theroux did it wrong to some extent, barreling through the nation at a breakneck pace. He acknowledges this, saying that he didn't really see places long enough to do anything but make a list of where he wants to spend a proper amount of time. That would be awesome. If we suddenly got a slew U.S. travel stories from Theroux, I think we'd all be grateful for his road trips.
Open offer to Paul: drop me an email and I'll design you an epic itinerary.
In my life, I had sought out other parts of the world--Patagonia, Assam, the Yangtze; I had not realized that the dramatic desert I had imagined Patagonia to be was visible on my way from Sedona to Santa Fe, that the rolling hills of West Virginia were reminiscent of Assam and that my sight of the Mississippi recalled other great rivers. I'm glad I saw the rest of the world before I drove across America. I have traveled so often in other countries and am so accustomed to other landscapes, I sometimes felt on my trip that I was seeing America, coast to coast, with the eyes of a foreigner, feeling overwhelmed, humbled and grateful.
Yep. Nothing compares to flyover country. Theroux did it wrong to some extent, barreling through the nation at a breakneck pace. He acknowledges this, saying that he didn't really see places long enough to do anything but make a list of where he wants to spend a proper amount of time. That would be awesome. If we suddenly got a slew U.S. travel stories from Theroux, I think we'd all be grateful for his road trips.
Open offer to Paul: drop me an email and I'll design you an epic itinerary.
Hacker Smackers
Hacker Smackers: Generally, I find it despicable when journalists take it upon themselves to spin supposed "news" into judgmental tracts. Such hubris and arrogance is deeply ugly and consummately slap-worthy. That's why I am moderately ashamed of myself for taking such glee in the Smoking Gun's high-handed take down of a group of cyber-vandals known as Pranknet.
Pranknet is a loose affiliation of monumental losers, pinheads, and convicted child molesters, who communicate in some chat room then go off and coerce innocent people into foolish acts by preying on their good and unsuspicious natures. For example, they seem to get a kick out of calling some place of business over the phone and convincing them to set off their fire alarm systems. Sometimes they run into particularly gullible marks and convince them to do especially humiliating or hurtful things. Often they just post fake Craigslist ads and deluge unsuspecting strangers with calls and visitors. Basically, they're a pack of infantile jerk-offs.
Anyway, Smoking Gun did some exhaustive research on this group, eventually unmasking them and turning all the evidence over to the FBI. Then of course, they wrote it up for publication making no attempt to hide their outright derision and loathing of these pathetic clowns. And I was surprised by how satisfying I found the venomous tone of the article. Maybe it's the way the Pranknet types virtually strut around all smug and self-righteous. Maybe it's the way they convince themselves that the people they hurt are really just "sheep". I couldn't help thinking they deserved it.
More standard coverage of a more interesting hacker comes from Rolling Stone. (Who knew Rolling Stone magazine still existed?) This prankster was old school and actually used the telephone. He had to because he was blind. Like the mythology goes, being blind he developed some kind of super hearing. He could control telephones and even switchboard networks by whistling at proper frequencies. He could hear and distinguish the tiniest sounds. He could imitate any sound or voice he heard. It's like something out of a comic book. But sadly, he used his superpowers for evil -- like organizing police raids on the houses of anyone who wouldn't have phone sex with him, a process he called SWAT-ing.
Unlike the Pranknet group, this guy is doing time. He foolishly continued his shenanigans after his 18th birthday and discovered adults get treated very differently than misguided teenaged nerds who play on their disabilities. Despite that, he doesn't seem all that regretful.
In both cases, the word that comes to mind is Comeuppance. I'll allow myself a little sanctimony, just this once.
Pranknet is a loose affiliation of monumental losers, pinheads, and convicted child molesters, who communicate in some chat room then go off and coerce innocent people into foolish acts by preying on their good and unsuspicious natures. For example, they seem to get a kick out of calling some place of business over the phone and convincing them to set off their fire alarm systems. Sometimes they run into particularly gullible marks and convince them to do especially humiliating or hurtful things. Often they just post fake Craigslist ads and deluge unsuspecting strangers with calls and visitors. Basically, they're a pack of infantile jerk-offs.
Anyway, Smoking Gun did some exhaustive research on this group, eventually unmasking them and turning all the evidence over to the FBI. Then of course, they wrote it up for publication making no attempt to hide their outright derision and loathing of these pathetic clowns. And I was surprised by how satisfying I found the venomous tone of the article. Maybe it's the way the Pranknet types virtually strut around all smug and self-righteous. Maybe it's the way they convince themselves that the people they hurt are really just "sheep". I couldn't help thinking they deserved it.
More standard coverage of a more interesting hacker comes from Rolling Stone. (Who knew Rolling Stone magazine still existed?) This prankster was old school and actually used the telephone. He had to because he was blind. Like the mythology goes, being blind he developed some kind of super hearing. He could control telephones and even switchboard networks by whistling at proper frequencies. He could hear and distinguish the tiniest sounds. He could imitate any sound or voice he heard. It's like something out of a comic book. But sadly, he used his superpowers for evil -- like organizing police raids on the houses of anyone who wouldn't have phone sex with him, a process he called SWAT-ing.
Unlike the Pranknet group, this guy is doing time. He foolishly continued his shenanigans after his 18th birthday and discovered adults get treated very differently than misguided teenaged nerds who play on their disabilities. Despite that, he doesn't seem all that regretful.
In both cases, the word that comes to mind is Comeuppance. I'll allow myself a little sanctimony, just this once.
Plane Foolishness
Plane Foolishness: Longtime readers know that as a result of numerous personal experiences I have deemed Mesa Airlines to be The Worst Airline in the World. I won't rehash the stories, but let's just say that if you are ever unfortunate enough to have a flight scheduled on Mesa and you end up only severely inconvenienced, you can consider yourself lucky.
So one day my eye lands on a headline: "Schedule Fatigued Pilots Who Fell Asleep". It seems the two man crew for a short hop flight in Hawaii between Oahu and the Big Island -- on Go! Airlines -- decided to catch some Zs while the plane was on autopilot.
How comforting to us frequent flyers. But I left out the best part. The part that made me jump up and shout "Yes! Yes! I knew it!"
I've read it ten times now and I'm still just sitting here nodding my head.
In other news, as a follow-up to my disastrous trip back from Moab on US Airways, wherein they absolutely hosed me over a cancelled flight, I happened upon this story about airlines being fined for hosing folks who get bumped or have their flights cancelled. An interesting stat: In the first six months of last year (2008) the Dept. of Transportation received 50 complaints from US Airways passengers who received insufficient compensation. The DOT, in turn, fined Useless Airways $140,000 for their transgressions.
Now let's see. Let's assume for every complaint the DOT received there were 50 others who, like me, just tried to get compensation from the airlines and gave up after being told to talk to the hand. And let's assume every hosed passenger saved US Airways an average of $100 in compensation (vouchers, refunds, whatever). That means US Airways had 2500 non-complaints (50 non-complaints for each of the 50 complaints) for which they save $100 each, for a total of $250,000. Since they were fined $140,000, they came out ahead by $110,000. Seems to me shafting your customers is worth the risk.
This is me turning into a conspiracy crank before your very eyes.
Oh, and one last airline observation. I am sick and tired of getting hip checked in my aisle seat every time some wide load flight attendant lumbers through the cabin. If you're going to design planes with those narrow aisles, at least give us proper stewardesses who could fit between the seats without greasing up their thighs.
So one day my eye lands on a headline: "Schedule Fatigued Pilots Who Fell Asleep". It seems the two man crew for a short hop flight in Hawaii between Oahu and the Big Island -- on Go! Airlines -- decided to catch some Zs while the plane was on autopilot.
Controllers tried unsuccessfully to contact the crew by radio and watched the jet fly to a navigation point and turn toward Hilo's airport without descending. Two other airplanes also tried to contact the Go! crew.
The jet flew 26 nautical miles past Hilo at 21,000 feet before the crew awoke 25 minutes after their last radio transmission. They contacted controllers and landed safely.
A contributing factor was the captain's previously undiagnosed severe obstructive sleep apnea, a condition that likely caused him to experience chronic daytime fatigue and contributed to his falling asleep, the NTSB said.
How comforting to us frequent flyers. But I left out the best part. The part that made me jump up and shout "Yes! Yes! I knew it!"
Go! is a unit of Mesa Airlines.
I've read it ten times now and I'm still just sitting here nodding my head.
In other news, as a follow-up to my disastrous trip back from Moab on US Airways, wherein they absolutely hosed me over a cancelled flight, I happened upon this story about airlines being fined for hosing folks who get bumped or have their flights cancelled. An interesting stat: In the first six months of last year (2008) the Dept. of Transportation received 50 complaints from US Airways passengers who received insufficient compensation. The DOT, in turn, fined Useless Airways $140,000 for their transgressions.
Now let's see. Let's assume for every complaint the DOT received there were 50 others who, like me, just tried to get compensation from the airlines and gave up after being told to talk to the hand. And let's assume every hosed passenger saved US Airways an average of $100 in compensation (vouchers, refunds, whatever). That means US Airways had 2500 non-complaints (50 non-complaints for each of the 50 complaints) for which they save $100 each, for a total of $250,000. Since they were fined $140,000, they came out ahead by $110,000. Seems to me shafting your customers is worth the risk.
This is me turning into a conspiracy crank before your very eyes.
Oh, and one last airline observation. I am sick and tired of getting hip checked in my aisle seat every time some wide load flight attendant lumbers through the cabin. If you're going to design planes with those narrow aisles, at least give us proper stewardesses who could fit between the seats without greasing up their thighs.
The Michigan Death Spiral Continues
The Michigan Death Spiral Continues: No, I can't seem to leave the follies of my home State without comment.
The ongoing operation of the "new" General Motors proceeds in a universe of surreality. A case-in-point being the machinations around the Orion plant. While making plans to return to some semblance of financial viability, GM execs decided it was best to close their problematic plant in the northern Detroit suburb of Lake Orion. It simply wasn't a profitable operation. But wait -- you can't possibly put those workers out in the streets, think of the cost to society! Best we keep the plant open and running, says the UAW -- which also happens to be the biggest GM shareholder. So deals are cut and arms are twisted and the great State of Michigan offers GM a Dr. Evil-esque one billion dollars in tax cuts (because the bailout money they've already received wasn't enough) to keep the plant open. Now the plant can be profitable, right? Well, no. You see the money is to be used to re-tool the plant to build tiny little econoboxes that adhere to the desire of the federal government (the second biggest shareholder in GM) for fuel efficiency -- despite the fact that such vehicles have never, even at the height of gas prices, sold enough to make money in this country. So the "new" GM business plan is:
Maybe they'll make it up on volume. How long before I can write off my portion of the bailout as a tax loss?
On the other hand, there is at least one example of someone dealing with reality rather than surreality. A consortium of Credit Unions has developed something called Save to Win wherein you get an entry in a raffle for a grand prize of up to $100,000 for every $25 dollars you deposit into your savings account. Now, a few moments thought will quickly reveal the absurdity of this. Your chance of winning is so small that you are almost certainly better off taking the time to find a higher interest rate than the somewhat low one offered by the program. But thoughtful people are not the target of the program. Easy money seekers are the target. The short-sighted are the target. People who simply do not have the intellectual wherewithal to do contingency planning are the target. The bank gets cheap assets (deposits on which they pay a lower interest rate). The suckers, er, customers get all tingly over a possible big payoff, but they also get something else -- money in the bank for a rainy day, although they won't have any appreciation of it. Absurd, definitely; but brilliantly rooted in reality. Nice to see that for a change.
Meanwhile, the City of Detroit wallows in its own persistent hell. The school system isn't just a total failure at education. It is corrupt beyond description, violent as a third-world hell-hole, and now, effectively bankrupt. Some choice quotes:
How could things get like this? Well...
Did you even have to ask?
Strangely enough, as bad as Detroit is -- and it's very, very bad -- if left alone to succeed without regulatory boards and layers of bureaucracy, some people have found a way to make something of the place. Specifically: Farmers. Imagine that. The return of rural Detroit. If left to their own devices, these folks could probably go whole hog and have barn-raising parties and build one-room schoolhouses where kids actually learn something. But what would the Board of Education say?
The article is a bit confused, especially in its implied ideas about economics. The thought chain is that since there are no longer grocery stores in Detroit and everyone has to shop at convenience stores, people eat atrociously and are severely unhealthy. If they farmed their own food, they could simply feed themselves and live holistically (whatever that means). That's not how farming works; it's an industry and the way it would help is by making use of the arable land that Detroit has in abundance now that everyone is abandoning their homes. This builds income for people who can then support the existence of profitable grocery stores so they can get a well rounded diet. But the hippie-commies at Guernica magazine have the right general idea which is to allow creative and clever people make use of the available assets rather than let everything sit in decay because it's impossible to get the bureaucracy to act without some kick back involved. Sadly, I think the only real question is how long it will take the powers of the City to find a way to crush them.
But just so I don't end on a sour note, we Michiganders who are staying have some good reasons.
The ongoing operation of the "new" General Motors proceeds in a universe of surreality. A case-in-point being the machinations around the Orion plant. While making plans to return to some semblance of financial viability, GM execs decided it was best to close their problematic plant in the northern Detroit suburb of Lake Orion. It simply wasn't a profitable operation. But wait -- you can't possibly put those workers out in the streets, think of the cost to society! Best we keep the plant open and running, says the UAW -- which also happens to be the biggest GM shareholder. So deals are cut and arms are twisted and the great State of Michigan offers GM a Dr. Evil-esque one billion dollars in tax cuts (because the bailout money they've already received wasn't enough) to keep the plant open. Now the plant can be profitable, right? Well, no. You see the money is to be used to re-tool the plant to build tiny little econoboxes that adhere to the desire of the federal government (the second biggest shareholder in GM) for fuel efficiency -- despite the fact that such vehicles have never, even at the height of gas prices, sold enough to make money in this country. So the "new" GM business plan is:
- The Orion plant needs to close since it does not make money.
- The State of Michigan coughs up 1 billion in tax cuts so it can stay open and not make money.
- The Federal government says thanks, but you have to build the cars we want not what will sell, so it will always not make money.
- Profit!
Maybe they'll make it up on volume. How long before I can write off my portion of the bailout as a tax loss?
On the other hand, there is at least one example of someone dealing with reality rather than surreality. A consortium of Credit Unions has developed something called Save to Win wherein you get an entry in a raffle for a grand prize of up to $100,000 for every $25 dollars you deposit into your savings account. Now, a few moments thought will quickly reveal the absurdity of this. Your chance of winning is so small that you are almost certainly better off taking the time to find a higher interest rate than the somewhat low one offered by the program. But thoughtful people are not the target of the program. Easy money seekers are the target. The short-sighted are the target. People who simply do not have the intellectual wherewithal to do contingency planning are the target. The bank gets cheap assets (deposits on which they pay a lower interest rate). The suckers, er, customers get all tingly over a possible big payoff, but they also get something else -- money in the bank for a rainy day, although they won't have any appreciation of it. Absurd, definitely; but brilliantly rooted in reality. Nice to see that for a change.
Meanwhile, the City of Detroit wallows in its own persistent hell. The school system isn't just a total failure at education. It is corrupt beyond description, violent as a third-world hell-hole, and now, effectively bankrupt. Some choice quotes:
"The school system also has been rocked by corruption. A few years ago, an audit revealed that Detroit's school system misused more than $46 million on insurance and other contracts and was forced to sue venders [sic] to get some of its money back. Two of the system's employees were recently indicted for allegedly embezzling $400,000 from the school system over the past couple of years."
"In June, to stem pay-check fraud, [emergency financial manager Robert Bobb] required that employees pick up their paychecks in person. Paychecks for 257 suspected "ghost" employees--people who had improperly been getting checks--went unclaimed."
"In June, seven students were wounded in a shooting near Cody Ninth Grade Academy just two weeks after 16-year-old Tenecia Walter was shot in the chest shortly after leaving class at Denby High School. Earlier this year a gunfight broke out in Detroit's Central High School and last year a student was shot and killed walking home from Henry Ford High School."
"Detroit schools have lost 60,000 students."
"This is why [bankruptcy expert Ray] Graves and others see little alternative to declaring bankruptcy..."
How could things get like this? Well...
"In 2003 the state, under pressure from the Detroit Federation of Teachers, turned down a gift of $200 million from philanthropist Robert Thompson that would have established 15 charter schools in the city."
"In 2006, the union illegally went on strike, killing a plan to force teachers to take a pay cut to balance the system's books."
"[The Detroit Board of Education] is seeking a court injunction to block private companies from running district high schools."
Did you even have to ask?
Strangely enough, as bad as Detroit is -- and it's very, very bad -- if left alone to succeed without regulatory boards and layers of bureaucracy, some people have found a way to make something of the place. Specifically: Farmers. Imagine that. The return of rural Detroit. If left to their own devices, these folks could probably go whole hog and have barn-raising parties and build one-room schoolhouses where kids actually learn something. But what would the Board of Education say?
The article is a bit confused, especially in its implied ideas about economics. The thought chain is that since there are no longer grocery stores in Detroit and everyone has to shop at convenience stores, people eat atrociously and are severely unhealthy. If they farmed their own food, they could simply feed themselves and live holistically (whatever that means). That's not how farming works; it's an industry and the way it would help is by making use of the arable land that Detroit has in abundance now that everyone is abandoning their homes. This builds income for people who can then support the existence of profitable grocery stores so they can get a well rounded diet. But the hippie-commies at Guernica magazine have the right general idea which is to allow creative and clever people make use of the available assets rather than let everything sit in decay because it's impossible to get the bureaucracy to act without some kick back involved. Sadly, I think the only real question is how long it will take the powers of the City to find a way to crush them.
But just so I don't end on a sour note, we Michiganders who are staying have some good reasons.
Florida Reboot
Florida Reboot: (photos on Smugmug) You sit at the gate. The passengers are all loaded and belted in. The plane is fueled up and ready. The crew is ensconced in the cockpit. Yet you sit at the gate. You are waiting for parts. Not parts for your plane, but for another plane that happens to be at your destination. So you sit for an extra half hour because your first duty as a passenger is to mule spare parts for Northwest Airlines. Despite the hundreds of dollars you paid for your ticket, your vacation is not their priority; they are just giving you a lift because it happens to be convenient. Just another day as Northwest's bitch.
The whole trip was not shaping up as planned. I was going to fly into Orlando, barrel across the state to the Gulf coast to visit family in Sarasota, then barrel back across the state to the Space coast -- Cocoa Beach, specifically -- to catch the shuttle launch and enjoy some ocean time. Well, shortly after I had locked in my reservations, the shuttle launch got delayed a week. So much for that. Then my mom went into the hospital a few days before I left. She was out by the time I got to Sarasota and nearly fully recovered. (Frankly, at age 84, it's remarkable how healthy she is and how sharp she is mentally.) And any flight to Orlando is going to be filled with rugrats, and rugrats are known to be little germ factories. Sure enough, lying in bed my first night in Florida, a killer head cold descended upon me; the kind where you can feel the phlegm sloshing around between your ears. (Yes it's gross. Deal.) So my Florida vacation began with my planned activities hosed, and both me and my Mom under the weather. Weather which, by the way, was heat indexed well into the triple digits every day. The humidity was truly oppressive. Honestly, the place was like a sauna.
However, I would not be much of a traveler if I let such little annoyances slow me down. That's why God invented nasal spray and air conditioning, I suppose. After getting family duties situated I found myself with a free afternoon in Sarasota and used it for a visit to the Ringling Museum.
Although I have been to the Ringling Museum several times, it's been a few years since my last visit. Time was, the Ringling was one of the premier art museums in the South. It still is, I suppose, but its development hasn't gone as I would have hoped. The first thing that I discovered is that the price has gone up. You used to be able to get into the museum for $8 and I think there was one day of the week when it was free. No more. $25 to get in. That is more than MOMA or the Met in New York City. Ye gods!
I am not opposed to the price per se. My problem is that the money doesn't seem to have been spent on the Art museum. The grounds, which are extensive and are like a little city park in themselves, seem better maintained and manicured. The Ringling's Gatsby-esque historic home, Ca d'Zan, is nicely restored and worth a tour. A fine dining establishment has been added (that should be self-financing, though). But it looks to me like most of the resources have gone into the circus museums (with an expansion coming in 2012) which are the least interesting part of the complex to me. Why not devote more to the Art museum? The collection does not appear to have changed at all since I first visited probably 20 years ago.
That is not to say that the collection is short on fine works. It is loaded down with wonderful old masters and bits and pieces of other things. But the lighting is troublesome. It is often a struggle to position yourself so as to avoid glare. It's bad enough that it really interferes with viewing. There would a good place to spend some money. The museum courtyard is filled with stunning casts of classic bronze sculptures and is a remarkable space in itself, but like the museum, though well maintained it hasn't seen any improvements.
Griping aside, I spent a fine if somewhat sweaty afternoon wandering the grounds past lily ponds and flower gardens, then back around Ca d'Zan overlooking the bay. I cooled down in the museum taking some time to fill my camera here and there. Even at $25 it's a good way to spend the afternoon. A calm oasis in the midst of ever more crowded Sarasota. If find I have a special attraction to the place, having used it so often over the years as an escape zone whenever I'm down that way. I give it a slightly hesitant recommendation.
After one more dinner with the family, I rose the next day and darted across the state from Gulf to Ocean. After a little over three hours I was pulling into Cocoa Beach.
Compared to places like Sarasota, Naples, Miami Beach, even Key West, Cocoa Beach is a bit downscale. It's a beach town more along the lines of Key Largo or Ft. Myers Beach or Panama City Beach. (I'm getting positively encyclopedic in my classification of Florida cities). I can see why it is a popular destination for families, though. A cheap flight into Orlando gets you within an hour's drive. You can find a nice inexpensive hotel right on the beach (Doubletree in my case), many even have kitchenettes. There are plenty of cheap eats around. All sorts of little beach stores on every corner, surmounted by the original and sprawling Ron Jon Surf Shop. Kennedy Space Center is a short drive away for a day tour. You can easily run up to Daytona Beach if you need a redneck fix. And there are water parks and miniature golf and all that sort of stuff. You can lounge by the pool or take a chair out to the beach while the kids raise hell. Great way to spend a final week of summer vacation, provided you can handle the heat.
In fact, I was here on exactly such a trip as a child over 35 years ago. Actually, I was a little north of here in a lesser known place called Ormond Beach. What I remember best from that trip is spending what seemed like hours doing nothing but flopping around in the warm surf, wrestling the breakers, and the feel of the sandy bottom that stretched out endlessly into the ocean. And that's what I found again. The warm, buoyant salt water, the waves crashing around me, the smooth sand -- it was the Atlantic Ocean I remembered from childhood, and to this day I am quite clear on the visceral experience.
And while I was on the theme of reliving memories, the next day I took a two hour run up the coast to St. Augustine, another activity from that childhood trip, although one I don't have any specific recollection of beyond the knowledge that it happened.
St. Augustine is a nice spot. The mythology indicates it's where Ponce De Leon discovered the Fountain of Youth. It is also the oldest existing European settlement in the U.S. It fits in the same broad classification as Charleston, SC and Savannah, GA -- a city that exists for its own history, although I don't think St. A is terribly attentive to historical fidelity. Some very old structures have tacky little signs and displays and some look like they have been turned into souvenir shops. In fact, St. A has a fairly concentrated commercial zone. Not that there is anything wrong with that, it's just not as genuine as somewhere like Charleston -- never mind Savannah, the queen of detailed restoration. Of course, St. A also has a fine Florida beach which the other two can't remotely claim. St. A is basically for strolling about, and that's what I did, checking out the fort and wandering the picturesque streets, eventually settling in for a late lunch of crab tacos al fresco. And, naturally, filling my camera. A nice little day trip.
For my last full day in Florida I thought about dropping the nearly $80 for a day pass to the Space Center. But then I thought otherwise. I'll wait for that until I can get to see a rocket launch. Better I should get in the water again, so I headed out to Cape Canaveral National Seashore. A long, long stretch of undeveloped coastline, thought to be the longest on the Eastern Seaboard, running along a barrier island, CCNS gives you the soft sand Atlantic beach but with a definite sense of isolation. Bordering the interior sound, there are some short walking trails in various places. I took one called Seminole Rest, essentially a little park tucked out of the way on the mainland. It was really just a short paved walk, but there are a couple of interesting historic structures, and I have never seen so fiddler crabs in my entire life. They swarm like ants along the shoreline and onto the trails, darting into the water when they sense your approach, balancing the risk of getting stepped on versus getting gobbled by fish.
From there I took the longest possible way around to get to the beach area through the city of New Smyrna Beach, which is what I get for driving around without a map. Entering the shore from the north entrance, the road leads south along the island with five designated stops with parking and beach access. As I passed these they didn't seem too crowded so I figured I may as well go all the way to the last one which, as might be expected, is exactly what everyone else thought. I had to circle a couple of times but I finally managed to squeeze into a space. And despite the cars, the beach didn't seem very crowded at all. Looking north I think I spotted a couple of folks far in the distance otherwise it appeared deserted. To the south lay the truly remote beach -- Klondike Beach -- which is only accessible by foot and extends many miles until it connects up with the road north from the south entrance. Not that I was going to make it all the way, but I figured I'd walk a while in that directions. Well, a few hundred yards down there was a small encampment of people with beach chair and umbrellas. Since this place is about all about isolation I wasn't sure why they had all decided to drop their beach towels in the same spot until I got closer. It wasn't just their beach towels they had dropped. It was their bathing suits. I had inadvertently stumbled on a nude beach.
I'm struggling for what to say next. First off, yes, I did whip off my trunks and go for a swim. I would never have sought this out on purpose, but when in Rome... and so forth. Second, I did not laze about on the beach; once I was done with my swim, I left. Third, part of the reason I didn't hang around is because nude beaches are majorly populated by wrinkly out-of-shape middle-aged men who enjoy wandering around with their giblets on display. The upside is that as a wrinkly in-shape middle-aged man, I must have looked like a friggin' Adonis. But really, if I wanted that sort of visual, I'd just join a local country club and hang out in the locker room. Fourth, I decided every parent should require their teenage daughters to spend an hour at a nude beach. It would give us the rest of us some eye candy, and the poor girls would immediately renounce men and enter a convent.
I guess it's another notch in the bucket list -- albeit a very, very minor one. A supposedly fun thing I'll never do again. I would not hesitate, however, to spend more time at CCNS and the associated Merritt Island wildlife refuge. It's a gem in that overly touristed area.
And that was pretty much it. A quiet drink by the pool back at the Doubletree (fully clothed), then up the next day for the flight home -- after an obligatory stop at Ron Jon's for a t-shirt. The flight back had to be one of the easiest of my life. No delays at all. I literally walked off the plane in Detroit on to a waiting terminal shuttle then immediately on to a waiting parking shuttle. I think I made it back to my door in Dexter from Orlando in about 4 hours. Stunning.
I do enjoy my Florida explorations, even in the middle of August. I actually prefer the middle of August as no one else in their right mind would put up with the heat and humidity. I have at various times in my life trolled throughout virtually all of the State. It was good to relive a bit of my first trip to there. Although I tend to think of traveling as something that I came to later in life, as I look back, it now seems the with respect to Florida this habit was formed in my childhood and has been ongoing ever since. Perhaps after more than 35 years it was just time to start over from the beginning.
The whole trip was not shaping up as planned. I was going to fly into Orlando, barrel across the state to the Gulf coast to visit family in Sarasota, then barrel back across the state to the Space coast -- Cocoa Beach, specifically -- to catch the shuttle launch and enjoy some ocean time. Well, shortly after I had locked in my reservations, the shuttle launch got delayed a week. So much for that. Then my mom went into the hospital a few days before I left. She was out by the time I got to Sarasota and nearly fully recovered. (Frankly, at age 84, it's remarkable how healthy she is and how sharp she is mentally.) And any flight to Orlando is going to be filled with rugrats, and rugrats are known to be little germ factories. Sure enough, lying in bed my first night in Florida, a killer head cold descended upon me; the kind where you can feel the phlegm sloshing around between your ears. (Yes it's gross. Deal.) So my Florida vacation began with my planned activities hosed, and both me and my Mom under the weather. Weather which, by the way, was heat indexed well into the triple digits every day. The humidity was truly oppressive. Honestly, the place was like a sauna.
However, I would not be much of a traveler if I let such little annoyances slow me down. That's why God invented nasal spray and air conditioning, I suppose. After getting family duties situated I found myself with a free afternoon in Sarasota and used it for a visit to the Ringling Museum.
Although I have been to the Ringling Museum several times, it's been a few years since my last visit. Time was, the Ringling was one of the premier art museums in the South. It still is, I suppose, but its development hasn't gone as I would have hoped. The first thing that I discovered is that the price has gone up. You used to be able to get into the museum for $8 and I think there was one day of the week when it was free. No more. $25 to get in. That is more than MOMA or the Met in New York City. Ye gods!
I am not opposed to the price per se. My problem is that the money doesn't seem to have been spent on the Art museum. The grounds, which are extensive and are like a little city park in themselves, seem better maintained and manicured. The Ringling's Gatsby-esque historic home, Ca d'Zan, is nicely restored and worth a tour. A fine dining establishment has been added (that should be self-financing, though). But it looks to me like most of the resources have gone into the circus museums (with an expansion coming in 2012) which are the least interesting part of the complex to me. Why not devote more to the Art museum? The collection does not appear to have changed at all since I first visited probably 20 years ago.
That is not to say that the collection is short on fine works. It is loaded down with wonderful old masters and bits and pieces of other things. But the lighting is troublesome. It is often a struggle to position yourself so as to avoid glare. It's bad enough that it really interferes with viewing. There would a good place to spend some money. The museum courtyard is filled with stunning casts of classic bronze sculptures and is a remarkable space in itself, but like the museum, though well maintained it hasn't seen any improvements.
Griping aside, I spent a fine if somewhat sweaty afternoon wandering the grounds past lily ponds and flower gardens, then back around Ca d'Zan overlooking the bay. I cooled down in the museum taking some time to fill my camera here and there. Even at $25 it's a good way to spend the afternoon. A calm oasis in the midst of ever more crowded Sarasota. If find I have a special attraction to the place, having used it so often over the years as an escape zone whenever I'm down that way. I give it a slightly hesitant recommendation.
After one more dinner with the family, I rose the next day and darted across the state from Gulf to Ocean. After a little over three hours I was pulling into Cocoa Beach.
Compared to places like Sarasota, Naples, Miami Beach, even Key West, Cocoa Beach is a bit downscale. It's a beach town more along the lines of Key Largo or Ft. Myers Beach or Panama City Beach. (I'm getting positively encyclopedic in my classification of Florida cities). I can see why it is a popular destination for families, though. A cheap flight into Orlando gets you within an hour's drive. You can find a nice inexpensive hotel right on the beach (Doubletree in my case), many even have kitchenettes. There are plenty of cheap eats around. All sorts of little beach stores on every corner, surmounted by the original and sprawling Ron Jon Surf Shop. Kennedy Space Center is a short drive away for a day tour. You can easily run up to Daytona Beach if you need a redneck fix. And there are water parks and miniature golf and all that sort of stuff. You can lounge by the pool or take a chair out to the beach while the kids raise hell. Great way to spend a final week of summer vacation, provided you can handle the heat.
In fact, I was here on exactly such a trip as a child over 35 years ago. Actually, I was a little north of here in a lesser known place called Ormond Beach. What I remember best from that trip is spending what seemed like hours doing nothing but flopping around in the warm surf, wrestling the breakers, and the feel of the sandy bottom that stretched out endlessly into the ocean. And that's what I found again. The warm, buoyant salt water, the waves crashing around me, the smooth sand -- it was the Atlantic Ocean I remembered from childhood, and to this day I am quite clear on the visceral experience.
And while I was on the theme of reliving memories, the next day I took a two hour run up the coast to St. Augustine, another activity from that childhood trip, although one I don't have any specific recollection of beyond the knowledge that it happened.
St. Augustine is a nice spot. The mythology indicates it's where Ponce De Leon discovered the Fountain of Youth. It is also the oldest existing European settlement in the U.S. It fits in the same broad classification as Charleston, SC and Savannah, GA -- a city that exists for its own history, although I don't think St. A is terribly attentive to historical fidelity. Some very old structures have tacky little signs and displays and some look like they have been turned into souvenir shops. In fact, St. A has a fairly concentrated commercial zone. Not that there is anything wrong with that, it's just not as genuine as somewhere like Charleston -- never mind Savannah, the queen of detailed restoration. Of course, St. A also has a fine Florida beach which the other two can't remotely claim. St. A is basically for strolling about, and that's what I did, checking out the fort and wandering the picturesque streets, eventually settling in for a late lunch of crab tacos al fresco. And, naturally, filling my camera. A nice little day trip.
For my last full day in Florida I thought about dropping the nearly $80 for a day pass to the Space Center. But then I thought otherwise. I'll wait for that until I can get to see a rocket launch. Better I should get in the water again, so I headed out to Cape Canaveral National Seashore. A long, long stretch of undeveloped coastline, thought to be the longest on the Eastern Seaboard, running along a barrier island, CCNS gives you the soft sand Atlantic beach but with a definite sense of isolation. Bordering the interior sound, there are some short walking trails in various places. I took one called Seminole Rest, essentially a little park tucked out of the way on the mainland. It was really just a short paved walk, but there are a couple of interesting historic structures, and I have never seen so fiddler crabs in my entire life. They swarm like ants along the shoreline and onto the trails, darting into the water when they sense your approach, balancing the risk of getting stepped on versus getting gobbled by fish.
From there I took the longest possible way around to get to the beach area through the city of New Smyrna Beach, which is what I get for driving around without a map. Entering the shore from the north entrance, the road leads south along the island with five designated stops with parking and beach access. As I passed these they didn't seem too crowded so I figured I may as well go all the way to the last one which, as might be expected, is exactly what everyone else thought. I had to circle a couple of times but I finally managed to squeeze into a space. And despite the cars, the beach didn't seem very crowded at all. Looking north I think I spotted a couple of folks far in the distance otherwise it appeared deserted. To the south lay the truly remote beach -- Klondike Beach -- which is only accessible by foot and extends many miles until it connects up with the road north from the south entrance. Not that I was going to make it all the way, but I figured I'd walk a while in that directions. Well, a few hundred yards down there was a small encampment of people with beach chair and umbrellas. Since this place is about all about isolation I wasn't sure why they had all decided to drop their beach towels in the same spot until I got closer. It wasn't just their beach towels they had dropped. It was their bathing suits. I had inadvertently stumbled on a nude beach.
I'm struggling for what to say next. First off, yes, I did whip off my trunks and go for a swim. I would never have sought this out on purpose, but when in Rome... and so forth. Second, I did not laze about on the beach; once I was done with my swim, I left. Third, part of the reason I didn't hang around is because nude beaches are majorly populated by wrinkly out-of-shape middle-aged men who enjoy wandering around with their giblets on display. The upside is that as a wrinkly in-shape middle-aged man, I must have looked like a friggin' Adonis. But really, if I wanted that sort of visual, I'd just join a local country club and hang out in the locker room. Fourth, I decided every parent should require their teenage daughters to spend an hour at a nude beach. It would give us the rest of us some eye candy, and the poor girls would immediately renounce men and enter a convent.
I guess it's another notch in the bucket list -- albeit a very, very minor one. A supposedly fun thing I'll never do again. I would not hesitate, however, to spend more time at CCNS and the associated Merritt Island wildlife refuge. It's a gem in that overly touristed area.
And that was pretty much it. A quiet drink by the pool back at the Doubletree (fully clothed), then up the next day for the flight home -- after an obligatory stop at Ron Jon's for a t-shirt. The flight back had to be one of the easiest of my life. No delays at all. I literally walked off the plane in Detroit on to a waiting terminal shuttle then immediately on to a waiting parking shuttle. I think I made it back to my door in Dexter from Orlando in about 4 hours. Stunning.
I do enjoy my Florida explorations, even in the middle of August. I actually prefer the middle of August as no one else in their right mind would put up with the heat and humidity. I have at various times in my life trolled throughout virtually all of the State. It was good to relive a bit of my first trip to there. Although I tend to think of traveling as something that I came to later in life, as I look back, it now seems the with respect to Florida this habit was formed in my childhood and has been ongoing ever since. Perhaps after more than 35 years it was just time to start over from the beginning.
Flick Check: Star Trek
Flick Check: Star Trek: During the worst of my sick evenings in Florida I resorted to the in-room movies and paid a ludicrous amount of money to watch J. J. Abrams' Star Trek reboot. The plot itself is basically the same re-hashed dreck of all the old school Star Trek movies. Some familiar group of people go around saving the galaxy from some contrived danger or other all the while giving cartoonish self-narration as they go. All the old bollocks is there. Declaring this or that to be impossible, but using inane, pseudo-scientific gobble-dee-gook to save the day when someone shouts "Just do it, mister!" with authority. Information is withheld and revealed irrationally; preposterously timed to enhance tension. Characters aren't so much developed as puppeteered. You know: all the usual drivel. For that matter, it's no different from 99.999% of action movies of any stripe.
And yet, I found it oddly watchable and even enjoyable at times. Weeks later, I'm still not sure why. It had a good sense of humor. It moved quickly. The young actors hired to replace the old warhorses were exceedingly well cast -- in a mindless movie such as this, casting is at least 50% responsible for its success. Maybe J. J. Abrams just knows how to do action really well, on a level that I can't quite explain. Or maybe it was the cold medicine.
In any case, it's a good one to check out once it comes to cable, but it's not worth paying any money for. Unless your head is densely packed with mucus and you are stuck in a motel in a Florida town that essentially closes down once the early-bird specials are over. In that case you can spend thrice the going rate and not feel cheated.
And yet, I found it oddly watchable and even enjoyable at times. Weeks later, I'm still not sure why. It had a good sense of humor. It moved quickly. The young actors hired to replace the old warhorses were exceedingly well cast -- in a mindless movie such as this, casting is at least 50% responsible for its success. Maybe J. J. Abrams just knows how to do action really well, on a level that I can't quite explain. Or maybe it was the cold medicine.
In any case, it's a good one to check out once it comes to cable, but it's not worth paying any money for. Unless your head is densely packed with mucus and you are stuck in a motel in a Florida town that essentially closes down once the early-bird specials are over. In that case you can spend thrice the going rate and not feel cheated.
Book Look: With the Old Breed
Book Look: With the Old Breed by E.B. Sledge: You will be spared nothing in this startling WW2 memoir. Eugene Sledge, "Sledgehammer" to his compatriots, served with the Marine Corps in the Pacific and saw action at Peleiu and Okinawa. Sledge's memoir begins when he forgoes officer training and enlists so he won't "miss the war". In the early chapters we are treated to boot camp and other training experiences then, suddenly, as if descending into a nightmare, we are following him on to the beaches at Peleiu, lost in the fog of war -- the chaos and the paralyzing fear. The overwhelming sensations of the beach landing would stay with him his entire life. As he states,
The Peleiu battle turned out to be particularly deadly, having the highest casualty rate of any WW2 battle. Sledge doesn't hold back in giving a full account of the horrible inhumanities the Japanese committed and how the Corps built up a deep hatred of them. Nor does he gloss over the occasional shameful acts of his fellow servicemen, including the removal of the gold caps from the teeth of dead (and in one instance, not yet dead) enemy. In fact, the memoir is especially conspicuous in that Sledge, while hitting on many historic or political hot buttons, does not seem to have any axe to grind. The point of view is purely personal which makes the book hit all that much harder. And there is zero sense of ego or arrogance. Sledge was a simple mortar man, rank: Private First Class, throughout the battles. I don't think he received any battle commendations, not even a Purple Heart. He was there, did his duty, suffered and exulted, and is now telling the story.
And the story is complete, even beyond the fighting. There is the horrendous sanitation; the relentless pestilence of the tropics; the drudgery of hauling barrels of water and crates of ammo around; the inescapable, stifling stench of the dead everywhere; the dealings with officers good and bad; the terror in the black of a moonless night, hearing a Japanese raiding party assaulting his friends in the next foxhole over. Riveting and mortifying.
After a brief respite following Peleiu, he was again shipped off for another island landing at Okinawa, this time as a combat veteran with both greater confidence and greater trepidation. He tells sad tales of the new recruits who had clearly been rushed to the line, lacking training and receiving little sympathy from the vets. Okinawa, while not as deadly percentage-wise, went on for a very long time almost pushing Sledge to the breaking point. He had observed men who snapped under the pressure -- it was not uncommon. Fearing that may be his fate, he silently makes a vow to himself. "The Japanese might kill or wound me, but they wouldn't make me crack-up." After having read along with his descriptions of his experiences to that point, that simple statement resounds with boundless courage.
Throughout the ordeal, Sledge finds sources of strength: in God, in himself, in his training, but most of all he feels the source of victory was the esprit d'corps -- the brotherhood and bond between him and his fellow Marines is what kept him and the fight going in the heart of darkness. One suspects that after years of reflection, and acknowledgment of the cost, Sledge feels something akin to gratitude: gratitude for surviving, and for finding faith in his comrades-in-arms and strength in himself that he could carry throughout his life.
The HBO crew behind the astounding Band of Brothers mini-series is preparing a counterpart about the Pacific battles based in part on With the Old Breed. If they get it remotely close to right, they'll be swimming in awards.
Everything my life had been before and has been after pales in the light of that awesome moment when my amtrac started in amid a thunderous bombardment toward the flaming, smoke-shrouded beach for the assault on Peleiu.
The Peleiu battle turned out to be particularly deadly, having the highest casualty rate of any WW2 battle. Sledge doesn't hold back in giving a full account of the horrible inhumanities the Japanese committed and how the Corps built up a deep hatred of them. Nor does he gloss over the occasional shameful acts of his fellow servicemen, including the removal of the gold caps from the teeth of dead (and in one instance, not yet dead) enemy. In fact, the memoir is especially conspicuous in that Sledge, while hitting on many historic or political hot buttons, does not seem to have any axe to grind. The point of view is purely personal which makes the book hit all that much harder. And there is zero sense of ego or arrogance. Sledge was a simple mortar man, rank: Private First Class, throughout the battles. I don't think he received any battle commendations, not even a Purple Heart. He was there, did his duty, suffered and exulted, and is now telling the story.
And the story is complete, even beyond the fighting. There is the horrendous sanitation; the relentless pestilence of the tropics; the drudgery of hauling barrels of water and crates of ammo around; the inescapable, stifling stench of the dead everywhere; the dealings with officers good and bad; the terror in the black of a moonless night, hearing a Japanese raiding party assaulting his friends in the next foxhole over. Riveting and mortifying.
After a brief respite following Peleiu, he was again shipped off for another island landing at Okinawa, this time as a combat veteran with both greater confidence and greater trepidation. He tells sad tales of the new recruits who had clearly been rushed to the line, lacking training and receiving little sympathy from the vets. Okinawa, while not as deadly percentage-wise, went on for a very long time almost pushing Sledge to the breaking point. He had observed men who snapped under the pressure -- it was not uncommon. Fearing that may be his fate, he silently makes a vow to himself. "The Japanese might kill or wound me, but they wouldn't make me crack-up." After having read along with his descriptions of his experiences to that point, that simple statement resounds with boundless courage.
Throughout the ordeal, Sledge finds sources of strength: in God, in himself, in his training, but most of all he feels the source of victory was the esprit d'corps -- the brotherhood and bond between him and his fellow Marines is what kept him and the fight going in the heart of darkness. One suspects that after years of reflection, and acknowledgment of the cost, Sledge feels something akin to gratitude: gratitude for surviving, and for finding faith in his comrades-in-arms and strength in himself that he could carry throughout his life.
The HBO crew behind the astounding Band of Brothers mini-series is preparing a counterpart about the Pacific battles based in part on With the Old Breed. If they get it remotely close to right, they'll be swimming in awards.
Travel Rewind: A Nondescript Quasi-Unknown Demi-Paradise (August 2006)
Travel Rewind: A Nondescript Quasi-Unknown Demi-Paradise (August 2006): (photos on Smugmug) A few years ago I had the chance to take a brief Caribbean vacation to Turks and Caicos Islands (TCI), a place most people have never heard of, never mind seen on a map. It is a group of nondescript islands south of the Bahamas. And when I say nondescript, I mean that in the sense that there is virtually nothing about TCI that stands out. They have a string of beautiful and expensive reports along an exquisite beach, just like dozens of other island groups. There is good diving and fishing, just like dozens of other island groups. And that's it. Literally. The most telling description (as you will read below) came from the shuttle driver on the way to the resort: "Welcome to Turks and Caicos. Tourism is about the only industry we have here so thank you for visiting."
Well it turns out TCI did stand out for one thing: government corruption. It was so bad that Great Britain came in dissolved their government and took over the administration of the islands, which they were legally able to do since TCI is a crown colony. In a moment of unintentional (but not unexpected) comedy, TCI's former leaders expressed outrage and declared themselves occupied by foreign invaders. The people of TCI had other opinions; specifically, they were overjoyed to be rid of their "elected" leaders and back under British rule.
(Just as a side note, in an effort to raise the unintentional comedy to new heights, Slate magazine took the time to determine if Canada was next.)
I think I can safely guarantee you that nobody in Her Majesty's government, nor any of Her subjects, wants anything to do with Turks and Caicos. They have a full plate already without having to worry about supporting and managing some island outpost. Nothing would make them happier than to get TCI off the books forever. Personally, I suspect there are drugs involved. TCI offers a lot of opportunities for plane stopovers for drug smugglers and I don't doubt TCI's leaders were in cahoots with them.
Whatever the case, it makes for a nice long intro to this travel rewind.
Turks and Caicos (TCI) is a chain of islands in the Caribbean; just south of the Bahamas and just north of Haiti. There is little industry or economic activity beyond tourism -- in fact, on the way to the hotel, the driver dryly offered, "Welcome to Turks and Caicos. Tourism is about the only industry in the islands so thank you for coming."
TCI is of British extraction, like Bermuda or the Bahamas or Grand Cayman. However one of the oddest things I learned was that for many, many years there has been discussion and debate over whether it should become a Canadian province. Apparently there are strong ties to Canada and the question has come up in the parliaments of both places. Typical of the damn Canadians, always trying to expand their empire.
From what I could see, most islanders have little interest in politics. There does not appear to be any significant poverty, although I certainly wouldn't call the island wealthy in the sense of a Grand Cayman (never mind Bermuda). But they may be getting there.
For the time being there is a certain dichotomy. There are a huge number of top flight resorts -- including some of the best in the world, such as the famous celebrity hang out Parrot Cay and the requisite Beaches and Club Meds and so forth -- the overwhelming majority of which are situated along Grace Bay on the island of Providenciales, or Provo. Grace Bay is rightly renown as one of the most beautiful beaches in the world -- a multi-mile crescent of powdery white sand and calm, crystal clear waters. I stayed at a place called The Palms, which I originally reviewed for Hotel Chatter, but here is the gist of my somewhat bi-polar resort experience:
The resorts seem to be the extent of the usable development. Beyond them, there is one little area on Provo that has the usual touristy crap shops and bars, but in relation to the number of resorts, it is tiny. There are numerous condo and condo-hotel combos in the process of being built on the Eastern end of Provo and, as I understand, on the other islands, but most seem to be "in-process" at this point. No doubt there is a massive time-share bubble in the early stages of expansion. [[update: It didn't take a genius to call this housing bubble early. -- dam]]
For the most part, the islands still exude something of a Caribbean backwater air. People run their little shops, go to church on Sunday, sip their somewhat watery beer and just live it day-to-day like in a Jimmy Buffet song. One guidebook suggested being extra careful on the road when merging into the roundabouts because they were relatively new to the island and the natives weren't all that comfortable with them. There are no stoplights. The cell phone company Digicell was giving away t-shirts by the side of the road and the party they were going to throw to announce their arrival was the talk of the islands.
Provo is far and away the most developed of the islands but even there major shopping areas as marked on maps may turn out to be a packet of four or five shops including a gift shop that went out of business and a little seafood shack with a hand-scrawled sign that says, "Back in 30 minutes" on the door. Like an idiot, I took a Hobie Cat out on the bay one afternoon without a lanyard for my Ray-Bans. Bye-bye Ray-Bans. I swear I spent an hour and a half driving around looking for a little gift shop that had a cheap, $10 pair of sunglasses; the kind of things you find on any corner in most tourist destinations.
Is the island beautiful? Not especially. There are some lush green areas, but it is mostly scrub. The beaches and the water are beautiful. As I think about it, it is easy to draw a ton of comparisons between TCI and Grand Cayman. Both places are of British extraction, but cater almost exclusively to U.S (and Canadian) tourists. Both have one very long and exceedingly beautiful beach around which most of the tourist activity is centered. And both have a main island without any particularly easy way to get to the other islands in the group short of a commuter flight (and when you ask about visiting the other islands, people can't understand why you would want to). It's hard to escape the conclusion that Provo is Grand Cayman ten years ago. And I suspect it is on the same development path. I would take Bermuda over either.
Although there is no reason you wouldn't enjoy yourself, I just can't see a compelling reason to pick TCI over more accessible and less expensive vacation spots (barring a yearning for some specific dive or fishing sites). The resorts are as good as any, so if you just wanted to hang in the resort, you'd be fine. But there are similar vacation spots that are easier to get to and still provide you with that sort of vacation.
For a limited amount of time, you can probably still scare up an off the beaten track trip by staying clear of Provo (maybe venturing over to Grand Turk [[update: Grand Turk is a haven for cruise ships now -- dam]]. The people were unfailingly friendly in that laconic way of Caribbean out-islanders. You can even find gems on Provo, like the Tiki Hut at the Turtle Cove marina, where a medium rare burger is over to the rare side (as it should be) and the fisherman exchange exaggerations at the bar.
I did enjoy my time in TCI, but my gut emotional reaction was one of discomfort. Perhaps because there was so little to explore. I was happy for a couple of days in the resort, but when venturing out there was so little to do and see that I almost felt trapped. (I would have killed for a casino or a good sized hiking trail.)
No doubt it's personal taste. Like I said, TCI is just fine and if you choose to go there you'll likely enjoy yourself. But if you're looking for a tourist center, Grand Cayman or Paradise Island is better. If you're looking for a something more sophisticated, Bermuda can't be beat. If you are looking for something more remote, someplace like the Grenadines are popular -- actually I hear Saba is the hot new off the beaten track Caribbean island. TCI just doesn't stand out enough.
Well it turns out TCI did stand out for one thing: government corruption. It was so bad that Great Britain came in dissolved their government and took over the administration of the islands, which they were legally able to do since TCI is a crown colony. In a moment of unintentional (but not unexpected) comedy, TCI's former leaders expressed outrage and declared themselves occupied by foreign invaders. The people of TCI had other opinions; specifically, they were overjoyed to be rid of their "elected" leaders and back under British rule.
(Just as a side note, in an effort to raise the unintentional comedy to new heights, Slate magazine took the time to determine if Canada was next.)
I think I can safely guarantee you that nobody in Her Majesty's government, nor any of Her subjects, wants anything to do with Turks and Caicos. They have a full plate already without having to worry about supporting and managing some island outpost. Nothing would make them happier than to get TCI off the books forever. Personally, I suspect there are drugs involved. TCI offers a lot of opportunities for plane stopovers for drug smugglers and I don't doubt TCI's leaders were in cahoots with them.
Whatever the case, it makes for a nice long intro to this travel rewind.
Turks and Caicos (TCI) is a chain of islands in the Caribbean; just south of the Bahamas and just north of Haiti. There is little industry or economic activity beyond tourism -- in fact, on the way to the hotel, the driver dryly offered, "Welcome to Turks and Caicos. Tourism is about the only industry in the islands so thank you for coming."
TCI is of British extraction, like Bermuda or the Bahamas or Grand Cayman. However one of the oddest things I learned was that for many, many years there has been discussion and debate over whether it should become a Canadian province. Apparently there are strong ties to Canada and the question has come up in the parliaments of both places. Typical of the damn Canadians, always trying to expand their empire.
From what I could see, most islanders have little interest in politics. There does not appear to be any significant poverty, although I certainly wouldn't call the island wealthy in the sense of a Grand Cayman (never mind Bermuda). But they may be getting there.
For the time being there is a certain dichotomy. There are a huge number of top flight resorts -- including some of the best in the world, such as the famous celebrity hang out Parrot Cay and the requisite Beaches and Club Meds and so forth -- the overwhelming majority of which are situated along Grace Bay on the island of Providenciales, or Provo. Grace Bay is rightly renown as one of the most beautiful beaches in the world -- a multi-mile crescent of powdery white sand and calm, crystal clear waters. I stayed at a place called The Palms, which I originally reviewed for Hotel Chatter, but here is the gist of my somewhat bi-polar resort experience:
According to some reviews at Tripadvisor, visitors to The Palms on the island of Providenciales in the British territory of Turks and Caicos are met at the airport by a Cadillac Escalade. Sadly, this was not to be the case for me. Along with a quartet of fellow travelers from the same flight, I was met by a pretty standard looking transport van. It was a nice enough van, but my inner pimp-daddy was sorely disappointed.
The Palms itself is far from disappointing. It is a strikingly beautiful resort; very refined -- there is no bombast or gaudiness to it, just an unmistakable air of quality. Your arrival initiates a thoughtfully designed process: You are dropped at the open air lobby and your bags are whisked away by a porter. You are handed a tasty passion fruit beverage and led on a brief guided tour of the property starting with the elegant and perfectly landscaped courtyard, beyond which is the manor house, a stately colonial mansion of old that now contains the main restaurant, Parallel 23, featuring a patio for alfresco dining and a nice comfy lounge. The five buildings beyond are the residences and you are guided up to you room for your in-room check-in.
The standard rooms are all suite-sized with a balcony (or patio) on which to appreciate the beautiful evenings. There are two bottles of Fiji water and plate full of cookies waiting for you, complimentary. Everything looks fresh, clean and new. More water and treats are delivered with the nightly turn-down. (The profuseness of gratis bottled water is important because the water as it comes out of the tap is gag-inducing; probably desalinated.)
The five residential buildings surround the pool on three sides. The pool is a beauty: formed in a curvaceous, meandering shape that envelops a hot tub and a swim up bar-and-grill eventually ending in infinity. It is nicely appointed with lounge chairs and umbrellas with attendants to raise them. More entertainingly, there are four "pods", or circular day beds, that are the target of fervent attention. They are highly desired but not reservable. You can spot type-A personalities as they dash out of bed bright and early to deposit belongings on them as a territorial claim, and jealously guard them throughout the day because if they are left alone for an undefined length of time the attendants will give them away. Comical how some people escape to paradise then immediately seek out their habitual stress level.
Beyond the pool is the legendary Grace Bay Beach and it is as fabulous as its reputation suggests. A multi-mile long crescent with powdery sand and crystal clear water tinted slightly green and turning a deep turquoise beyond the shallows. The sea is warm, buoyant and calm.
The Palms has it all, and it seems to work extremely well as long as you stay within the resort. Many guests -- perhaps a majority -- will do just that. It's when you have to interact with the outside world that things can get dicey.
I had it in my head to explore the island a bit (and maybe find a less expensive place for dinner) so I stopped at the concierge desk one morning to inquire about a car. They told me a small car could be had for $39/day. Great, I said, I'll stop by after breakfast and finalize arrangements. Of course, it was not to be so simple.
After breakfast I was told that there were no small cars available, but Avis could rent me a jeep for $69/day. I found it strange that in the off-season there was not a small car to be had on the island. I also found it strange that Avis, which typically has a policy of giving you an upgrade for the same price if the car you want is not available, would not then offer me a jeep for the lower price. Neither of these observations seemed to incite any action on the part of the concierge beyond a shrug. I strongly suspected a game of soak the tourist was being played, but my options were to call around the island on my own to see what I could work out or just deal with it. Since I only wanted the car for a day, I chose to just deal with it and asked them to have Avis bring over a jeep for me at 3pm.
Come 3pm, no one from Avis was to be seen, so I checked with the concierge who told me that instead of Avis, they had arranged for my jeep to come from a place with the professional sounding name of Scooter Bob's. Hmmm, I wondered whether they had gotten a better price for me there, but there was no representative from Scooter Bob's there either. Apparently, Scooter Bob just dropped off the jeep and the left the key with the concierge.
It was very surprising to get handed a key without having anyone even check that my license was valid, never mind get a credit card number. The concierge just guessed that Scooter Bob would make arrangements with me when I was done. I was given pause when I noticed the keychain had the word "mayhem" printed on it. I was given yet more pause when I saw the "jeep" -- a clapped-out Geo Tracker, with no rear window, no a/c, a manual transmission, and a nicely lit "check engine" light. The word "mayhem" was printed on the front in stick-on lettering. Luckily, all this shabbiness was offset by the brightly polished chrome wheels that were probably worth more than the entire vehicle.
I had to laugh. It was if someone asked Scooter Bob for a car, and Scooter Bob asked the gangsta wanna-be teenager down the street if he could borrow his ride. At this point I was in roll-with-it mode so I managed to get around for the day in "mayhem" -- it is not a big island and you can't go over 40 mph anyway.
The next day I dropped off the key with the concierge and suggested they have Scooter Bob contact me when they get there to pick it up. The concierge (a different person than the day before) was surprised that they had not taken credit card info from me when they dropped it off. It was my turn to shrug.
I never got a call from the concierge or Scooter Bob. I mentioned it again at checkout the next day, but nobody had heard from Scooter Bob and nobody seemed to feel an urgent need to follow up. I wasn't sure what was going to happen, but my shuttle was leaving and, well, if Scooter Bob was concerned about getting my money, I figured he would ask The Palms to get in touch with me.
Imagine my shock when upon my return I discovered a charge for $79 to my credit card from "Holiday Rentals" which, presumably, is Scooter Bob's legal name.
Now, despite the abysmal incompetence of their concierge staff, it is not technically the fault The Palms if Scooter Bob wants to soak me for the clapped-out piece of crap they referred to as a "jeep". That's for me and Scooter Bob to work out. What is a huge black mark against The Palms is that they gave my credit card information away to a third party without my consent! That is an egregious violation of my privacy and security. I am stunned that a hotel of such seeming quality would do such a thing.
I don't quite know what conclusion to draw on The Palms. The fact is, apart from the rental car fiasco, everything was top notch and I suspect most people would never run into the troubles I did. Reviews from guests tend to be way over to the positive side of the scale. The concierge issues could be chalked up to a garden variety bad service experience that happens from time to time. But I cannot accept them handing out my credit card number without my authorization.
The Palms may be a sweet place, but I'm left with too many open suspicions to be certain of that. Other things equal, I would suggest staying elsewhere.
The resorts seem to be the extent of the usable development. Beyond them, there is one little area on Provo that has the usual touristy crap shops and bars, but in relation to the number of resorts, it is tiny. There are numerous condo and condo-hotel combos in the process of being built on the Eastern end of Provo and, as I understand, on the other islands, but most seem to be "in-process" at this point. No doubt there is a massive time-share bubble in the early stages of expansion. [[update: It didn't take a genius to call this housing bubble early. -- dam]]
For the most part, the islands still exude something of a Caribbean backwater air. People run their little shops, go to church on Sunday, sip their somewhat watery beer and just live it day-to-day like in a Jimmy Buffet song. One guidebook suggested being extra careful on the road when merging into the roundabouts because they were relatively new to the island and the natives weren't all that comfortable with them. There are no stoplights. The cell phone company Digicell was giving away t-shirts by the side of the road and the party they were going to throw to announce their arrival was the talk of the islands.
Provo is far and away the most developed of the islands but even there major shopping areas as marked on maps may turn out to be a packet of four or five shops including a gift shop that went out of business and a little seafood shack with a hand-scrawled sign that says, "Back in 30 minutes" on the door. Like an idiot, I took a Hobie Cat out on the bay one afternoon without a lanyard for my Ray-Bans. Bye-bye Ray-Bans. I swear I spent an hour and a half driving around looking for a little gift shop that had a cheap, $10 pair of sunglasses; the kind of things you find on any corner in most tourist destinations.
Is the island beautiful? Not especially. There are some lush green areas, but it is mostly scrub. The beaches and the water are beautiful. As I think about it, it is easy to draw a ton of comparisons between TCI and Grand Cayman. Both places are of British extraction, but cater almost exclusively to U.S (and Canadian) tourists. Both have one very long and exceedingly beautiful beach around which most of the tourist activity is centered. And both have a main island without any particularly easy way to get to the other islands in the group short of a commuter flight (and when you ask about visiting the other islands, people can't understand why you would want to). It's hard to escape the conclusion that Provo is Grand Cayman ten years ago. And I suspect it is on the same development path. I would take Bermuda over either.
Although there is no reason you wouldn't enjoy yourself, I just can't see a compelling reason to pick TCI over more accessible and less expensive vacation spots (barring a yearning for some specific dive or fishing sites). The resorts are as good as any, so if you just wanted to hang in the resort, you'd be fine. But there are similar vacation spots that are easier to get to and still provide you with that sort of vacation.
For a limited amount of time, you can probably still scare up an off the beaten track trip by staying clear of Provo (maybe venturing over to Grand Turk [[update: Grand Turk is a haven for cruise ships now -- dam]]. The people were unfailingly friendly in that laconic way of Caribbean out-islanders. You can even find gems on Provo, like the Tiki Hut at the Turtle Cove marina, where a medium rare burger is over to the rare side (as it should be) and the fisherman exchange exaggerations at the bar.
I did enjoy my time in TCI, but my gut emotional reaction was one of discomfort. Perhaps because there was so little to explore. I was happy for a couple of days in the resort, but when venturing out there was so little to do and see that I almost felt trapped. (I would have killed for a casino or a good sized hiking trail.)
No doubt it's personal taste. Like I said, TCI is just fine and if you choose to go there you'll likely enjoy yourself. But if you're looking for a tourist center, Grand Cayman or Paradise Island is better. If you're looking for a something more sophisticated, Bermuda can't be beat. If you are looking for something more remote, someplace like the Grenadines are popular -- actually I hear Saba is the hot new off the beaten track Caribbean island. TCI just doesn't stand out enough.
Sunday, August 02, 2009
The Month That Was - July 2009
The Month That Was - July 2009: The past month is dominated in my mind by Things I Did Not Get Done.
I did not finish Lanark by Alistair Gray, although I reserve the right to get back to it. It is nicely written, intriguing and original -- but slow, slow, slow to develop, and after two of the four books I'm still not sure whether it's taking me to any form of enlightenment. Plus, it is a lot of work; the themes and connections can be quite subtle. It begs the question, how much work should you have to put into reading a novel? I had to set it aside, because I have so much I want to read and limited time left in my life. I swapped it out for the WWII memoir With The Old Breed by E. B. Sledge which I can pretty much guarantee I won't have any problem finishing. Wow. More on that next month.
I did not use up my free pay-per-views from Comcast and thereby rid myself of the need to sit through any more disappointing movies. I had three left and I managed to use two; the Flick Checks are below.
I did not get all my desired travel planning done. I set things in motion for a run down to Florida to see family and to continue my explorations around that State (although after I made plans with the intent of catching a shuttle launch, they changed the schedule on me). But I also need to hit Chicago to see the new Modern art wing and some of the stuff going on in Millennium Park. I did some prelim then I balked at the prices (Chi-town has gotten quite expensive); it's still an open issue. I also realized I haven't been down to New Orleans in a couple of years and it might be worth a visit. And there are a couple of good plays going on over in Stratford, Ontario. And Labor Day is coming up... You get the idea.
I did not get the pedals changed on my bike. I have been trying to gain some basic bike maintenance and repair skills -- slowly, because I am a slow learner. I also have an old beat up Bridgestone with moustache handlebars in the garage that I have my eye on fixing up, so I am trying to gain knowledge and pick-up skills where I can. Well I had the need to swap pedals on my main road bike, and sure enough, I could not get the pedals off. No amount of force would do it. Now I'll have to bring it in to my local bike mechanic for this simple task. An inauspicious and somewhat embarrassing start to my potential new hobby.
I did not get this site redesigned, although I did clean up the column to your left. And light finally broke through the cracks in my cement skull and I am going to start including Amazon links in the posts, not just the sidebar. Plus, I increased the font size a bit so I can continue to delude myself that I don't need reading glasses.
I did not get the first revision of Misspent Youth done (although I am close).
Tempus fugit, eh? I need to drop Tempus like a clay pigeon.
Cellular Groan
Flick Check: Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist
Flick Check Paul Blart: Mall Cop
Kennebunkport
Book Look: Percy Jackson & The Olympians
The Webscape
Travel Rewind: Found: New Land (2008)
I did not finish Lanark by Alistair Gray, although I reserve the right to get back to it. It is nicely written, intriguing and original -- but slow, slow, slow to develop, and after two of the four books I'm still not sure whether it's taking me to any form of enlightenment. Plus, it is a lot of work; the themes and connections can be quite subtle. It begs the question, how much work should you have to put into reading a novel? I had to set it aside, because I have so much I want to read and limited time left in my life. I swapped it out for the WWII memoir With The Old Breed by E. B. Sledge which I can pretty much guarantee I won't have any problem finishing. Wow. More on that next month.
I did not use up my free pay-per-views from Comcast and thereby rid myself of the need to sit through any more disappointing movies. I had three left and I managed to use two; the Flick Checks are below.
I did not get all my desired travel planning done. I set things in motion for a run down to Florida to see family and to continue my explorations around that State (although after I made plans with the intent of catching a shuttle launch, they changed the schedule on me). But I also need to hit Chicago to see the new Modern art wing and some of the stuff going on in Millennium Park. I did some prelim then I balked at the prices (Chi-town has gotten quite expensive); it's still an open issue. I also realized I haven't been down to New Orleans in a couple of years and it might be worth a visit. And there are a couple of good plays going on over in Stratford, Ontario. And Labor Day is coming up... You get the idea.
I did not get the pedals changed on my bike. I have been trying to gain some basic bike maintenance and repair skills -- slowly, because I am a slow learner. I also have an old beat up Bridgestone with moustache handlebars in the garage that I have my eye on fixing up, so I am trying to gain knowledge and pick-up skills where I can. Well I had the need to swap pedals on my main road bike, and sure enough, I could not get the pedals off. No amount of force would do it. Now I'll have to bring it in to my local bike mechanic for this simple task. An inauspicious and somewhat embarrassing start to my potential new hobby.
I did not get this site redesigned, although I did clean up the column to your left. And light finally broke through the cracks in my cement skull and I am going to start including Amazon links in the posts, not just the sidebar. Plus, I increased the font size a bit so I can continue to delude myself that I don't need reading glasses.
I did not get the first revision of Misspent Youth done (although I am close).
Tempus fugit, eh? I need to drop Tempus like a clay pigeon.
Cellular Groan
Flick Check: Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist
Flick Check Paul Blart: Mall Cop
Kennebunkport
Book Look: Percy Jackson & The Olympians
The Webscape
Travel Rewind: Found: New Land (2008)
Cellular Groan
Cellular Groan: Not to start off on a bad note but I just witnessed a new low in manners. It's one thing to take a conspicuous cell phone call in a public place. It's quite another to do it on speakerphone. In the locker room at my health club -- very crowded -- some guy was sitting on one of the benches getting dressed while taking a call on speakerphone. Folks are trying to have conversations, watch the TV, or do whatever, and here he is carrying on about this or that holding a two-way conversation loud enough to interfere with anything else. An absolutely stunning display of oblivious self-regard. Apparently the conversation couldn't wait until he put his shoes on and one of his hands freed up to hold the phone to his ear, which would have been obnoxious enough. If there is any justice, this guy will be unable to get a signal in Hell when the time comes. Ye gods, what a douchebag.
I have since been debating what to say to the guy if he ever does it again. "Ye gods, what a douchebag," is not appropriately subtle. I may just inject myself into his now public phone conversation. Suggestions are welcome.
And while we're on the topic, PC World just did a handy comparison of smartphones and their all-access plans. People (supposedly adults) pay anywhere from $130 to $160 per month so they can twitter their facebooks while driving. That's more than I dish out for my T-mobile pay-as-you-go plan in a year. Makes me wonder how many people defaulting on their mortgages have an iPhone.
I have since been debating what to say to the guy if he ever does it again. "Ye gods, what a douchebag," is not appropriately subtle. I may just inject myself into his now public phone conversation. Suggestions are welcome.
And while we're on the topic, PC World just did a handy comparison of smartphones and their all-access plans. People (supposedly adults) pay anywhere from $130 to $160 per month so they can twitter their facebooks while driving. That's more than I dish out for my T-mobile pay-as-you-go plan in a year. Makes me wonder how many people defaulting on their mortgages have an iPhone.
Flick Check: Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist
Flick Check: Nick and Nora's Infinite Playlist: A fair movie that springs from a naively precious but genial script. It doesn't skimp on teen movie cliches but, the casting is a triumph and saves the film. Michael Cera is excellent as the smart and kindhearted gomer (his signature role). Much better that the toilet humor and sexual innuendo of virtually all other teen movies. Only of real value if you are in the throes of adolescence and need a dose of everything-is-awful-but-there-is-still-hope-and-fun-to-be-had medicine. Which is fine -- it's a valid, money-spending demographic, right? For the rest of us, it's worth a stop when channel surfing.
Flick Check: Paul Blart: Mall Cop
Flick Check: Paul Blart: Mall Cop: Inane, but at least it's comfortable in its own inanity. A fat fool of mall security guard with delusions of a law enforcement career turns into Bruce Willis from Die Hard when bad guys kidnap his girlfriend and his daughter. Stupid gags ensue. Kevin James does a good job of being an overweight, good-natured, well-intentioned, hopeless loser with deadpan sincerity, but he can't carry off being an action hero, even from the standpoint of satirical absurdity. There's a good laugh or two in there, but it's not remotely worth watching unless it's 3AM and you can't sleep and you just need to zombie in front of something distracting and mindless. Blart is nothing more than what it is, which isn't much; but at least it's honest.
Kennebunkport
Kennebunkport: (Photos available on Smugmug) As if to slap me down, after my rants about car rentals for the last two months, I picked up a Mazda 6 (fine, fine car) in Boston using nothing but the Alamo kiosk. Took all of five minutes. Good on ya, Alamo. With Misses Kate and Anna in tow, we exited north out of Beantown on our way to the Maine coast stopping for lunch and some minor exploration in Salem, where it's all about witches.
A downpour put the kibosh on much of the strolling around, but we did get to the Witch Museum, one of the dumbest tourist attractions I have ever encountered. It consists of a 45-minute animatronic history lesson on the witch trials. Some interesting info, but on the whole, decidedly lame. Worse, it is all intended to club you over the head with politically correct maxims. You see, it turns out witch hunting still goes on today. We find out the communists were treated like witches. And racial prejudice is form of witch hunting. And now gay people are witches because of Aids. That's right, we are all Cotton Mather now. Although we no longer hang witches, we do write mean-spirited op-eds and tell hurtful jokes. But it's the same thing, really.
You pay eight bucks for a pathetic, out-dated display and to be smothered in East Coast elitist sanctimony. Avoid the Salem Witch Museum. It is awful. It's not just a waste of time and money, it's insulting and condescending.
In fact, you'd probably do well to avoid Salem entirely. It is a type of town I am very familiar with. It has a gimmick that keeps real estate expensive and the economy steady. It attracts the sorts of people who donate to all the proper environmental causes yet rationalize their gas-snorting, oversized SUVs because, well, they'll had valid reasons not to get a Prius. They will prattle on ceaselessly about diversity, but they are all pretty much identical, except of course in their case it was just chance that brought them together, not bigotry like everyone else. It's a fair bet that they are all remodeling their historic houses to have post-modern kitchens and Asian-styled sun rooms that are never used because they are too busy sipping lattes in between Pilates class and shuffling their above-average, award-winning little achievers to their developmental activities. You may know of a site called Stuff White People Like, where they skewer the contemporary shibboleths of progressive upper-middle-class Caucasoids. Well they could easily include Salem in their list. The town is loaded down with such people, and being from Ann Arbor, I know 'em when I see 'em.
On to Kennebunkport where we settled into the oddly named Nonantum Resort, which Misses Kate and Anna immediately referred to as very " Dirty Dancing." Having never seen the movie, I can't corroborate. But I can say the Nonantum is a fine enough beachside resort. It is a majestic looking old wooden building and I expect it requires constant structural attention, which it clearly gets. Along with being old -- eh, I mean historic -- comes noise; loud neighbors cannot be ignored. But even on the weekend of the 4th, we only had one bad night, despite a huge wedding reception on the 3rd and a fireworks celebration on the 4th. I have to say the service was top-notch in virtually every way. There are all sorts of little pluses: a nice little snack bar by the pool, kayaks and bikes available for rent, free snow-cones on the front lawn, rocking chairs on the porch for parking your butt while sipping your favorite adult beverages, etc.
We had time to stroll into town for dinner at Alisson's Restaurant on the first evening. The central shopping area is what you would expect of a coastal resort town. Nice little restaurants, lots of t-shirt shacks and souvenir shops, and various candy and fudge and ice cream stops. It's a pleasant walk up and down the inlet. The town is pristine and freshly paintied and pedestrians have the right of way. Just the perfect sort of place for Biff and Muffy (or perhaps Thurston and Lovee) to walk the Golden Retriever with their sweaters tied around their shoulders. (Kennebunkport leaves upper-middle-class in the wake of its Hinkley sloop.)
As with just about any town on any ocean, there are fishing opportunities, so the next a day after a brisk morning walk and some lunch at a deli that featured profanely named hot sauce, we chartered a boat and set out to become Bassmasters. Didn't quite turn out like that. We originally planned to go out and hook some bait fish first, but according to the radio scuttlebutt, the bass were biting on chum, so we headed right over to a popular spot not too far from the Bush compound. In fact, Captain Bruce suggested we may even see George the 1st out on the water. On the way out we passed an enormous motor yacht which Cap'n Bruce said belonged to a Republican Party bigwig and the elder George often had dinner on the boat when it was docked here. On deck were a set of nice young ladies scurrying about in their bikinis. Being a Republican boat, I'm sure they were just the nieces of some blueblood, home from school for the holiday. Had to be it, right?
Anyway, we hit the fishing hole and chummed ourselves silly without a single bite. After an hour of this we sacked the chum and headed to deeper waters to snag some bait, but even that was only marginally successful. Even using the fish-finder to guide us we seemed to snag as many lobster buoys as herring. After an hour or so of that we headed back to fishing hole and, even with live bait, we got skunked. Cap'n Bruce was more disappointed than we were; he said it was his first skunking of the season. Snagging some bass would have been awesome, but the fact is, we were just happy to be out on the water and engaged in some serious relaxation. It was the only sunny day of the trip and we got ourselves nice and crispy by the end of the day.
That evening, despite being told to abandon hope without a reservation, we were able to walk down the street and snag a table at Mabel's Lobster Claw for dinner. A proper lobster, perfectly steamed, opened manually, and no frickin' bib. This is why God created the Maine coast.
The next day, the 4th of July proper, we rented bikes. Normally, Nonantum keeps a few bikes available for their guests but they had no helmets and decided that liability concerns forbid them from letting us use them, even though we hadn't intended to wear helmets anyway. Instead, they arranged for a local bike shop to set us up with rides free of charge (see what I mean about great service). From the bike shop we pedaled through winding wooded roads to a nearby village called Cape Porpoise which is little more than a general store and a post office, then back around through the verdant neighborhoods to our hotel.
It's easy to see that Kennebunkport is rife with old money. The smaller houses along the waterfronts are perfectly weather beaten, as if these folks had been here years before the influx of the bluebloods. Move somewhat inland and the houses become enormous, sized for the extended families of New England aristocracy to come and spend a couple of months in the fresh air. (In Maine you get about three months total of decent weather - mid-June through Labor Day.) Many of these estates are almost completely obscured by old growth trees on all sides, with private property signs at the edge of the driveways. No new-development McMansions here.
Almost 25 years ago, Paul Fussell wrote a famous book about social class in America called Class: A Guide Through the American Status System. Some of it may be a bit out of date now, but I recall that in his taxonomy of classes, he referred to the lowest and highest classes as "bottom out-of-sight" and "top out-of-sight". At the very lowest end of the spectrum are people who are hidden from our daily lives for the most part -- they are sleeping in refrigerator boxes and eating out of dumpsters. We occasionally see (or smell) them but they are not engaged with society on any meaningful level. Ironically, this trait is shared with folks on the very top end. They are constantly on guard against, and perhaps a little fearful of, the world, knowing they will be treated differently and judged differently, and will be susceptible to the prejudices and jealousies of the less wealthy. So they build walls of servants and security and surround their homes with thick foliage that you can't see through. Kennebunkport is full of top out-of-sights.
In contrast, the Bush compound is anything but out of sight. It sits on a spit of land extending out into the Atlantic open on three sides to the water and without much flora of any sort. You can walk by, within a few hundred yards, and watch everyone going about their activities, you can even use you camera zoom to get an up close view. The vulnerability of place has to be a Secret Service nightmare. Interestingly, there are markers a few hundred yards off the shore around the home indicating that you are not to go any closer, but Cap'n Bruce hadn't batted an eye when ducking inside of one of them on the way back to port the day before. The compound itself consists of a handful of brown, not terribly attractive buildings. It's nothing all that notable, but another point Fussell made was that those who are true bluebloods have no desire to flaunt. Gaudy shows of wealth are for the Upper Middle Class wanna-bes.
During a break I took the opportunity to cruise around town a bit while I had the bike. Needless to say, the place was filled to the gills with weekenders. Swinging south across the river from our home cape are the primary public beaches in the area. Now, let me just say that the beaches in Maine are not remotely what I would call attractive. After all, it's Maine -- you were expecting St. Barts? The sand is muddy colored and the run-off from the river darkens the water. Yet, under the heading of Everything is Relative, at a whopping 72 degrees with cloudy skies and the constant threat of rain, the beach was filled with folks clad in swimsuits and sprawled out on blankets. The water had to be frigid, but a few brave souls were dashing into the waves. I'm sure they were enjoying themselves, but it just made me wish for Florida.
Our last dinner was al fresco, at Grissini's, a decent Italian spot in town. Back at the resort they were finishing up a big Independence Day todo, with the local orchestra playing classics and showtunes and patriotic music. At dark everyone sat back in lawn chairs to watch the fireworks. It was all small town mid-summer perfect.
The next day it was up early and back to Boston for our flights. It was about as nice a holiday weekend as you could imagine, but all in all, I don't see anything in Kennebunkport, that I couldn't get in upstate Michigan with perhaps even a bit less...what's the word I want?...intensity, maybe. Of course, if you're in New England, it probably works the opposite. And pulling apart a genuine Maine lobster in a genuine Maine beach town is a savory experience not to be missed. No complaints.
A downpour put the kibosh on much of the strolling around, but we did get to the Witch Museum, one of the dumbest tourist attractions I have ever encountered. It consists of a 45-minute animatronic history lesson on the witch trials. Some interesting info, but on the whole, decidedly lame. Worse, it is all intended to club you over the head with politically correct maxims. You see, it turns out witch hunting still goes on today. We find out the communists were treated like witches. And racial prejudice is form of witch hunting. And now gay people are witches because of Aids. That's right, we are all Cotton Mather now. Although we no longer hang witches, we do write mean-spirited op-eds and tell hurtful jokes. But it's the same thing, really.
You pay eight bucks for a pathetic, out-dated display and to be smothered in East Coast elitist sanctimony. Avoid the Salem Witch Museum. It is awful. It's not just a waste of time and money, it's insulting and condescending.
In fact, you'd probably do well to avoid Salem entirely. It is a type of town I am very familiar with. It has a gimmick that keeps real estate expensive and the economy steady. It attracts the sorts of people who donate to all the proper environmental causes yet rationalize their gas-snorting, oversized SUVs because, well, they'll had valid reasons not to get a Prius. They will prattle on ceaselessly about diversity, but they are all pretty much identical, except of course in their case it was just chance that brought them together, not bigotry like everyone else. It's a fair bet that they are all remodeling their historic houses to have post-modern kitchens and Asian-styled sun rooms that are never used because they are too busy sipping lattes in between Pilates class and shuffling their above-average, award-winning little achievers to their developmental activities. You may know of a site called Stuff White People Like, where they skewer the contemporary shibboleths of progressive upper-middle-class Caucasoids. Well they could easily include Salem in their list. The town is loaded down with such people, and being from Ann Arbor, I know 'em when I see 'em.
On to Kennebunkport where we settled into the oddly named Nonantum Resort, which Misses Kate and Anna immediately referred to as very " Dirty Dancing." Having never seen the movie, I can't corroborate. But I can say the Nonantum is a fine enough beachside resort. It is a majestic looking old wooden building and I expect it requires constant structural attention, which it clearly gets. Along with being old -- eh, I mean historic -- comes noise; loud neighbors cannot be ignored. But even on the weekend of the 4th, we only had one bad night, despite a huge wedding reception on the 3rd and a fireworks celebration on the 4th. I have to say the service was top-notch in virtually every way. There are all sorts of little pluses: a nice little snack bar by the pool, kayaks and bikes available for rent, free snow-cones on the front lawn, rocking chairs on the porch for parking your butt while sipping your favorite adult beverages, etc.
We had time to stroll into town for dinner at Alisson's Restaurant on the first evening. The central shopping area is what you would expect of a coastal resort town. Nice little restaurants, lots of t-shirt shacks and souvenir shops, and various candy and fudge and ice cream stops. It's a pleasant walk up and down the inlet. The town is pristine and freshly paintied and pedestrians have the right of way. Just the perfect sort of place for Biff and Muffy (or perhaps Thurston and Lovee) to walk the Golden Retriever with their sweaters tied around their shoulders. (Kennebunkport leaves upper-middle-class in the wake of its Hinkley sloop.)
As with just about any town on any ocean, there are fishing opportunities, so the next a day after a brisk morning walk and some lunch at a deli that featured profanely named hot sauce, we chartered a boat and set out to become Bassmasters. Didn't quite turn out like that. We originally planned to go out and hook some bait fish first, but according to the radio scuttlebutt, the bass were biting on chum, so we headed right over to a popular spot not too far from the Bush compound. In fact, Captain Bruce suggested we may even see George the 1st out on the water. On the way out we passed an enormous motor yacht which Cap'n Bruce said belonged to a Republican Party bigwig and the elder George often had dinner on the boat when it was docked here. On deck were a set of nice young ladies scurrying about in their bikinis. Being a Republican boat, I'm sure they were just the nieces of some blueblood, home from school for the holiday. Had to be it, right?
Anyway, we hit the fishing hole and chummed ourselves silly without a single bite. After an hour of this we sacked the chum and headed to deeper waters to snag some bait, but even that was only marginally successful. Even using the fish-finder to guide us we seemed to snag as many lobster buoys as herring. After an hour or so of that we headed back to fishing hole and, even with live bait, we got skunked. Cap'n Bruce was more disappointed than we were; he said it was his first skunking of the season. Snagging some bass would have been awesome, but the fact is, we were just happy to be out on the water and engaged in some serious relaxation. It was the only sunny day of the trip and we got ourselves nice and crispy by the end of the day.
That evening, despite being told to abandon hope without a reservation, we were able to walk down the street and snag a table at Mabel's Lobster Claw for dinner. A proper lobster, perfectly steamed, opened manually, and no frickin' bib. This is why God created the Maine coast.
The next day, the 4th of July proper, we rented bikes. Normally, Nonantum keeps a few bikes available for their guests but they had no helmets and decided that liability concerns forbid them from letting us use them, even though we hadn't intended to wear helmets anyway. Instead, they arranged for a local bike shop to set us up with rides free of charge (see what I mean about great service). From the bike shop we pedaled through winding wooded roads to a nearby village called Cape Porpoise which is little more than a general store and a post office, then back around through the verdant neighborhoods to our hotel.
It's easy to see that Kennebunkport is rife with old money. The smaller houses along the waterfronts are perfectly weather beaten, as if these folks had been here years before the influx of the bluebloods. Move somewhat inland and the houses become enormous, sized for the extended families of New England aristocracy to come and spend a couple of months in the fresh air. (In Maine you get about three months total of decent weather - mid-June through Labor Day.) Many of these estates are almost completely obscured by old growth trees on all sides, with private property signs at the edge of the driveways. No new-development McMansions here.
Almost 25 years ago, Paul Fussell wrote a famous book about social class in America called Class: A Guide Through the American Status System. Some of it may be a bit out of date now, but I recall that in his taxonomy of classes, he referred to the lowest and highest classes as "bottom out-of-sight" and "top out-of-sight". At the very lowest end of the spectrum are people who are hidden from our daily lives for the most part -- they are sleeping in refrigerator boxes and eating out of dumpsters. We occasionally see (or smell) them but they are not engaged with society on any meaningful level. Ironically, this trait is shared with folks on the very top end. They are constantly on guard against, and perhaps a little fearful of, the world, knowing they will be treated differently and judged differently, and will be susceptible to the prejudices and jealousies of the less wealthy. So they build walls of servants and security and surround their homes with thick foliage that you can't see through. Kennebunkport is full of top out-of-sights.
In contrast, the Bush compound is anything but out of sight. It sits on a spit of land extending out into the Atlantic open on three sides to the water and without much flora of any sort. You can walk by, within a few hundred yards, and watch everyone going about their activities, you can even use you camera zoom to get an up close view. The vulnerability of place has to be a Secret Service nightmare. Interestingly, there are markers a few hundred yards off the shore around the home indicating that you are not to go any closer, but Cap'n Bruce hadn't batted an eye when ducking inside of one of them on the way back to port the day before. The compound itself consists of a handful of brown, not terribly attractive buildings. It's nothing all that notable, but another point Fussell made was that those who are true bluebloods have no desire to flaunt. Gaudy shows of wealth are for the Upper Middle Class wanna-bes.
During a break I took the opportunity to cruise around town a bit while I had the bike. Needless to say, the place was filled to the gills with weekenders. Swinging south across the river from our home cape are the primary public beaches in the area. Now, let me just say that the beaches in Maine are not remotely what I would call attractive. After all, it's Maine -- you were expecting St. Barts? The sand is muddy colored and the run-off from the river darkens the water. Yet, under the heading of Everything is Relative, at a whopping 72 degrees with cloudy skies and the constant threat of rain, the beach was filled with folks clad in swimsuits and sprawled out on blankets. The water had to be frigid, but a few brave souls were dashing into the waves. I'm sure they were enjoying themselves, but it just made me wish for Florida.
Our last dinner was al fresco, at Grissini's, a decent Italian spot in town. Back at the resort they were finishing up a big Independence Day todo, with the local orchestra playing classics and showtunes and patriotic music. At dark everyone sat back in lawn chairs to watch the fireworks. It was all small town mid-summer perfect.
The next day it was up early and back to Boston for our flights. It was about as nice a holiday weekend as you could imagine, but all in all, I don't see anything in Kennebunkport, that I couldn't get in upstate Michigan with perhaps even a bit less...what's the word I want?...intensity, maybe. Of course, if you're in New England, it probably works the opposite. And pulling apart a genuine Maine lobster in a genuine Maine beach town is a savory experience not to be missed. No complaints.
Book Look: Percy Jackson & The Olympians
Book Look: Percy Jackson & The Olympians: A five-book series, this is clearly designed as a candidate to step into the shoes of one Harry Potter and it may just achieve that given that a movie is planned for 2010.
The genesis of the Percy Jackson series starts with author Rick Riordan's son, who was diagnosed with both ADHD and dyslexia. Riordan was a teacher of Greek mythology and he would tell his son all the old tales, but he ran out eventually and his son clamored for more so he began making up new ones. Thus he created Percy (Perseus) Jackson as a paradigmatic dysfunctional youth.
Percy, like Riordan's son, is saddled with ADHD and dyslexia. His mother is struggling to support his family including his abusive, evil leach of a stepfather. He has gotten expelled from just about every school he's attended. Percy is about to discover that all his issues all stem from the fact the he is a demi-god. It turns out the gods of Ancient Greece are actually still around an operating in the world and he is the son of one of them. High adventure, coupled with maturation, follows for five books eventually culminating when Percy turns 16 and fulfills a Great Prophecy.
It summarizes like typical formula kid lit, and it is, but it has some good modifications. The hero, Percy Jackson, is not a goody-goody dweeb like Potter. Not to put too fine a point on it, he's a smart ass. He can be snarky, glib, sarcastic, and generally has a strong tendency to crack wise -- all of which adds humor and tends to get him into trouble, but it will help your standard-issue pre-teen identify with him, because they are all like that too.
More interestingly, there is a decidedly pro-Western Civilization theme, and it is U.S. centric in settings, primarily Manhattan. For example, we come to learn that the Greek Gods existence is intertwined with Western Civilization, and that Mount Olympus migrates to wherever the most powerful center of Western Civ happens to be at that time in history -- Athens, Rome, London, etc. -- in this era, it's over Manhattan. (You get there from a magic elevator in the Empire State Building.)
There are also bits of wry commentary here and there. For example, when asked, "If Mt. Olympus is over New York, then where is the entrance to the Underworld?" the answer is "Los Angeles, of course." San Francisco, it turns out, is the point of origin for most of the truly scary monsters who try to conquer Olympus and the gods. Even more: author Rick Riordan, the teacher, has some fun by turning the riddle of the Sphinx into a multiple choice test that is graded by machine. When the machine is destroyed the Sphinx decries having to grade all those tests by hand.
Of course, it's important to remember that this is kid lit. Contrivance, shamelessly obvious plot manipulation, beneficial coincidence, and Deus ex Machina are part and parcel with the proceedings. It would be death to an adult story, but kids won't care, provided their disbelief is appropriately managed for entertainment's sake. There is also minor, and somewhat out of place, subplot of childish environmentalism, but again, it's for children. These are small complaints.
More importantly, Riordan keeps things moving. Note that none of these books are of Rowlingsian length. The fact that there are five, well structured, fat free books versus seven somewhat rambling Potter tomes is a big plus for Percy Jackson in the kid lit wars. Also, it contains the single most important quality kid lit can have these days: No Frickin' Vampires. (I am so sick of vampires.)
There's good stuff in here for youngsters, lesson-wise. The kids have to grow up and make decisions in the absence of certainty. They have to live with their decisions and learn that just because they made good ones doesn't mean everything will always work out. They have to accept their own mistakes and still try to move forward. They have to live with imperfections, bad luck, and compromise while making the most of the world as it is. They also have to accept that, although there may be respites, the struggle never really ends.
Plus, it is exposure to Greek myth and history brought to life, which may trigger intellectual curiosity. And there are settings all over the U.S., from DC to the New Mexico desert, which may trigger a healthy bit of wanderlust. Good, positive stuff. Highly recommended as books that they can be shared between kids and parents to the benefit of both.
The Lightning Thief (Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Book 1)
The Sea of Monsters (Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Book 2)
The Titan's Curse (Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Book 3)
The Battle of the Labyrinth (Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Book 4)
The Last Olympian (Percy Jackson & the Olympians, Book 5)
The Demigod Files (A Percy Jackson and the Olympians Guide)
The genesis of the Percy Jackson series starts with author Rick Riordan's son, who was diagnosed with both ADHD and dyslexia. Riordan was a teacher of Greek mythology and he would tell his son all the old tales, but he ran out eventually and his son clamored for more so he began making up new ones. Thus he created Percy (Perseus) Jackson as a paradigmatic dysfunctional youth.
Percy, like Riordan's son, is saddled with ADHD and dyslexia. His mother is struggling to support his family including his abusive, evil leach of a stepfather. He has gotten expelled from just about every school he's attended. Percy is about to discover that all his issues all stem from the fact the he is a demi-god. It turns out the gods of Ancient Greece are actually still around an operating in the world and he is the son of one of them. High adventure, coupled with maturation, follows for five books eventually culminating when Percy turns 16 and fulfills a Great Prophecy.
It summarizes like typical formula kid lit, and it is, but it has some good modifications. The hero, Percy Jackson, is not a goody-goody dweeb like Potter. Not to put too fine a point on it, he's a smart ass. He can be snarky, glib, sarcastic, and generally has a strong tendency to crack wise -- all of which adds humor and tends to get him into trouble, but it will help your standard-issue pre-teen identify with him, because they are all like that too.
More interestingly, there is a decidedly pro-Western Civilization theme, and it is U.S. centric in settings, primarily Manhattan. For example, we come to learn that the Greek Gods existence is intertwined with Western Civilization, and that Mount Olympus migrates to wherever the most powerful center of Western Civ happens to be at that time in history -- Athens, Rome, London, etc. -- in this era, it's over Manhattan. (You get there from a magic elevator in the Empire State Building.)
There are also bits of wry commentary here and there. For example, when asked, "If Mt. Olympus is over New York, then where is the entrance to the Underworld?" the answer is "Los Angeles, of course." San Francisco, it turns out, is the point of origin for most of the truly scary monsters who try to conquer Olympus and the gods. Even more: author Rick Riordan, the teacher, has some fun by turning the riddle of the Sphinx into a multiple choice test that is graded by machine. When the machine is destroyed the Sphinx decries having to grade all those tests by hand.
Of course, it's important to remember that this is kid lit. Contrivance, shamelessly obvious plot manipulation, beneficial coincidence, and Deus ex Machina are part and parcel with the proceedings. It would be death to an adult story, but kids won't care, provided their disbelief is appropriately managed for entertainment's sake. There is also minor, and somewhat out of place, subplot of childish environmentalism, but again, it's for children. These are small complaints.
More importantly, Riordan keeps things moving. Note that none of these books are of Rowlingsian length. The fact that there are five, well structured, fat free books versus seven somewhat rambling Potter tomes is a big plus for Percy Jackson in the kid lit wars. Also, it contains the single most important quality kid lit can have these days: No Frickin' Vampires. (I am so sick of vampires.)
There's good stuff in here for youngsters, lesson-wise. The kids have to grow up and make decisions in the absence of certainty. They have to live with their decisions and learn that just because they made good ones doesn't mean everything will always work out. They have to accept their own mistakes and still try to move forward. They have to live with imperfections, bad luck, and compromise while making the most of the world as it is. They also have to accept that, although there may be respites, the struggle never really ends.
Plus, it is exposure to Greek myth and history brought to life, which may trigger intellectual curiosity. And there are settings all over the U.S., from DC to the New Mexico desert, which may trigger a healthy bit of wanderlust. Good, positive stuff. Highly recommended as books that they can be shared between kids and parents to the benefit of both.
The Lightning Thief (Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Book 1)
The Sea of Monsters (Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Book 2)
The Titan's Curse (Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Book 3)
The Battle of the Labyrinth (Percy Jackson and the Olympians, Book 4)
The Last Olympian (Percy Jackson & the Olympians, Book 5)
The Demigod Files (A Percy Jackson and the Olympians Guide)
The Webscape
The Webscape: I don't really consider this site a blog any more. When I think of blogs I think of the old style blogs where you would find interesting articles around the web and link them up with a few snide comments. That's what this place was many, many years ago. In fact, I used to get a fair amount of readers because I was alphabetically listed atop the Yahoo index of blogs (Yahoo index was big, before Google and search). Now there are so many different ways to get actual "logs of the web" -- RSS, news aggregators, twitter trackers -- that it really makes no sense for me to contribute to the background noise by trying to "pre-surf" for you. Links to popular/urgent/controversial web content circulate so fast now that by the time I picked up on it, it would be old news.
It used to be that the Dancing Baby animation and "All Yuor Base Are Belong to Us" would become points of commonality for web culture and you were one of the cool kids if you were already on top of all that when it finally trickled into the somewhat more tactile world of broader pop culture. Now there is no such thing as separate web culture, it is fully merged with broader popular culture. In this world, old school blogs are as quaint as fax machines.
As a byproduct of all this, the web world is awash in the same level of noise and nonsense of any other medium. The trick when surfing these days is not to find curious bits of entertainment or news that are ahead of the curve, but to find high quality thoughtful posting; things of intellectual or critical value that you can really sink your teeth into. In that respect, the web is no different than any other source of communication. So let me recommend five "blogs" where I regularly find thoughtful posts. Were I still an old school blogger, I bet 80% my posts would come from these places.
First and foremost is Overcoming Bias. From Professor Robin Hanson, this is an attempt to do just what the name says, overcome bias in understanding the world. He will take the most basic ideas, simple things that you (and me, and him) have always accepted accepted as natural and rational, and delve deep inside of them to see that they are often not remotely rational but indicative of subcutaneous assumptions that we have so thoroughly assimilated that we don't realize it. But he does not identify them to call them false or perverse. He angles for understanding the source of the assumptions, to identify the points of human nature that bring them about.
Not surprisingly, Hanson is rooted in the behavior theories of Economics, a field wherein one makes quantitative predictions based on assumptions about human behavior, and thus, one is forced to identify what human behavior is assumed to be and question the assumptions if the prediction is measurably wrong. But Hanson has broadened his scope. Here is a sample quote that starts out as a review of the kids movie Dragonball Evolution.
I want to emphasize that this is not an everything-you-know-is-wrong-you-fool or a the-human-race-is-a-self-deluded-lost-cause site. It is serious intellectual inquiry, without (as far as I can tell) a specific social agenda or any attempt to claim moral righteousness. It is not quick and easy reading for coffee breaks, and you shouldn't visit if you are happy in your internally-defined world (I say that without judgment, thanks to Hanson). But if you are looking for explosive mind candy, this is the place.
2 Blowhards is actually about 4 or 5 blowhards, I think, operating a group blog. They come from various walks of life; all of them refer to themselves as "art buffs". The site is just rife with the fascinating sort of outside-the-mainstream articles that you would not get were it not for the Web. Excellent design commentary on everything from architecture to automobiles, and a fine appreciation of the low-brow as valid art. Also, I think the blowhards are my age or even a bit older, which adds to their stand-out takes on the perpetually twenty-something Web.
Arts and Letters Daily is the only one of these sites that completely eschews original content for the good old "pre-surfing" mentality from the old days. Arts and Letters Daily is like a trusted old friend, every day (except Sunday) you get three new links to articles of interest, any area of the humanities is eligible, introduced with nothing more than a sentence or two. It has been such for many years. Don't ever change.
Marginal Revolution is the blog of economists Tyler Cowen and Alex Tabarrok from George Mason University. Both are renown in their field but Cowen, who does most of the posting, is widely known as the author of such pop-Econ books as Discover Your Inner Economist and Create Your Own Economy. They occasionally get bogged down in econ wonkery, especially during big financial dustups like the mortgage meltdown or Obamacare, but they are at their best when stripping behavior-oriented topics of interest down to their basic incentives and motivations rather than getting swamped in polemics. Even better are Cowen's posts on what he is reading (just about everything it seems) and his travels -- there are usually hidden gems in those links. Note, Cowen also maintains an ethnic food blog which is a good stop if you are wondering where to eat in the DC area.
Terry Teachout covers a wide spectrum of arts -- theatre, painting, music - for various journalistic outlets including the Wall Street Journal. He is also a biographer of H.L. Mencken and Louis Armstrong and, just recently, an opera librettist. He blogs on such a varied set of arts related topics that I wouldn't try to list them all, but the big draw here is the deeply personal sense of enthusiasm he brings to his posts. Although I have differed with his opinion more often than not about our few common artistic experiences, I get whisked along with his eager appreciation of the arts he consumes. It is true that passion is paramount in writing, but when you mix in clarity and crispness of prose, as Terry does, then add a sense of the personal, what you get is irresistible. Whenever he writes glowingly about a play, I feel the urge to hop a plane to NYC or Chicago or wherever to see it, and feel like I've truly missed out when I don't follow through.
It used to be that the Dancing Baby animation and "All Yuor Base Are Belong to Us" would become points of commonality for web culture and you were one of the cool kids if you were already on top of all that when it finally trickled into the somewhat more tactile world of broader pop culture. Now there is no such thing as separate web culture, it is fully merged with broader popular culture. In this world, old school blogs are as quaint as fax machines.
As a byproduct of all this, the web world is awash in the same level of noise and nonsense of any other medium. The trick when surfing these days is not to find curious bits of entertainment or news that are ahead of the curve, but to find high quality thoughtful posting; things of intellectual or critical value that you can really sink your teeth into. In that respect, the web is no different than any other source of communication. So let me recommend five "blogs" where I regularly find thoughtful posts. Were I still an old school blogger, I bet 80% my posts would come from these places.
First and foremost is Overcoming Bias. From Professor Robin Hanson, this is an attempt to do just what the name says, overcome bias in understanding the world. He will take the most basic ideas, simple things that you (and me, and him) have always accepted accepted as natural and rational, and delve deep inside of them to see that they are often not remotely rational but indicative of subcutaneous assumptions that we have so thoroughly assimilated that we don't realize it. But he does not identify them to call them false or perverse. He angles for understanding the source of the assumptions, to identify the points of human nature that bring them about.
Not surprisingly, Hanson is rooted in the behavior theories of Economics, a field wherein one makes quantitative predictions based on assumptions about human behavior, and thus, one is forced to identify what human behavior is assumed to be and question the assumptions if the prediction is measurably wrong. But Hanson has broadened his scope. Here is a sample quote that starts out as a review of the kids movie Dragonball Evolution.
Let me suggest that humans are much like story characters. Since others like us better if the story of our lives seems to fit with standard human ideals, we try to appear to so fit. But since it is expensive to actually fit these ideals in great detail, we instead manipulate our cheap surface words and acts to give a loose appearance of a fit. The expensive details of our lives, however, instead better fit the non-ideal necessities of who we really are. None of this works if our hypocrisy is too obvious, but thankfully we tend to cooperate to squint and avoid seeing each others' non-ideal realities.
You are a character in the story of your life. Evolution has formed you so that you, mostly unconsciously, craft the character you project to be likable and interesting. The crafting of this image is done via manipulations that are just good enough to not force most folks to notice them. Perceptive folk may notice them more, but usually also know they will not be rewarded for calling our mutual charade.
Even so, I choose to try to see through our deceptions, to the less ideal, dramatic, and sympathetic people we really are. And I hope to live to tell about it.
I want to emphasize that this is not an everything-you-know-is-wrong-you-fool or a the-human-race-is-a-self-deluded-lost-cause site. It is serious intellectual inquiry, without (as far as I can tell) a specific social agenda or any attempt to claim moral righteousness. It is not quick and easy reading for coffee breaks, and you shouldn't visit if you are happy in your internally-defined world (I say that without judgment, thanks to Hanson). But if you are looking for explosive mind candy, this is the place.
2 Blowhards is actually about 4 or 5 blowhards, I think, operating a group blog. They come from various walks of life; all of them refer to themselves as "art buffs". The site is just rife with the fascinating sort of outside-the-mainstream articles that you would not get were it not for the Web. Excellent design commentary on everything from architecture to automobiles, and a fine appreciation of the low-brow as valid art. Also, I think the blowhards are my age or even a bit older, which adds to their stand-out takes on the perpetually twenty-something Web.
Arts and Letters Daily is the only one of these sites that completely eschews original content for the good old "pre-surfing" mentality from the old days. Arts and Letters Daily is like a trusted old friend, every day (except Sunday) you get three new links to articles of interest, any area of the humanities is eligible, introduced with nothing more than a sentence or two. It has been such for many years. Don't ever change.
Marginal Revolution is the blog of economists Tyler Cowen and Alex Tabarrok from George Mason University. Both are renown in their field but Cowen, who does most of the posting, is widely known as the author of such pop-Econ books as Discover Your Inner Economist and Create Your Own Economy. They occasionally get bogged down in econ wonkery, especially during big financial dustups like the mortgage meltdown or Obamacare, but they are at their best when stripping behavior-oriented topics of interest down to their basic incentives and motivations rather than getting swamped in polemics. Even better are Cowen's posts on what he is reading (just about everything it seems) and his travels -- there are usually hidden gems in those links. Note, Cowen also maintains an ethnic food blog which is a good stop if you are wondering where to eat in the DC area.
Terry Teachout covers a wide spectrum of arts -- theatre, painting, music - for various journalistic outlets including the Wall Street Journal. He is also a biographer of H.L. Mencken and Louis Armstrong and, just recently, an opera librettist. He blogs on such a varied set of arts related topics that I wouldn't try to list them all, but the big draw here is the deeply personal sense of enthusiasm he brings to his posts. Although I have differed with his opinion more often than not about our few common artistic experiences, I get whisked along with his eager appreciation of the arts he consumes. It is true that passion is paramount in writing, but when you mix in clarity and crispness of prose, as Terry does, then add a sense of the personal, what you get is irresistible. Whenever he writes glowingly about a play, I feel the urge to hop a plane to NYC or Chicago or wherever to see it, and feel like I've truly missed out when I don't follow through.
Travel Rewind: Found: New Land (August 2008)
Travel Rewind: Found: New Land (August 2008): (In honor of my trip to Maine, here is a previous trip in that direction, this one much further. Photos are on SmugMug.)
I was rather surprised that many of my friends didn't know where Newfoundland was and weren't really sure if it was a stand-alone country or a province or region or what. It was then I realized that I am a geography geek. In fact, I think I have been most of my life. As a child I loved maps and even now the walls of my home are decorated with antique maps from the mid 19th century, so my instinctive response was to furrow my brow incredulously: How could you not know where Newfoundland is? But I'm the weird one, not them.
Actually, the first question they asked was if I was bringing back a dog, because when you say Newfoundland, everyone thinks of the dog. For the record I saw no Newfoundlands or Labradors in the province of Newfoundland & Labrador. I did see something they called a Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever, which looked so much like a scraggly mutt that I thought the locals were pulling my leg.
The island of Newfoundland is part of the province of Newfoundland & Labrador which is one of a group of Canadian provinces on the Atlantic seaboard that are generally referred to as the Maritimes. They include Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, and New Brunswick -- you've heard the names but you can't quite place them on your metal picture of the globe. I took to saying: "Head towards Maine and keep going. If you hit Greenland, you've gone too far." I leave it as an exercise to the reader to go to Google maps and look it up.
Oh, never mind, I'll do it.
To get to Newfoundland one flies 3+ hours on a very nice Air Canada jet from Toronto -- you know where that is, right? These very nice jets have personal video systems built into the seats, even in coach. They also seem to have more legroom than most coach seats. I like Air Canada. One arrives at the airport in the capitol city of St. John's. Note the possessive. St. John (no apostrophe s) is the capitol of New Brunswick; St. John's is the capitol of Newfoundland & Labrador. So the man from capitol of New Brunswick looks and the man from the capitol of Newfoundland and says, "Owned!" (Heh heh heh. I crack myself up.)
Enough cuteness. The plain fact is St. John's kicked my ass, or at least attempted to.
Arriving at night in an unfamiliar place usually makes for some minor driving difficulty. In St. John's this is magnified by the fact that they seem to have a deep-seated aversion to straight lines. There is not a more convoluted set of vectors in any city in existence. Couple that with street names that can change from one block to the next for no obvious reason and hills that are dauntingly steep and you can imagine what it's like to get around at night, in the pouring rain, with only a cartoon map from the hotel as a guide.
Still, I made it down to the Water Street -- St. John's is, essentially, a college town and the waterfront area is the point where all the cool restaurant and bars and shops are -- clothed in my woefully insufficient jacket to search for a bite to eat. After a good 15 minutes of wandering around in the wind and rain looking for a special place that just cried out "Eat here!" I moved one street inland to George Street which is famous for pub crawling. George Street is thought to have the most bars and pubs per square foot in the world. (Oddly, they celebrate Mardi Gras in October here. I have no explanation for that.) Turns out the driving rain can put a damper on such activities and the street was pretty much deserted. I was soaked and chilled enough to be susceptible to the sign outside Kelly's Pub which claimed the world's best fish and chips. It was a standard pub type spot, which is just fine. Happy, back-slapping people at the bar. A hockey game was on the big screen. There was a guitarist alternating traditional Maritime folk music with '70s easy listening hits. And the chips that came with the fish was actually poutine.
No matter how you say it, you are pronouncing the word poutine wrong. Depending on your source, you will be instructed to pronounce it poo-teen or poo-tin or poo-sin or puts-in. This is intentional. The idea is that unless you are confident in your pronunciation, a local will be able to safely correct you and perhaps have a bit of fun at your expense. Everybody needs their little victories. If, however, you feel the need to stand your ground, just pick an obscure city from the other side of Canada from your location and say they pronounce it like you do:
You: I'll have an order of poo-tin.
Smarmy local: It's pronounced poo-sin.
You: Not in Saskatoon (or Gander, or Yellowknife) it isn't.
Sick burn on the hoser. Alternatively, you could just order French fries with gravy and cheese curds, which is what poutine is. It should also come with dose of Lipitor. When you order fish and chips and at Kelly's Pub you get about a pound and a half of poutine and three sizable pieces of richly battered fish. I honestly had enough to feed a family of four on my plate. Such portion sizes are appropriate if one is laying in some extra insulation against the Canadian winter, I suppose. I ate about a quarter of my poutine, and two pieces of fish after I scraped off a layer of batter. The fish in St. John's, and anywhere in Newfoundland for that matter, is bound to be fresh. Fishing is what they do. Sadly, it rare to see it in any form but surrounded in thick batter. What I had was quite tasty, though.
I don't like folk music. The version of folk music traditional to Newfoundland also has roots in sea shanties -- the drunken howlings of sailors who have been too long away from home -- and Irish music -- the drunken howlings of Irishmen who have been too long away from sobriety. Strangely, neither of these features altered my position on folk music. I have no doubt that the fellow singing in Kelly's Pub was quite skilled in this genre, but I would have preferred for a more soothing background. Fingernails on a chalkboard, for instance. I made for my car, got drenched again on the way and headed back to my hotel, telling myself I needed to pick up some rain gear. An inauspicious first night.
The following day I was on my way to Cape Spear. It was here I realized that I was a pre-season traveler. A lot of minor attractions simply weren't open or were operating on limited hours. Most such places were sparsely peopled and often I was on my own. Although it was technically well into spring, I didn't see a high temp beyond 60. I was stupidly following the general travel rule that northern destinations go in-season between Memorial Day and Labor Day. Well, Newfoundland is north enough that most travelers don't get here until June. That's fine with me, I prefer off season travelling, although it does cause some limitations.
Cape Spear is the easternmost point in North America; the earliest of the many lighthouses along the Atlantic coast. The grounds have been restored to their condition as of about 1839, which is more picturesque than historically interesting. Separately, there are the remains of fortifications from WW2; artillery and a supporting set of storage rooms and tunnels that stand in industrial-style contrast to the pastoral restorations of the lighthouse and surrounding buildings. Like everywhere in Newfoundland, there are walking trails along the water.
You could spend a very pleasant afternoon wandering about, maybe even bring a picnic lunch and a bicycle built for two, although beware the strong winds and potential for raining at the drop of hat. Realistically, you can cover Cape Spear in 90 minutes at the most. I went in the morning but I suggest hitting it in the PM, when the sun shining out toward the sea, giving you nice oblique light against the coastline.
Following Cape Spear I made a dash back through the heart of town to Signal Hill. Signal Hill is probably the premier tourist attraction in St. John's. It is very close to the waterfront area I spoke of but do not underestimate the effect of the elevation should you try to walk there. It's a pretty walk, from town to Signal Hill, but it's not remotely a gentle stroll. You'll pass by cozy, postcardy row houses (going uphill), pass a couple of hotels (going uphill), eventually reach the visitor's center (going uphill), then it gets even steeper as you make the climb to the top. I drove.
I made it to the visitor's center just in time to catch the firing of the noon gun, a mid-day tradition from days of yore maintained for the la touristas. Inside the visitors center there are the usual display of historic documents and artifacts. There is also a small theatre with a movie describing the history of Signal Hill and, by extension, St. John's and Newfoundland. Usually these presentations are cheesy, but this one is exceptionally well done. Set up as a conversation between a local historian and Newfoundland officer who actually manned Signal Hill when it was a military installation. They tell all the local stories and relate the history from the battles between the French and British in the 18th century all the way up to the time when St. John's was haven for shipping convoys in WW2. One of the last stories is the tale of a passenger ship that was torpedoed and sunk by a German u-boat. It turns out one of the women killed in the sinking was the wife of the Newfoundland officer narrating the story. Very good job at bringing history into the present.
From the visitors center it is a short winding drive up to Signal Hill proper. At the top you see...well, it's hard for me to say because the fog was so thick I couldn't see my hand in front of my face. That is only a slight exaggeration. I was nervous walking from my car across the parking lot because I was certain no other drivers could see me. I circled the structure at the top of the Hill, from whence you should be able to see stunning views of St. John's, but it looked like existence had been erased; like an episode of the Twilight Zone where you have been thrust into an alternate dimension and you can only see objects in your immediate surroundings so you wander aimlessly in the void hoping someone will come along and teach you the uplifting life lesson you need to learn before you return home.
Since I couldn't see a thing, I figured the wisest thing to do would be to hike out along the edge of the cliffs.
From the Signal Hill parking lot you can follow a path that takes you over a stretch rock-strewn wasteland to the cliff edge, where you can look over and see nothing but gray. That is an eerie feeling. It is like coming to the edge of the Earth. The world just stops: beyond this point there be dragons -- or possibly Rod Serling. The trail then leads lower long the cliffs and the fog begins to clear a bit. Down here you can tell that on a clear day, you could see forever. Cast your gaze east and there is nothing but ocean until you hit Europe. To the West is the Town of St. John's where you can see the big cargo ships laying in port and the colorful expanse of the city spreading off into the distance.
The trail then continues, sometimes a bare path, sometimes a wooded walkway. Eventually it starts to narrow until it becomes only a few feet wide and winds along a sheer rock face. One treads carefully along this stretch, since a misstep would bring certain death on the craggy rocks hundreds of feet below. Fortunately, some kind souls have thought to hammer lengths of stout chain into the rock face, which is the only measure of safety you have. If you are as lucky as I am, you get to be precisely halfway across this stretch, hanging on to the safety chain with one white-knuckled hand while clutching your expensive Nikon DSLR in the other when it starts to rain. Hard. I tucked the Nikon in my inadequate jacket and inched my way along as fast I could. Yes, I really did need to pick up some rain gear.
Having survived that gauntlet, the trail wound around Signal Hill and back towards the outskirts of St. John's, eventually coming upon a small residential area at the foot of the hill where exists one of the strangest things I have seen. The hiking trail, this official trial defined and maintained by the government, passes over someone's front porch. In fact there is a sign that says "trial continues across porch" or something to that effect. It's not a government building, it's just some guy's porch. You walk across and see him through the window not five feet away sitting at his table eating lunch or something. Truly bizarre.
At this point the trail ceases to be a trail, and winds through one of the those cozy, clapboard neighborhoods that are everywhere in Newfoundland. St. John's is so completely unnavigable that I took a wrong turn, but the folks are so friendly that almost instantly a salty old coot leaned out his open door and pointed me in the right direction which brought me back to the road I had previously driven up to get to the top of the hill. As I slogged back uphill, now soaking wet and chilled to the bone, the fog got thicker and thicker. Meanwhile cars are barreling down the hill at me unable to see a thing until I manifest in their vision like Rod Serling appearing for the final summation. I don't know which was more scary, the hill road or the cliffs.
Eventually, I did reach the top and sat in my car for a moment and reflected on one of the strangest few hours of hiking I have ever done. Then I looked at my watch. Seventy-five minutes. It felt like it took me all day, but barely more than an hour had passed. I drove to the mall and bought a rain jacket.
A few words about the physical anthropology of Newfoundlanders based on keen observations at the center of all modern life: the mall. Newfoundlanders are not pretty. That is not to say they are not attractive, in a fresh outdoorsy sense, but they aren't much for style or appearance. Need someone to hold your lifeline while you grasp a ring buoy for dear life in blustering seas, no problem. Need help getting your truck started when it's double digits below zero, a Newfoundlander is your man. You can see this in their stoic jaws and weathered hands. Looking to get past the discriminating doorman at that hot Vegas nightclub? Not so much. But more importantly there is a clear tendency towards rotundity (perhaps a bit too much poutine). Even more so than in the States, and that's saying something. A visit to the mall makes this plainly obvious.
The next day I dashed north out of St John's to catch the ferry to Bell Island. To get to Bell Island you take a car ferry, which I had never done before. A car ferry is basically a little floating parking lot for cars, with entry at the stern and exit at the bow (or vice versa). You are guided on to the boat and into a space, then you are free to get out and wander around the boat as much as you like. There's a lounge and a concession stand. As you pull into dock, you simply hop back in your car and drive off, quick and easy.
I don't know what to make of Bell Island. It appears to be a sort of vacation cottage community, although I'm not exactly sure what the attraction is. Maybe it's the convenience of having access to St. John's on relatively short notice yet still gives the feel of island level isolation (although looking for island level isolation from Newfoundland may sound redundant). What it offers over and above some of the smaller seaside communities around near St. John I can't see, apart from the inconvenience of having to take the car ferry anytime you want to get something the handful of shops and stores and the island don't provide. Still, it has its full share of Newfoundland coziness and is a fare spot to troll about or sit and admire the sea view for a while.
It was time to begin my traversal of the island (Newfoundland, not Bell). The next morning I was headed west along the TCH (Trans-Canada Highway), essentially an expressway that goes in a relatively straight shot right across Newfoundland. The plan I had was to turn off the highway once each day and explore up to the end of the little fingers that extend into the ocean from the jagged northeast facing coast. A couple hours out of St. John's one reaches Terra Nova National Park. I figured this was as good a place as any to turn off, and I drove through the park but Terra Nova wasn't really up into the fingers. I'm sure there were very interesting things to do there, but I drove on through and kept heading seaward until I reached to town of Salvage.
Salvage, as far as I know, is not in any guide books. At a glance, it is pretty much indistinguishable from any other the hundreds of other fishing villages along the same coast. I drove through town until the road, literally, ended. It turns out that the end of the road is the start of a hiking trail. The trail led up a steep cliff to a lookout providing excellent views of the village below and the surrounding islands. On the way up I overheard a family coming back down wondering whether something or other was "worth trying to find." When I got to the top I realized what they were talking about. Further seaward was a higher peak, also with viewing platform on top.
If that family could get there, I could get there. Unfortunately it wasn't entirely clear how to get there. I caught up with them at a fork we each went off on a different path -- mine eventually dead-ending on a river bank after a few hundred yards. I back tracked and caught up with them sight-seeing at the point where the path went by an old cemetery. I explained that the other trail promptly dead-ended and plowed forward, leaving them to their grave trolling. The trail wound through woods, then across long stretches of rocky cliff areas, uphill all the way. The trail was quite well marked and the weather was bracing. Sometimes following trails can feel like a struggle, especially uphill, but for some reason I found this one invigorating; as I approached the top I was bounding up the chiseled rocks. At the very end there is a brief scramble to the viewing platform and you are rewarded with a vast 360 degree view including on this day a slew of smallish icebergs.
In time a woman appeared who had clearly come up via another trail, dressed in warm up gear and looking very much like someone on a fitness mission. Then the family eventually caught up with me and we all had a nice little conversation. Upon hearing I was from the distant land of Michigan USA, they commented that I was pretty far from home. Yes, I was. There is appoint in any trip long enough to call an escape where you know finally feel like you've gotten away. I call it the vacation moment. There looking over Salvage, I was surely on vacation.
After covering more of the TCH, I ended up in the town of Great Falls-Windsor for the evening, staying at the nicely maintained Trailways Inn. I struggled a bit to find the place and was a little anxious when I did, noting that it was located on the second floor of an old building over a martial arts studio. But it was clean, quiet and functional, reminding me a bit of an old boarding house with a comfortable lobby area with sleeping rooms that opened right on to it. The Wi-fi worked. I slept well.
The next day's off highway excursion was to the town of Fleur de Lys. By now I was well away from St. John's so the towns were morphing from vacation cottage communities to more remote villages. Fleur de Lys is a key archeological site and apparently has a large soapstone quarry nearby as a big economic force, but like the rest of Newfoundland, it is working hard to develop infrastructure for itinerants such as me. My brief visit Fleur de Lys was notable in that I was now far enough north that the pack ice had yet to completely dissipate. It also contains a curiosity called Sherrie's Island. It's basically just a 20 ft. square rock in the bay, but some creative soul built a little bridge to it and place a bench and a couple of little trinkets to make it into a microscopic park, of sorts. Cute and clever, in an eccentric sense. There is also a plaque commemorating the death of one Dougie Walsh, a young boy who drowned some years back. In the quiet, remote little village it must have affected people deeply. It made me feel like an alien from some crass planet where such events are of no concern to your neighbors.
By the end of the afternoon I had made my way past the gateway town of Deer Lake and was finally at Gros Morne National Park, the jewel of Eastern Canada. The road through Gros Morne twists along at water level among cliffs and peaks. Around every corner there is an amazing view; the sort of thing you might see in a brochure for just about any "up north" outdoors vacation. Seriously, you could drive through Gros Morne and over the course of a couple of hours, have enough stock photography to supply the travel and outdoor sports industry for years to come. Except you can't let yourself get too mesmerized by the sights. If you do, the moose will get you.
Home in Michigan we have deer, which are the source of a fair number of auto mishaps -- dents and fender smashes -- but they usually get themselves killed in the process. Moose, not so. Moose are humongous SOBs. Like some kind of great Pleistocene holdovers. This is your actual warning sign. Note in that illustration that the moose looks distinctly unperturbed, but the car now resembles an accordion. It is a commonly spoken of possibility around Gros Morne that were you to hit a moose with your car, it would just piss him off. One suspects these are not myths and legends designed to impress tourists.
Shortly after entering the park, I spotted one about 30 yards off the road and a quickly slowed down and hopped out to take a picture. As I have previously discovered yet apparently haven't stored in my head, animals in national parks show little fear of cars, since cars are almost universally deferential to them as they cross the roads, but hop out and try to get close for a picture and they flee at top speed. Mr. Moose high-tailed it into the woods. I feared I may have lost my shot at a good moose pic but as I was to find, Gros Morne is crawling with them. I would estimate in the two full days I spent in Gros Morne, I probably had ten or fifteen sightings -- always from the road, never on foot. There were hiking trails where I would see moose tracks in the dirt looking like they couldn't me more that a few minutes old, yet I never encountered one mano y mooso. Probably a good thing, that.
There are a few small villages within Gros Morne. I have been mentioning all these little fishing villages where summer cabin style homes are going up, I cannot imagine a more perfect place for a summer cabin than inside Gros Morne National Park. At one point while winding along the main road I stopped at a pull-off where I could look across the bay at a village about a mile or so away on the far shore. The village was Norris Point, and from my vantage, the one building that really stood out on the far shoreline was Neddie's Harbour Inn which, it so happened, is where I was staying.
Neddie's Harbour Inn is a real beauty of a place. Sized larger than a B&B but smaller that a motel, Neddie's doesn't really fit in with the rest of the Gros Morne accommodations which tend towards the rustic. Let me correct that: it looks like it fits in externally, but inside it's fresh and new. Neddie's is recently built and designed with all the modern conveniences. They have gone to great lengths to use local materials -- virtually the entire building is made from a beautiful light toned local birch. The place is filled with locally made furniture and decorations and art works. Like everywhere else, Gros Morne is facing gentrification. There will be a point where, though remote, Gros Morne becomes fashionable. Money will be coming in, as will the petite bourgeois. The question is how will it be handled. More on this later, but if it is handled as well as Neddie's -- there will be no worries. Plus, the wi-fi works.
My time in Gros Morne suffered a bit because it was still preseason. The boat tours, kayak rentals, and many of the local eateries still hadn't re-opened for the summer. One more week would have made all the difference. For example, Neddie's has a restaurant but it was not yet opened for dinner (a decent breakfast was available every morning though). The nearest village with restaurants was Rocky Harbour, which contained about four diners, two of which were closed, one of others was open but completely unmanned. Anyway, it doesn't matter because there is no good food, just sustenance with a smile. I took to eating pre-made sandwiches from convenience stores.
A byproduct of this was the silence. I don't think I have ever encountered such thorough silence at night. No footsteps in the hallway or distant conversations or cars creeping across the gravel. Not even crickets. It was so totally quiet my mind generated an eerie TV-horror-story dream that the sun had winked out and the world was cast into total apocalyptic darkness that literally caused me to sit up in bed and lunge for the nearest lamp. I cannot overstate how weird that is for me. In my entire life, you can probably count on one hand the number of dreams that I have remembered after awakening. Suddenly, here on the edge of the frozen north I have a vivid nightmare that I remember to this day. Yes, I was very far from home.
Still the point of Gros Morne was the hiking and the hiking was beautiful. The wind howled and the temps were chilly, but there was a real freshness to the trails this early in the season and very little traffic. The killer hike is to the top of Gros Morne Mountain which was not available. That trail is closed until July in deference to the breeding of some protected species or other, so I narrowed more choices from what was left.
I had two full days and the first day was overcast and windy but I managed to get in two excellent treks. The first was the Green Gardens Trail. Gros Morne is often referred to as a geologists dream because of the immense variety of, well, dirt and rocks and other sorts of geological things. I have no idea what that's all about, but I can attest to the variety of the landscape. When you start out on the Green Gardens Trail, you might as well be in Death Valley. What little vegetation there is, is simply scrub. The barren land slopes gently upward soil is reddish and dry looking. Then, literally within a couple of hundred yards, you are trodding through a thick boreal forest. The trail winds through the forest for quite some time eventually turning along the cliffs at the shoreline; a volcanic shoreline that could easily have been transplanted from somewhere on Hawaii. It's a striking transformation.
Along the shore cliffs there is a wide grassy area that affords plenty of opportunity looking out at the Gulf of St. Lawrence. A bit further on, there is a very steep and rather tenuous looking set of wooden steps leading down to the black sand beach. The beach is strewn with volcanic rocks, some very large and oddly formed. Here's a hint should you ever find yourself at this point on the globe, if you walk down to the opposite end of the beach from the staircase, you will come to a crevice in the cliffs. Rock hop through the crevice and you find yourself in a little green garden with a perfectly picturesque waterfall at the far end. It's as if someone just decided to carve out a pretty little sanctuary in the middle of some dramatic volcanic shore. Awesome.
The afternoon hike was a bit more pedestrian. The trail to Lookout is less dramatic. It starts at the park's Discovery Centre and ascends steeply to the top of Partrigdgeberry Hill, where you get the best panoramic view of the park, per the general consensus. The view is a knockout; it gives a real sense of the beauty of the park. And you also get a reminder that spring comes late in Newfoundland -- even with June a day or so away, there is still a fair amount of snow on the ground.
The next day, my only other full day in Gros Morne, it was supposed to be bright and sunny. It wasn't. It rained all day and I was in no mood to hike around in the rain. Far north of Gros Morne, on very northernmost tip of Newfoundland is the point of the oldest European settlement in the New World -- L'Anse aux Meadows, the point where a small pack of the Norse set up shop roundabout a thousand years ago. It would have been my next choice but it was about a five hour drive each way and the other thing I was not in the mood for was ten hours on the road, although I must admit I somewhat regret that now. It would have been a cool place to see. But I did get in the car and drive north out of the park, promising myself to stop anywhere interesting provided the rain stopped. It didn't.
I did get a couple hours north to a little speck called Port Au Choix, which is famed for its native burial mounds, which I didn't get out to look at because of the rain. However, Port Au Choix, Newfoundland now stands as the furthest north I have even been in my life. In honor of that, I stopped at a Subway for lunch. This Subway, located in a "gas bar" (a gas station/convenience store/diner) was closing -- going out of business. As a lifelong U.S. citizen it is virtually impossible for me to imagine a Subway sandwich shop going out of business. It's like hearing about a McDonald's or a WalMart failing. Just doesn't happen. Yet, despite the fact that there is not another place to eat within miles, this Subway was going under.
The economy of Newfoundland and Labrador has been steadily improving over the past 3 or 4 years but understand: Improving means the unemployment rate dropped from its historic standard of 16%+ to 13%+. Province GDP picked up in the last couple of years, but that is almost solely due to an increase in mining and drilling activity in the wake of energy price increases. Population peaked in the early '80s and has slowly diminished over the last 10 or 15 years. There are less than half a million residents. And so, Subways can close as easily as they are opened.
Although not quick enough to save the gas bar Subway in Port au Choix, money is coming to Newfoundland, and not from oil and gas. In addition to a brilliant outdoorsy existence, Newfoundland has something else that can't be manufactured: friendly people. And this is not fake friendly, as in the Caribbean, where everyone is self-consciously listening to reggae and chilling out and oh by the way are you interested in a time share? These folks are genuinely open and happy to see visitors even if you aren't peeling off tip money. Although, I admit to being taken aback when a gas bar cashier said she loved me.
Actually "my love" is just a casual appellation used by many Newfoundland women. "Will that be all for you, m'love?" It's a little disconcerting at first, but then you come to realize that it pretty much says everything that needs to be said about Newfoundlanders. And it's all delivered with accents that are part Bob and Doug Mackenzie and part Willie the Groundskeeper from the Simpsons. It makes you want to give them a hug. It makes you feel welcome as a visitor, as opposed to welcome as a full wallet, which is rare for a tourist.
On my way out of Gros Morne the next day I stopped at a very short costal trail near the lighthouse for a final, brief walk in the woods. After enjoying the coastal view for a bit I turned around to head back and found moose tracks on top of my footprints. There had to be a moose in the immediate vicinity, I hadn't been walking very long. I started to look around for one, not sure if I actually wanted to succeed. Potential headline: "Idiot Yank gets Moose Hoof Enema to Start the Season." But the fact was I couldn't see it. The thing had to be within a hundred yards of me, and a moose is roughly the size of a Volkswagen, yet I could not spot it. Perhaps it was the mythical Ninja Moose of Gros Morne. Lesson: I wouldn't last five seconds in the wild.
Then, all too soon I was back on the TCH heading in the opposite direction. In every vacation of length there is a point where you see the end in sight. It was time for me to make my way home. The reverse trip back to St. John's was the same as the trip over: a daily exploration to the shore. The first day was a turn off into the town of Twillingate which -- without remotely intending any disrespect -- is virtually indistinguishable from the myriad other fishing villages that are becoming cottage communities all up and down the coast.
In these villages we begin to glimpse Newfoundland's future. Lonely Planet named Newfoundland one of the top 30 travel destinations for 2008. Fodor's named it one of the 7 places to go in 2008. Newfoundland is making a push into the travel and tourism industry, and it is steadily growing. At the moment things are still rustic most everywhere except St. John's, but I strongly suspect it won't last long. In my home state of Michigan people who have disposable income have been acquiring vacation cottages and homes in the northern parts of the state for years. The same is true in New York State and New England. Based on the obviously new cottages going up in these small villages I wouldn't be surprised if, 10 years from now, the hot place to have your summer home will be Newfoundland.
I would love to buy a cottage in Newfoundland for all the disingenuous reasons anybody else would. I would buy one, preferably in Gros Morne, spend a couple of summers there, and then complain about how all the new arrivals are ruining the place. Folks like me will pay premiums for that genuine Maritimes experience. But the more of us that show up, the more the experience will get watered down. Now, I am not of the opinion that just because I like Newfoundland as it is, the people should suffer double digit unemployment and stagnant economic prospects for all time just so I can have a little fantasy land to go to for a couple of months in the summer. The trick is to find the right balance that brings financial advantage without turning Newfoundland into an Atlantic Canada theme park.
One town that taking a good shot at it is Trinity, my last daily exploration. At first glance it seems like just another one of the picturesque villages I have run out of adjectives for. But there's something else going on. It's cleaned up and properly prepared. The street signs are of a type. Most of the buildings seem to have been freshly painted. There are a larger than average number of little gift shops and B&Bs. In most Newfoundland villages, tourism support amounts to a hiking trail and an overlook and maybe a small information centre. In Trinity, they seem to have accepted the idea of the entire community selling the tourist. Think of it this way, an indie filmmaker would pick Bell Island or Twillingate or Salvage for his locale. Hollywood would pick Trinity. It was selected as a Traveler's Choice destination by Trip Advisor, and has its own website dedicated to tourism.
And it's very well done. The scenery across the water to the lighthouse is a charmer. There are little coves and inlets to explore, both on foot or by boat. Looking for a long weekend in a picturesque, romantic place -- Trinity is a good choice. Trinity, I would guess, is the barometer for Newfoundland's future. Stop by in ten years and if it's turned into a cheesy crap shop chaos, you will know they have failed.
Back in St.John for one last night before leaving. I settled into the Battery Hotel near Signal Hill -- remember the one I had such a harrowing hike around about 10 pages ago? Or rather I tried to settle in. At first they put me on a floor with a bunch of high schoolers on holiday -- it was clear I would get no sleep, so I got moved to a different room where the walls were so thin I could hear everything going on in the next room, and I mean everything, so I asked for yet another room. (Note that the desk clerks were unfailingly polite about moving me twice.)
I finally got a quiet room and discovered the wireless didn't work. I fail to understand why Neddie's Harbour Inn in Gros Morne, which consists of a few rooms hundreds of kilometers from anything resembling industry and surrounded by mountains, and the Trailways Inn in Great Falls-Windsor, a one-woman show which consists of a handful of nice, clean rooms over a martial arts studio, can have functioning wireless, but the Battery Hotel, a top end conference hotel in smack in the middle of the province capital St. John's with dozens of staff on hand, cannot keep their wireless functioning. When I asked about the weak signal, I was told that the problem may be that "too many people were using it." No, moron, that's not how wireless signals work. Ye gods. Welcome back to the world.
Should you visit Newfoundland? At this point in its life, Newfoundland works perfectly for folks in search of gentle exploration. If your perfect vacation is a quiet, friendly place that's all about spotting icebergs, or whale watching, or wandering around in the fresh air before settling in with a good book for the night, you should go. Now. Are you looking for city excitement and shopping? There are much better places. Looking for beaches water sports? Skip it, unless you enjoy wearing a survival suit. Got kids? Maybe. Make sure you are there in season and stick mostly to the National Parks for all the activities.
As for me, I'll be scanning the real estate listing for Gros Morne. I need to get there early so I can complain like a local when the rest of you show up.
I was rather surprised that many of my friends didn't know where Newfoundland was and weren't really sure if it was a stand-alone country or a province or region or what. It was then I realized that I am a geography geek. In fact, I think I have been most of my life. As a child I loved maps and even now the walls of my home are decorated with antique maps from the mid 19th century, so my instinctive response was to furrow my brow incredulously: How could you not know where Newfoundland is? But I'm the weird one, not them.
Actually, the first question they asked was if I was bringing back a dog, because when you say Newfoundland, everyone thinks of the dog. For the record I saw no Newfoundlands or Labradors in the province of Newfoundland & Labrador. I did see something they called a Nova Scotia Duck Tolling Retriever, which looked so much like a scraggly mutt that I thought the locals were pulling my leg.
The island of Newfoundland is part of the province of Newfoundland & Labrador which is one of a group of Canadian provinces on the Atlantic seaboard that are generally referred to as the Maritimes. They include Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, and New Brunswick -- you've heard the names but you can't quite place them on your metal picture of the globe. I took to saying: "Head towards Maine and keep going. If you hit Greenland, you've gone too far." I leave it as an exercise to the reader to go to Google maps and look it up.
Oh, never mind, I'll do it.
To get to Newfoundland one flies 3+ hours on a very nice Air Canada jet from Toronto -- you know where that is, right? These very nice jets have personal video systems built into the seats, even in coach. They also seem to have more legroom than most coach seats. I like Air Canada. One arrives at the airport in the capitol city of St. John's. Note the possessive. St. John (no apostrophe s) is the capitol of New Brunswick; St. John's is the capitol of Newfoundland & Labrador. So the man from capitol of New Brunswick looks and the man from the capitol of Newfoundland and says, "Owned!" (Heh heh heh. I crack myself up.)
Enough cuteness. The plain fact is St. John's kicked my ass, or at least attempted to.
Arriving at night in an unfamiliar place usually makes for some minor driving difficulty. In St. John's this is magnified by the fact that they seem to have a deep-seated aversion to straight lines. There is not a more convoluted set of vectors in any city in existence. Couple that with street names that can change from one block to the next for no obvious reason and hills that are dauntingly steep and you can imagine what it's like to get around at night, in the pouring rain, with only a cartoon map from the hotel as a guide.
Still, I made it down to the Water Street -- St. John's is, essentially, a college town and the waterfront area is the point where all the cool restaurant and bars and shops are -- clothed in my woefully insufficient jacket to search for a bite to eat. After a good 15 minutes of wandering around in the wind and rain looking for a special place that just cried out "Eat here!" I moved one street inland to George Street which is famous for pub crawling. George Street is thought to have the most bars and pubs per square foot in the world. (Oddly, they celebrate Mardi Gras in October here. I have no explanation for that.) Turns out the driving rain can put a damper on such activities and the street was pretty much deserted. I was soaked and chilled enough to be susceptible to the sign outside Kelly's Pub which claimed the world's best fish and chips. It was a standard pub type spot, which is just fine. Happy, back-slapping people at the bar. A hockey game was on the big screen. There was a guitarist alternating traditional Maritime folk music with '70s easy listening hits. And the chips that came with the fish was actually poutine.
No matter how you say it, you are pronouncing the word poutine wrong. Depending on your source, you will be instructed to pronounce it poo-teen or poo-tin or poo-sin or puts-in. This is intentional. The idea is that unless you are confident in your pronunciation, a local will be able to safely correct you and perhaps have a bit of fun at your expense. Everybody needs their little victories. If, however, you feel the need to stand your ground, just pick an obscure city from the other side of Canada from your location and say they pronounce it like you do:
You: I'll have an order of poo-tin.
Smarmy local: It's pronounced poo-sin.
You: Not in Saskatoon (or Gander, or Yellowknife) it isn't.
Sick burn on the hoser. Alternatively, you could just order French fries with gravy and cheese curds, which is what poutine is. It should also come with dose of Lipitor. When you order fish and chips and at Kelly's Pub you get about a pound and a half of poutine and three sizable pieces of richly battered fish. I honestly had enough to feed a family of four on my plate. Such portion sizes are appropriate if one is laying in some extra insulation against the Canadian winter, I suppose. I ate about a quarter of my poutine, and two pieces of fish after I scraped off a layer of batter. The fish in St. John's, and anywhere in Newfoundland for that matter, is bound to be fresh. Fishing is what they do. Sadly, it rare to see it in any form but surrounded in thick batter. What I had was quite tasty, though.
I don't like folk music. The version of folk music traditional to Newfoundland also has roots in sea shanties -- the drunken howlings of sailors who have been too long away from home -- and Irish music -- the drunken howlings of Irishmen who have been too long away from sobriety. Strangely, neither of these features altered my position on folk music. I have no doubt that the fellow singing in Kelly's Pub was quite skilled in this genre, but I would have preferred for a more soothing background. Fingernails on a chalkboard, for instance. I made for my car, got drenched again on the way and headed back to my hotel, telling myself I needed to pick up some rain gear. An inauspicious first night.
The following day I was on my way to Cape Spear. It was here I realized that I was a pre-season traveler. A lot of minor attractions simply weren't open or were operating on limited hours. Most such places were sparsely peopled and often I was on my own. Although it was technically well into spring, I didn't see a high temp beyond 60. I was stupidly following the general travel rule that northern destinations go in-season between Memorial Day and Labor Day. Well, Newfoundland is north enough that most travelers don't get here until June. That's fine with me, I prefer off season travelling, although it does cause some limitations.
Cape Spear is the easternmost point in North America; the earliest of the many lighthouses along the Atlantic coast. The grounds have been restored to their condition as of about 1839, which is more picturesque than historically interesting. Separately, there are the remains of fortifications from WW2; artillery and a supporting set of storage rooms and tunnels that stand in industrial-style contrast to the pastoral restorations of the lighthouse and surrounding buildings. Like everywhere in Newfoundland, there are walking trails along the water.
You could spend a very pleasant afternoon wandering about, maybe even bring a picnic lunch and a bicycle built for two, although beware the strong winds and potential for raining at the drop of hat. Realistically, you can cover Cape Spear in 90 minutes at the most. I went in the morning but I suggest hitting it in the PM, when the sun shining out toward the sea, giving you nice oblique light against the coastline.
Following Cape Spear I made a dash back through the heart of town to Signal Hill. Signal Hill is probably the premier tourist attraction in St. John's. It is very close to the waterfront area I spoke of but do not underestimate the effect of the elevation should you try to walk there. It's a pretty walk, from town to Signal Hill, but it's not remotely a gentle stroll. You'll pass by cozy, postcardy row houses (going uphill), pass a couple of hotels (going uphill), eventually reach the visitor's center (going uphill), then it gets even steeper as you make the climb to the top. I drove.
I made it to the visitor's center just in time to catch the firing of the noon gun, a mid-day tradition from days of yore maintained for the la touristas. Inside the visitors center there are the usual display of historic documents and artifacts. There is also a small theatre with a movie describing the history of Signal Hill and, by extension, St. John's and Newfoundland. Usually these presentations are cheesy, but this one is exceptionally well done. Set up as a conversation between a local historian and Newfoundland officer who actually manned Signal Hill when it was a military installation. They tell all the local stories and relate the history from the battles between the French and British in the 18th century all the way up to the time when St. John's was haven for shipping convoys in WW2. One of the last stories is the tale of a passenger ship that was torpedoed and sunk by a German u-boat. It turns out one of the women killed in the sinking was the wife of the Newfoundland officer narrating the story. Very good job at bringing history into the present.
From the visitors center it is a short winding drive up to Signal Hill proper. At the top you see...well, it's hard for me to say because the fog was so thick I couldn't see my hand in front of my face. That is only a slight exaggeration. I was nervous walking from my car across the parking lot because I was certain no other drivers could see me. I circled the structure at the top of the Hill, from whence you should be able to see stunning views of St. John's, but it looked like existence had been erased; like an episode of the Twilight Zone where you have been thrust into an alternate dimension and you can only see objects in your immediate surroundings so you wander aimlessly in the void hoping someone will come along and teach you the uplifting life lesson you need to learn before you return home.
Since I couldn't see a thing, I figured the wisest thing to do would be to hike out along the edge of the cliffs.
From the Signal Hill parking lot you can follow a path that takes you over a stretch rock-strewn wasteland to the cliff edge, where you can look over and see nothing but gray. That is an eerie feeling. It is like coming to the edge of the Earth. The world just stops: beyond this point there be dragons -- or possibly Rod Serling. The trail then leads lower long the cliffs and the fog begins to clear a bit. Down here you can tell that on a clear day, you could see forever. Cast your gaze east and there is nothing but ocean until you hit Europe. To the West is the Town of St. John's where you can see the big cargo ships laying in port and the colorful expanse of the city spreading off into the distance.
The trail then continues, sometimes a bare path, sometimes a wooded walkway. Eventually it starts to narrow until it becomes only a few feet wide and winds along a sheer rock face. One treads carefully along this stretch, since a misstep would bring certain death on the craggy rocks hundreds of feet below. Fortunately, some kind souls have thought to hammer lengths of stout chain into the rock face, which is the only measure of safety you have. If you are as lucky as I am, you get to be precisely halfway across this stretch, hanging on to the safety chain with one white-knuckled hand while clutching your expensive Nikon DSLR in the other when it starts to rain. Hard. I tucked the Nikon in my inadequate jacket and inched my way along as fast I could. Yes, I really did need to pick up some rain gear.
Having survived that gauntlet, the trail wound around Signal Hill and back towards the outskirts of St. John's, eventually coming upon a small residential area at the foot of the hill where exists one of the strangest things I have seen. The hiking trail, this official trial defined and maintained by the government, passes over someone's front porch. In fact there is a sign that says "trial continues across porch" or something to that effect. It's not a government building, it's just some guy's porch. You walk across and see him through the window not five feet away sitting at his table eating lunch or something. Truly bizarre.
At this point the trail ceases to be a trail, and winds through one of the those cozy, clapboard neighborhoods that are everywhere in Newfoundland. St. John's is so completely unnavigable that I took a wrong turn, but the folks are so friendly that almost instantly a salty old coot leaned out his open door and pointed me in the right direction which brought me back to the road I had previously driven up to get to the top of the hill. As I slogged back uphill, now soaking wet and chilled to the bone, the fog got thicker and thicker. Meanwhile cars are barreling down the hill at me unable to see a thing until I manifest in their vision like Rod Serling appearing for the final summation. I don't know which was more scary, the hill road or the cliffs.
Eventually, I did reach the top and sat in my car for a moment and reflected on one of the strangest few hours of hiking I have ever done. Then I looked at my watch. Seventy-five minutes. It felt like it took me all day, but barely more than an hour had passed. I drove to the mall and bought a rain jacket.
A few words about the physical anthropology of Newfoundlanders based on keen observations at the center of all modern life: the mall. Newfoundlanders are not pretty. That is not to say they are not attractive, in a fresh outdoorsy sense, but they aren't much for style or appearance. Need someone to hold your lifeline while you grasp a ring buoy for dear life in blustering seas, no problem. Need help getting your truck started when it's double digits below zero, a Newfoundlander is your man. You can see this in their stoic jaws and weathered hands. Looking to get past the discriminating doorman at that hot Vegas nightclub? Not so much. But more importantly there is a clear tendency towards rotundity (perhaps a bit too much poutine). Even more so than in the States, and that's saying something. A visit to the mall makes this plainly obvious.
The next day I dashed north out of St John's to catch the ferry to Bell Island. To get to Bell Island you take a car ferry, which I had never done before. A car ferry is basically a little floating parking lot for cars, with entry at the stern and exit at the bow (or vice versa). You are guided on to the boat and into a space, then you are free to get out and wander around the boat as much as you like. There's a lounge and a concession stand. As you pull into dock, you simply hop back in your car and drive off, quick and easy.
I don't know what to make of Bell Island. It appears to be a sort of vacation cottage community, although I'm not exactly sure what the attraction is. Maybe it's the convenience of having access to St. John's on relatively short notice yet still gives the feel of island level isolation (although looking for island level isolation from Newfoundland may sound redundant). What it offers over and above some of the smaller seaside communities around near St. John I can't see, apart from the inconvenience of having to take the car ferry anytime you want to get something the handful of shops and stores and the island don't provide. Still, it has its full share of Newfoundland coziness and is a fare spot to troll about or sit and admire the sea view for a while.
It was time to begin my traversal of the island (Newfoundland, not Bell). The next morning I was headed west along the TCH (Trans-Canada Highway), essentially an expressway that goes in a relatively straight shot right across Newfoundland. The plan I had was to turn off the highway once each day and explore up to the end of the little fingers that extend into the ocean from the jagged northeast facing coast. A couple hours out of St. John's one reaches Terra Nova National Park. I figured this was as good a place as any to turn off, and I drove through the park but Terra Nova wasn't really up into the fingers. I'm sure there were very interesting things to do there, but I drove on through and kept heading seaward until I reached to town of Salvage.
Salvage, as far as I know, is not in any guide books. At a glance, it is pretty much indistinguishable from any other the hundreds of other fishing villages along the same coast. I drove through town until the road, literally, ended. It turns out that the end of the road is the start of a hiking trail. The trail led up a steep cliff to a lookout providing excellent views of the village below and the surrounding islands. On the way up I overheard a family coming back down wondering whether something or other was "worth trying to find." When I got to the top I realized what they were talking about. Further seaward was a higher peak, also with viewing platform on top.
If that family could get there, I could get there. Unfortunately it wasn't entirely clear how to get there. I caught up with them at a fork we each went off on a different path -- mine eventually dead-ending on a river bank after a few hundred yards. I back tracked and caught up with them sight-seeing at the point where the path went by an old cemetery. I explained that the other trail promptly dead-ended and plowed forward, leaving them to their grave trolling. The trail wound through woods, then across long stretches of rocky cliff areas, uphill all the way. The trail was quite well marked and the weather was bracing. Sometimes following trails can feel like a struggle, especially uphill, but for some reason I found this one invigorating; as I approached the top I was bounding up the chiseled rocks. At the very end there is a brief scramble to the viewing platform and you are rewarded with a vast 360 degree view including on this day a slew of smallish icebergs.
In time a woman appeared who had clearly come up via another trail, dressed in warm up gear and looking very much like someone on a fitness mission. Then the family eventually caught up with me and we all had a nice little conversation. Upon hearing I was from the distant land of Michigan USA, they commented that I was pretty far from home. Yes, I was. There is appoint in any trip long enough to call an escape where you know finally feel like you've gotten away. I call it the vacation moment. There looking over Salvage, I was surely on vacation.
After covering more of the TCH, I ended up in the town of Great Falls-Windsor for the evening, staying at the nicely maintained Trailways Inn. I struggled a bit to find the place and was a little anxious when I did, noting that it was located on the second floor of an old building over a martial arts studio. But it was clean, quiet and functional, reminding me a bit of an old boarding house with a comfortable lobby area with sleeping rooms that opened right on to it. The Wi-fi worked. I slept well.
The next day's off highway excursion was to the town of Fleur de Lys. By now I was well away from St. John's so the towns were morphing from vacation cottage communities to more remote villages. Fleur de Lys is a key archeological site and apparently has a large soapstone quarry nearby as a big economic force, but like the rest of Newfoundland, it is working hard to develop infrastructure for itinerants such as me. My brief visit Fleur de Lys was notable in that I was now far enough north that the pack ice had yet to completely dissipate. It also contains a curiosity called Sherrie's Island. It's basically just a 20 ft. square rock in the bay, but some creative soul built a little bridge to it and place a bench and a couple of little trinkets to make it into a microscopic park, of sorts. Cute and clever, in an eccentric sense. There is also a plaque commemorating the death of one Dougie Walsh, a young boy who drowned some years back. In the quiet, remote little village it must have affected people deeply. It made me feel like an alien from some crass planet where such events are of no concern to your neighbors.
By the end of the afternoon I had made my way past the gateway town of Deer Lake and was finally at Gros Morne National Park, the jewel of Eastern Canada. The road through Gros Morne twists along at water level among cliffs and peaks. Around every corner there is an amazing view; the sort of thing you might see in a brochure for just about any "up north" outdoors vacation. Seriously, you could drive through Gros Morne and over the course of a couple of hours, have enough stock photography to supply the travel and outdoor sports industry for years to come. Except you can't let yourself get too mesmerized by the sights. If you do, the moose will get you.
Home in Michigan we have deer, which are the source of a fair number of auto mishaps -- dents and fender smashes -- but they usually get themselves killed in the process. Moose, not so. Moose are humongous SOBs. Like some kind of great Pleistocene holdovers. This is your actual warning sign. Note in that illustration that the moose looks distinctly unperturbed, but the car now resembles an accordion. It is a commonly spoken of possibility around Gros Morne that were you to hit a moose with your car, it would just piss him off. One suspects these are not myths and legends designed to impress tourists.
Shortly after entering the park, I spotted one about 30 yards off the road and a quickly slowed down and hopped out to take a picture. As I have previously discovered yet apparently haven't stored in my head, animals in national parks show little fear of cars, since cars are almost universally deferential to them as they cross the roads, but hop out and try to get close for a picture and they flee at top speed. Mr. Moose high-tailed it into the woods. I feared I may have lost my shot at a good moose pic but as I was to find, Gros Morne is crawling with them. I would estimate in the two full days I spent in Gros Morne, I probably had ten or fifteen sightings -- always from the road, never on foot. There were hiking trails where I would see moose tracks in the dirt looking like they couldn't me more that a few minutes old, yet I never encountered one mano y mooso. Probably a good thing, that.
There are a few small villages within Gros Morne. I have been mentioning all these little fishing villages where summer cabin style homes are going up, I cannot imagine a more perfect place for a summer cabin than inside Gros Morne National Park. At one point while winding along the main road I stopped at a pull-off where I could look across the bay at a village about a mile or so away on the far shore. The village was Norris Point, and from my vantage, the one building that really stood out on the far shoreline was Neddie's Harbour Inn which, it so happened, is where I was staying.
Neddie's Harbour Inn is a real beauty of a place. Sized larger than a B&B but smaller that a motel, Neddie's doesn't really fit in with the rest of the Gros Morne accommodations which tend towards the rustic. Let me correct that: it looks like it fits in externally, but inside it's fresh and new. Neddie's is recently built and designed with all the modern conveniences. They have gone to great lengths to use local materials -- virtually the entire building is made from a beautiful light toned local birch. The place is filled with locally made furniture and decorations and art works. Like everywhere else, Gros Morne is facing gentrification. There will be a point where, though remote, Gros Morne becomes fashionable. Money will be coming in, as will the petite bourgeois. The question is how will it be handled. More on this later, but if it is handled as well as Neddie's -- there will be no worries. Plus, the wi-fi works.
My time in Gros Morne suffered a bit because it was still preseason. The boat tours, kayak rentals, and many of the local eateries still hadn't re-opened for the summer. One more week would have made all the difference. For example, Neddie's has a restaurant but it was not yet opened for dinner (a decent breakfast was available every morning though). The nearest village with restaurants was Rocky Harbour, which contained about four diners, two of which were closed, one of others was open but completely unmanned. Anyway, it doesn't matter because there is no good food, just sustenance with a smile. I took to eating pre-made sandwiches from convenience stores.
A byproduct of this was the silence. I don't think I have ever encountered such thorough silence at night. No footsteps in the hallway or distant conversations or cars creeping across the gravel. Not even crickets. It was so totally quiet my mind generated an eerie TV-horror-story dream that the sun had winked out and the world was cast into total apocalyptic darkness that literally caused me to sit up in bed and lunge for the nearest lamp. I cannot overstate how weird that is for me. In my entire life, you can probably count on one hand the number of dreams that I have remembered after awakening. Suddenly, here on the edge of the frozen north I have a vivid nightmare that I remember to this day. Yes, I was very far from home.
Still the point of Gros Morne was the hiking and the hiking was beautiful. The wind howled and the temps were chilly, but there was a real freshness to the trails this early in the season and very little traffic. The killer hike is to the top of Gros Morne Mountain which was not available. That trail is closed until July in deference to the breeding of some protected species or other, so I narrowed more choices from what was left.
I had two full days and the first day was overcast and windy but I managed to get in two excellent treks. The first was the Green Gardens Trail. Gros Morne is often referred to as a geologists dream because of the immense variety of, well, dirt and rocks and other sorts of geological things. I have no idea what that's all about, but I can attest to the variety of the landscape. When you start out on the Green Gardens Trail, you might as well be in Death Valley. What little vegetation there is, is simply scrub. The barren land slopes gently upward soil is reddish and dry looking. Then, literally within a couple of hundred yards, you are trodding through a thick boreal forest. The trail winds through the forest for quite some time eventually turning along the cliffs at the shoreline; a volcanic shoreline that could easily have been transplanted from somewhere on Hawaii. It's a striking transformation.
Along the shore cliffs there is a wide grassy area that affords plenty of opportunity looking out at the Gulf of St. Lawrence. A bit further on, there is a very steep and rather tenuous looking set of wooden steps leading down to the black sand beach. The beach is strewn with volcanic rocks, some very large and oddly formed. Here's a hint should you ever find yourself at this point on the globe, if you walk down to the opposite end of the beach from the staircase, you will come to a crevice in the cliffs. Rock hop through the crevice and you find yourself in a little green garden with a perfectly picturesque waterfall at the far end. It's as if someone just decided to carve out a pretty little sanctuary in the middle of some dramatic volcanic shore. Awesome.
The afternoon hike was a bit more pedestrian. The trail to Lookout is less dramatic. It starts at the park's Discovery Centre and ascends steeply to the top of Partrigdgeberry Hill, where you get the best panoramic view of the park, per the general consensus. The view is a knockout; it gives a real sense of the beauty of the park. And you also get a reminder that spring comes late in Newfoundland -- even with June a day or so away, there is still a fair amount of snow on the ground.
The next day, my only other full day in Gros Morne, it was supposed to be bright and sunny. It wasn't. It rained all day and I was in no mood to hike around in the rain. Far north of Gros Morne, on very northernmost tip of Newfoundland is the point of the oldest European settlement in the New World -- L'Anse aux Meadows, the point where a small pack of the Norse set up shop roundabout a thousand years ago. It would have been my next choice but it was about a five hour drive each way and the other thing I was not in the mood for was ten hours on the road, although I must admit I somewhat regret that now. It would have been a cool place to see. But I did get in the car and drive north out of the park, promising myself to stop anywhere interesting provided the rain stopped. It didn't.
I did get a couple hours north to a little speck called Port Au Choix, which is famed for its native burial mounds, which I didn't get out to look at because of the rain. However, Port Au Choix, Newfoundland now stands as the furthest north I have even been in my life. In honor of that, I stopped at a Subway for lunch. This Subway, located in a "gas bar" (a gas station/convenience store/diner) was closing -- going out of business. As a lifelong U.S. citizen it is virtually impossible for me to imagine a Subway sandwich shop going out of business. It's like hearing about a McDonald's or a WalMart failing. Just doesn't happen. Yet, despite the fact that there is not another place to eat within miles, this Subway was going under.
The economy of Newfoundland and Labrador has been steadily improving over the past 3 or 4 years but understand: Improving means the unemployment rate dropped from its historic standard of 16%+ to 13%+. Province GDP picked up in the last couple of years, but that is almost solely due to an increase in mining and drilling activity in the wake of energy price increases. Population peaked in the early '80s and has slowly diminished over the last 10 or 15 years. There are less than half a million residents. And so, Subways can close as easily as they are opened.
Although not quick enough to save the gas bar Subway in Port au Choix, money is coming to Newfoundland, and not from oil and gas. In addition to a brilliant outdoorsy existence, Newfoundland has something else that can't be manufactured: friendly people. And this is not fake friendly, as in the Caribbean, where everyone is self-consciously listening to reggae and chilling out and oh by the way are you interested in a time share? These folks are genuinely open and happy to see visitors even if you aren't peeling off tip money. Although, I admit to being taken aback when a gas bar cashier said she loved me.
Actually "my love" is just a casual appellation used by many Newfoundland women. "Will that be all for you, m'love?" It's a little disconcerting at first, but then you come to realize that it pretty much says everything that needs to be said about Newfoundlanders. And it's all delivered with accents that are part Bob and Doug Mackenzie and part Willie the Groundskeeper from the Simpsons. It makes you want to give them a hug. It makes you feel welcome as a visitor, as opposed to welcome as a full wallet, which is rare for a tourist.
On my way out of Gros Morne the next day I stopped at a very short costal trail near the lighthouse for a final, brief walk in the woods. After enjoying the coastal view for a bit I turned around to head back and found moose tracks on top of my footprints. There had to be a moose in the immediate vicinity, I hadn't been walking very long. I started to look around for one, not sure if I actually wanted to succeed. Potential headline: "Idiot Yank gets Moose Hoof Enema to Start the Season." But the fact was I couldn't see it. The thing had to be within a hundred yards of me, and a moose is roughly the size of a Volkswagen, yet I could not spot it. Perhaps it was the mythical Ninja Moose of Gros Morne. Lesson: I wouldn't last five seconds in the wild.
Then, all too soon I was back on the TCH heading in the opposite direction. In every vacation of length there is a point where you see the end in sight. It was time for me to make my way home. The reverse trip back to St. John's was the same as the trip over: a daily exploration to the shore. The first day was a turn off into the town of Twillingate which -- without remotely intending any disrespect -- is virtually indistinguishable from the myriad other fishing villages that are becoming cottage communities all up and down the coast.
In these villages we begin to glimpse Newfoundland's future. Lonely Planet named Newfoundland one of the top 30 travel destinations for 2008. Fodor's named it one of the 7 places to go in 2008. Newfoundland is making a push into the travel and tourism industry, and it is steadily growing. At the moment things are still rustic most everywhere except St. John's, but I strongly suspect it won't last long. In my home state of Michigan people who have disposable income have been acquiring vacation cottages and homes in the northern parts of the state for years. The same is true in New York State and New England. Based on the obviously new cottages going up in these small villages I wouldn't be surprised if, 10 years from now, the hot place to have your summer home will be Newfoundland.
I would love to buy a cottage in Newfoundland for all the disingenuous reasons anybody else would. I would buy one, preferably in Gros Morne, spend a couple of summers there, and then complain about how all the new arrivals are ruining the place. Folks like me will pay premiums for that genuine Maritimes experience. But the more of us that show up, the more the experience will get watered down. Now, I am not of the opinion that just because I like Newfoundland as it is, the people should suffer double digit unemployment and stagnant economic prospects for all time just so I can have a little fantasy land to go to for a couple of months in the summer. The trick is to find the right balance that brings financial advantage without turning Newfoundland into an Atlantic Canada theme park.
One town that taking a good shot at it is Trinity, my last daily exploration. At first glance it seems like just another one of the picturesque villages I have run out of adjectives for. But there's something else going on. It's cleaned up and properly prepared. The street signs are of a type. Most of the buildings seem to have been freshly painted. There are a larger than average number of little gift shops and B&Bs. In most Newfoundland villages, tourism support amounts to a hiking trail and an overlook and maybe a small information centre. In Trinity, they seem to have accepted the idea of the entire community selling the tourist. Think of it this way, an indie filmmaker would pick Bell Island or Twillingate or Salvage for his locale. Hollywood would pick Trinity. It was selected as a Traveler's Choice destination by Trip Advisor, and has its own website dedicated to tourism.
And it's very well done. The scenery across the water to the lighthouse is a charmer. There are little coves and inlets to explore, both on foot or by boat. Looking for a long weekend in a picturesque, romantic place -- Trinity is a good choice. Trinity, I would guess, is the barometer for Newfoundland's future. Stop by in ten years and if it's turned into a cheesy crap shop chaos, you will know they have failed.
Back in St.John for one last night before leaving. I settled into the Battery Hotel near Signal Hill -- remember the one I had such a harrowing hike around about 10 pages ago? Or rather I tried to settle in. At first they put me on a floor with a bunch of high schoolers on holiday -- it was clear I would get no sleep, so I got moved to a different room where the walls were so thin I could hear everything going on in the next room, and I mean everything, so I asked for yet another room. (Note that the desk clerks were unfailingly polite about moving me twice.)
I finally got a quiet room and discovered the wireless didn't work. I fail to understand why Neddie's Harbour Inn in Gros Morne, which consists of a few rooms hundreds of kilometers from anything resembling industry and surrounded by mountains, and the Trailways Inn in Great Falls-Windsor, a one-woman show which consists of a handful of nice, clean rooms over a martial arts studio, can have functioning wireless, but the Battery Hotel, a top end conference hotel in smack in the middle of the province capital St. John's with dozens of staff on hand, cannot keep their wireless functioning. When I asked about the weak signal, I was told that the problem may be that "too many people were using it." No, moron, that's not how wireless signals work. Ye gods. Welcome back to the world.
Should you visit Newfoundland? At this point in its life, Newfoundland works perfectly for folks in search of gentle exploration. If your perfect vacation is a quiet, friendly place that's all about spotting icebergs, or whale watching, or wandering around in the fresh air before settling in with a good book for the night, you should go. Now. Are you looking for city excitement and shopping? There are much better places. Looking for beaches water sports? Skip it, unless you enjoy wearing a survival suit. Got kids? Maybe. Make sure you are there in season and stick mostly to the National Parks for all the activities.
As for me, I'll be scanning the real estate listing for Gros Morne. I need to get there early so I can complain like a local when the rest of you show up.
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