Kittery - lighthouse #1

An email I wrote from the road, October 2011. 

Dear Friends, Relations and Those Who Prefer Door #3......
Virgin Airlines seats are so closely packed that you have to get off the plane to change your mind...my forehead was almost pressing against the back of the chair in front of me. My neighbors on either side, however, were not nearly as close due to the remote controls stored in the arm rests for the screen on the back of the chair in front of you. Yeah, that's right, the one my forehead was pressing against. You can also play video games on them - one round of Mah Jong was all it took for me to go cross-eyed. 

The FAA has passed a new law against consumible foodstuffs allowed on planes - there aren't any. If I hadn't brought a tomato sandwich I would have starved on that five hour flight, sandwiched as I was between two Sox fans. Im hoping to hear a Brahmin accent. My linguistics professor said Boston Brahmin is a dialect which has been studied, noted, dissected, analyzed und so wieder... I've heard none of the above but much of the linguistic variety aspired to by the cast of "The Perfect Storm" while I'm surrounded by men swilling ginger ale. Attention Samuel Adams: your Boston Lager isn't being lagered on this plane! 

I was expecting total madness from Logan but it was much cleaner and calmer than I had expected. I made my way to the luggage claim area and retrieved my suitcase (singular) then began looking around for the Concord Trailways bus to take me to Portland which was when I realized that the Entire Airport I had walked around was really only a teeny-tiny corner. Oh my goodness. I bucked up my courage and hoped the bus could find me amidst Loganmetropolis. (Where the hell am I????)  and the blue-white striped monster drove me to Portland and showed me a movie on the 2-hour drive about a wholesome African American choir girl who meets a handsome gospel-singing player, joins his troupe and goes on the road with him.

Portland's routes look unfamiliar to somebody who grew up with California freeways, but are similar to Bozeman, Spokane and St. Louis. The air was BRACING when I got off the bus and couldn't find Pepsipal straightaway (where the hell am I???) but he was parked in front whereas the bus parked in the back. Hence the confusion. This was Saturday.

Day Two: Escape from SFO to Boothbay Harbor
Yesterday I arrived in Portland after 10pm with an mild case of excessive g-forces absorbed from flying across the country and an extreme case of sillie-willies. We bought cheap champagne and stayed up late talking and sipping Andre from plastic cups. Who says travel isn't glamorous? Sunday morning before coffee kicked in we set out for Portland Light, located at the old Fort Williams at Cape Elizabeth on Casco Bay. Portland Head Light, or Portland Light, is the beloved lighthouse maintained by the city of Portland.

It's located at Bug Light Park in South Portland (no, Drew, that's not Bud Light but BUG Light). The entemologists among you may take a moment to explain this to the etymologistically challenged. The site was established in 1855, the lighthouse built in 1875 (ahoy Captain Ahab) automated in 1934, discontinued in 1942, relighted in 2002 as a private service. Its original optic was 6th order Fresnel glass (pronounced Freh-NELL) currently its 250mm. The tower is 25 feet, its characteristic is a flashing white every 4 seconds. The parking is free, you hike in and of course I hadda see the fort first (kind of reminded me of Sutter's Fort without the scary mummified figures lurking in the darkened rooms....) There is a wonderful stroll/view, a sidewalk of sorts with a wall, you look out over the ocean/vista and there are rocks, tidepools and far far out in the distance a cruise ship, kind of like a BIg Duck Turd. What's wrong with this picture? You can visualize yourself here amongst the 18th/19th century stage props, baking bread, mending fishnets, running back and forth in the invigorating sea air, then there is that big lump of DT like an excessive jolt of reality, kind of makes you believe in alien abductions..I digress...

There is a gift shop, so small you have to go outside to change your mind. I bought a pack of Maine lupine flower seeds, Pepsipal bought a lighthouse flashlight. The lighthouse tower is humongous, I looked it up and down, trying to mentally calculate how many bushels it could hold were it a silo. The lighthouse is a very bright white, shiny and thick-feeling, like there have been hundreds of layers of white enamel paint applied since 1855. You can't go inside the tower. Im looking forward to Pemaquid, one of the few lighthouses you can go into and climb up inside.

Which pretty much brings us up to date. I flew into Boston today, caught a bus to Portsmouth while my friend crisscrossed his interline self across country. Tomorrow, Kittery (is it an island or a lighthouse? depends on the tide) and Boothbay Harbor, a LOBstah roll from Phil's, a pit stop in Kennebuck, and Lighthouses 101, my 2011 version.

Two Times a Lady

 There was a teacher at a junior college I attended who stunned me with my prejudices. Actually I would go so far as to say that he bowled over everybody in the classroom. He began the class by having each person state why they were there and what prejudices they had. I remember my statement - that the class sounded interesting and a painless half a credit, and that although I doubted that I was riddled with prejudices, I was open to examining mine and hoped to find ways to deal with them. I felt very sincere and a tiny bit smug because although I struggled with eradicating my foibles, I knew I lived in a glass house, as do we all. 

The teacher somehow got us all talking about homeless people, and the classroom realized, almost simultaneously, how prejudiced we all were against homeless people. I believe that would be called a breakthrough? 

Fast forward to a year ago. My son-in-law's stepfather, a very well-connected personal injury lawyer in Northern California, had opened his doors to my daughter and her husband. My grandchild's first home was under his roof. Yet his drinking and self-medicating caused them to flee, fearing for their personal safety, in August 2019. I kept the text my daughter sent me at 1130, "We grabbed everything we could carry and left." I began to be afraid for them. For eight months they had no home, were moved around from motels to shelters, dealt with state and county agencies until they were able to move into an apartment called their own in April 2020. I kept that text, too, from April 10th. "It's official, we are no longer homeless!" When I talk to them about their ordeal, I see their emotional scars that I, too, carry, and my guilt from not being able to do enough for them. Did I mention that the baby's first birthday was in a shelter and I was unable to see or go visit them for months? They are now settled in and dealing with apartment life, but the experience has left them jittery and scared, worse so from Covid19.  

Driving home this last Monday, while waiting at a stoplight, I hear a male voice talking to himself, a string of obscenities. I look around to see where the voice is coming from and have the misfortune to make eye contact with a (presumably) homeless male, across the street from me, walking against traffic. He lets it rip with, "F you white-trash effing b----!" I refrain from saying anything as I would have had to scream to have him hear me and clearly he is "unmedicated." AND the next day, Tuesday, I am parked near Trader Joe's, pullling the petals off a daisy, when this humongous woman comes out of nowhere and walks on the hood of my car, the windshield of my car, the roof of my car and the trunk of the car and then WHOMP the car shudders and backlashes as she jumps off and lands on the ground. My heart is pounding as I jump out of the car and scream at her. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING????" She looks at me, "What up BITCH?" and waddles off. 

The two witnesses parked near me trade phone numbers with me. I call the police and give an objective but unflattering description, an area search is done to no avail. It's terrifying to think of what the consequences could have been from a confrontation with her. On Friday I washed the hand and footprints off my car, and mused, "I was called a bitch twice this week by total strangers." 

Which makes me two times a lady. 

10-24 or Returning Home

All my previous posts and drafts have had to do with places in New England and how to travel. The appearance of Covid19, and the death of my parents, put everything into a new perspective. I haven't gone anywhere on vacation, or really even wanted to write anything, until last weekend, when I realized I had only been addressing physical travel. Without meaning to sound incredibly corny or trite, there are still virtual travel and mental travel possibilities. 

This epiphany came as a denouement from my pennypinching. I pay a monthly fee for unlimited online reading and was irked with what I perceived as not getting my money's worth. Qualitatively perhaps, but it was slow going and my quantitative perception was that I was overpaying. The lightening bolt was the unlimited magazine access also available to me. If I read only two magazines per month (which I wouldn't have purchased in any case!!) suddenly it's like I'm saving money and achieving a "deafening bang for my buck." Yeah, you have to try living in my universe.

My surprise was the amount of information and insights I absorbed causing me to think critically, realizing the trends I had been spotting were already published, which was all right as I had come to these independently and was only just now starting to use my atrophied brain. 2020 has been difficult at best for almost everyone worldwide. I can't help but wonder how many of then changes we have experienced, the obstacles we have had to overcome, will become imbedded in our psyches, in our personalities, changing us forever? Adjustment disorder - did you know there is a name for it? 

Finally, I remembered "The Writer's Journey" by Christopher Vogler, used in my college writing classes to great success in my case as I superimposed an abstract pattern faintly reminiscent of Ulysses in my papers, manifesting a physical journey or metaphysical wandering in assignments to arrive at an end, a conclusion, the denouement of my required papers. Anybody who has been in lockdown 2020 either longs for the previous status quo or something anything not resembling the isolation alienation loneliness in the metamorphosis of 2020. We are looking for a way back, or the way forward to a resolution. We are all on a journey. I will tell you about mine - taking a huge cut in pay to change my daily existence. 

Picture #1 is from CNN on August 8, 2020 - notice the death toll from picture #2 which was two hours later. My last remark - NPR awakes me daily at 5am - yesterday iit was broadcast that one in every 1,000 African Americans in the United States had died from Covid19. This is NOT "what it is." This is wrong.

I've been fortunate to have a travel adviser like Pepsipal to frantically call or text when the situation gets rocky. Two examples: March 2015 and the plane had windshield issues. Run not walk to the service counter and ask for your original flight (I was on standby for an earlier flight). And last October, waiting in Chicago for a flight that continued to be delayed over the period of several hours. He said to just wait it out, the last thing the airline wants to do is to cancel. 

Here are my practices - I don't fly in holiday season without expecting delays. Bad weather creates delay, and the law of supply and demand means the flights will be full, i.e. less chance of being rebooked. I pack light, carry light (laptop, toothbrush and essentials, reading material, food) and plan ahead. Unless my flight is nonstop, I study the layout of the airport in advance. (In the back of the flight magazine, many airport terminal maps are pictured.) In my suitcase, my destination address is written on a piece of paper, with contact information for me and the destination. 

If the flight is canceled because of a mechanical issue (like the windshield) or circumstances within the control of the airline, you may be accommodated with hotel lodging and meals. However, the weather and air traffic control issues (which you do not control) are also not accepted by the airline as in their control. Significant disruption may result with the airline automatically trying to rebook you on another flight - if you have listed your cell phone in contact information, remember to check for messages. If you have checked baggage, ask about having it rerouted also, and provide your baggage slip. This is what airline staff would do automatically, but help them as they are dealing with many more passengers than just you by asking.

Onboard, you are entitled to your own seat - and only your own seat. A very large woman once was seated next to me, as she was about to sit down, she raised the armrest between our seats. I put it right back down, and put my elbow on it. If the person seated next to you can't completely fit into their own seat, they can't take up part of your seat. Be polite but be firm - they have surely been in this situation before. If said person doesn't fit into their seat, then they will need to ask to be reseated. 

And speaking of "neighbors with issues," last week I attended a wonderful performance of Swan Lake by the San Francisco Ballet, preceded by a "Meet the Artists" lecture. Featured were Davit Karapetyan and Vanessa Zahorian of "proposal fame" after a Romeo and Juliet performance in May 2010, which can be found on youtube. Anyway, ten minutes into the first act, I begin crocheting, my hands and work in my lap, working in the dark by feel, completely, while watching. I am over halfway through the first row when the woman next to me whispers that I am distracting her. Let me counter this by saying that she has a bag of snacks which rustles as she rummages and munches, also that she whips her binoculars up and down, up and down, up and down like a chain smoker with cigarettes plural. I am barely moving my hands! She repeats, "I'm sorry but what you're doing is very distracting" so I move my hands even less and finish the row. At the intermission I leave my seat and ask the usher if I can be reseated ("The woman next to me is really bothering me"), for the record, although I know the section is sold out. The next act, I soldier it out in the standing room only section; the third act, an usher shows me a vacated seat. Beware - if you sit in the balcony section, seat L17 on a Sunday matinee - tell her to put her toys away!

Don't Call Me Nocciolo

(first published Sunday, October 9, 2011)

“When you order food in EE-taly,” explained Fortunata Testabella, our guide, “the person who prepares the food does not touch the money. Therefore, you stand in ticket line, make your request, pay, take ticket and then go to food line and give them ticket to get food.”

Well, the thought of specialization made sense. After all, Starbucks has the barista preparing drinks and the cashier taking payment. But there are always two lines? Trying to control my enthusiasm at the prospect of standing in line twice, having to conduct two conversations not covered in Italian 101 (Dov’e  aspetto ora?) and failing miserably.

Fortunata Testabella explained it well and we followed her guidance until the day I wanted to buy gelato at a little gelato shop in Rome, near Via Veneto. Looking for the money/food ticket person, I asked the woman behind the counter for two gelatos. (Plurals in Italians are created by changing the final vowels, e.g. a to e and o to i, hence vino vini, focaccia focaccie, gelato gelati, right? I can’t use ravioli for an example because it’s always plural so remember this the next time you says raviolis)

I asked the woman, “Due gelati?” (How wrong can you go asking for two gelatos?) She looked at me. “Two gelatos?”  “Si, certo, grazie, two gelotos.” Here is where I stumbled. I didn’t see cones, only cups, around the counter, and I wanted cones. She held up a cup, not a cone. “Cup?” Since we wanted gelato, it didn’t matter that much in what form it was served, did it? Then somebody else ordered from the other person behind the counter (so much for the money person and the food person!!!) and THEY were offered a cone!! Ooops, changed my mind. “Mi dispiace, ma preferisco uh uh “cono!” This was the worst thing that had happened to Gelato Lady all year. She put the two unsoiled by gelato cups back, and took up two cones to serve us. By the grace of God, she was going to finish this transaction and then go out on stress disability.

Gelato Lady decides to pretend I’m no longer there and proceeds to give my daughter, Sasha, the grand tour of every flavor known to humanity, in English and in Italian. Because she can. The irony of the situation was that Sasha was trying melon and pistachio every place we went.  She said those two flavors went well together and she was creating a mental tasting image of how “melone e pistachio” was in every city. Firenze, Venizia, Roma, Lago Garda and rest stops in between. Because she could. I’m sorry, green and orange ice cream eaten together, deliberately, multiple times?  

"Fragola" she announces. "Strawberry," I whisper to Sasha. Gelato Lady glares at me. "Suhtraberi."  "Cioccolato!" "Chocolate." "Mora!!!" "Blackberry." "VANIGLIA!!" "Vanilla." "Capucchino!" I say nothing. Gelato Lady is now indicating the hazelnut flavor. “Nocciolo” and she doesn’t know the word. “Hazelnut,” I tell Sasha quietly. “Nocciolo….euh euh, nocciolo e NOCCIOLO!!” Gelato Lady has decided there is no word in English for “nocciolo.” So be it. 

How to Travel Like a Wi-Fi Bandit

I travel light, either I check my one suitcase (carry-on size) and carry my laptop and purse, or I have a large leather shoulder bag (into which I stuff my purse) and carry my laptop. When I'm on the plane, I pull the purse out of the shoulder bag and stuff it into the bins. 

When I pack, the shoes (one pair of Asics and the lightest pair of pumps or sandals) go on the bottom of the suitcase and are stuffed full of socks and other small pieces of clothing. On the plane, I wear Dansko clogs (easy on and off through airport security). Two pairs of jeans, one pair of slacks, one skirt, one dress, two-three t-shirts, several long sleeved knits, socks, swimsuit and two nicer tops. Pajama pants, two camisoles, nightshirt and one pair workout pants (not sweats - too bulky - the spandex type). Extra toothbrush in my purse. Jacket (raincoat type) is stuffed on top of everything, I wear a sweatshirt on the plane.

I stuff protein bars in the bag, carry dried tart cherries for jet lag and pumpkin seeds for headaches (altitude, traveling, off-schedule with meals and caffeine input); Fine Cooking, Bon Appetit or Food and Wine plus a language paperback (French grammar anyone?). Before I go on a trip, I ask around and check the webpage of the airline I'm traveling on for travel information, which is how I avoided having to discard big bottles of shampoo when going through security. I read up on the airport I'm landing in (how do you get around and how many terminals are there? Are they connected?), double-check my flight information and look at the airport map in the airline magazine. 

My goal is to stay at hotels actually in the hospitality business (continental breakfast is included and/or there is an airport shuttle). Last October in Portland, we stayed at the Ramada Plaza on RIverside which has an airport shuttle every 30 minutes. In contrast, Spokane's Courtyard by Marriott on North Riverpoint Blvd has no shuttle and no breakfast. There are bottles of water in the rooms with teeny tiny print (I didn't see the teeny tiny print and we drank $7 worth of water.) Yes, I should have noticed it (caveat emptor!!!) but SERIOUSLY??? We were in Spokane for the memorial service of a family member - relatives already were staying there so I chose to stay there to be with family. Oh yeah, internet service worked really well, and the hotel staff offered to call a taxi for me. Wow.

65 Lighthouses Left to See......

(First published Tuesday, October 30, 2012)

Manchester, New Hampshire was the starting point, bleary-eyed and foggy-headed from a cross-country flight, catching a bus from Logan and waiting, fingers crossed against last-minute snafus in travel plans. Have you ever traveled with an airline employee flying standby? The excitement and uncertainty will make you appreciate the 30 cubic feet of space allotted to you by your plane ticket, even if you still wish you could “fly for free”. Plan A has everything going to plan, Plan B is if/then if/then if/then and finally Plan D – everything has gone to hell, I’m stuck five time zones away, pick up the car and go on vacation by yourself! You’re checking your cell for updates as your co-traveler zigzags across the country (Phoenix to Minneapolis to Charlotte to Manchester) while you wonder how far the rental car is from the bus’ last stop.

This leaf-peeping road trip was charmed: all went as planned. The first night’s hotel has a front lawn populated by miniature Adirondacks in all colors of the pastel rainbow, and a crowded breakfast room filled with noisy, talkative tourists from all parts of the country. As I listen in amazement at the variety of regional accents, I notice the couple next to me, who stand out from the crowd both because they’re so quiet and they look like models for an Air France advertisement. When I initiate conversation with them, they graciously speak French very clearly and slowly, and ask me for driving directions to Boston. My travel buddy Greg, aka “Pepsipal,” shares what information he remembers about driving in Boston – I translate (perhaps superfluously) but they are  very appreciative of my efforts - there is much discussion amongst – and we part in different directions; the French to follow the Freedom Trail, and us to begin lighthouse spotting along the coast of Maine, along highway 1.

Unfortunately, absorbed in the sights crossing the Piscataqua River, we miss the turnoff to the first lighthouse, Whaleback Light, outside Kittery. Pepsipal curses and asks me if I want to double back. Although part of me wants a proper start with the very first lighthouse, there are approximately 65 working lighthouses waiting for me in Maine alone, so I make a mental note to catch this one next time. A lighthouse nerd like me needs a moment here to share a few points of information, so bear with me. Lighthouses are distinct as fingerprints to me, and here are some categories into which I mentally file them. Is the lighthouse on the mainland, or inaccessible on a rock island? How tall is it, what material is it made of? What is its distinguishing feature (white light, red light, constant light, flashing light?) Are there adjoining buildings, do people live in them, can you go up in the lighthouse? Tall white tower, red/white striped or “sparkplug” shape? Does it have a Fresnel lens – if so, what order?

We cross the York River, and turn on 1A to drive down Long Sands Beach, on York Street/Long Beach Avenue, at a snail’s pace in the traffic. The sun is warm, the light sparkles on the ocean and everything at this moment personifies my visualization of summering in New England. I want to rent one of the cottages, spend a summer falling asleep to the sound of waves, eating lobster chowder for dinner and walking on the beach. We are in “The Yorks,” comprised of the neighborhoods of Old York, York Harbor, York Beach and Cape Neddick. Cape Neddick is at the northeast end of Long Sands Beach, and on a tiny, rocky island off the tip of Cape Neddick is Nubble Light, also known as Cape Neddick Lighthouse. Nubble Light is on an island! A tiny cable car allows travel from the mainland to the island, but it’s only for the use of the lighthouse keeper. You have to “visit” the lighthouse, keeper’s house and outbuildings from afar, on Sohier Park, where we stand gazing

We walk past Fox’s but there’s a long, long line. I’m now craving ice cream – wild Maine blueberry ice cream, so we drive along Nubble Road, uphill and almost pass Brown’s Ice Cream. It’s closed, so we take Broadway back to 1A. Maybe it was Beach Street where we parked, seeing people wading in the ocean, and walked to the beach. Greg walked up the beach while I waded out as far as I could. I’d never waded in the Atlantic and this first, short experience was memorable. The sand was as soft as talcum; the water was cool but felt warm. Refreshing. I waded out as far as I could without soaking my rolled up jeans.

Continuing up 1, called Post Road, Main St, Old Post Road, York Street and Portland Road; and admiring the houses alongside, near the ocean, we arrived in Wells, Maine to pay a souvenir call on the  Lighthouse Depot at 2178 Post Road, a gold mine for lighthouse enthusiasts. I was very curious as to what Greg would purchase here, since he only has about 157 lighthouse artifacts and souvenirs in his home. I, on the other hand, have a head stuffed full of lighthouse facts and wanted a lighthouse reference book so I could clear off that shelf in my long-term memory. Although I found one, it was the size of a telephone book and I didn’t want to carry it. (Very sadly, Lighthouse Depot has since closed its doors).

Next door, at 2152 Post Road (aka Hwy 1 which greatly annoys Greg - "Why does the road keep changing its name?") Harding Rare Books is located, housed in a 14-room building resembling a red barn/airplane hangar. An employee told me the building had been added on, as needed, without any real concern for exterior beauty or interior planning. It's an amazing, delightful maze where I could have roamed endless. Need I say it was full of books? Even more impressive than the inventory was the employees’ extensive knowledge of the over 100,000 used, out-of-print and rare books in all categories, and by their abilities to give directions. Half-hourly search and rescue missions are carried out; there are survival supplies in every room (water and hardtack, yaar!!) From their website, the inventory has particular strength in Americana, maritime, New England town histories, genealogy, art and antiques as well as a wide selection of prints and maps from the 16th century through the 19th. I found classic cookbooks as well as vegan titles and one of the Duguid/Alford travel cookbooks I've lusted after. Once again, I didn't want to carry it around with me on vacation so I passed.

After Wells, there was Portland Head Light, the much photographed lighthouse maintained by the city of Portland. The site was established in 1855, the lighthouse built in 1875, automated in 1934, discontinued in 1942, and relighted in 2002 as a private service. Its original optic was 6^th order Fresnel glass (Freh-NELL) currently its 250mm. The tower is 25 feet, the characteristic a flashing white light every 4 seconds. The parking is free at Fort Williams, Cape Elizabeth, you hike in and of course I had to see the fort first (kind of reminded me of Sutter’s Fort in California without the scary mummified figures lurking in the darkened rooms). Around the lighthouse, there is a stroll/view, a sidewalk of sorts with a wall, you look out over the ocean/vista and there are rocks, tide pools and far far out in the distance a cruise ship, like a big duck turd. What’s wrong with this picture? You can immerse yourself in the atmosphere amongst the 18^th/19^th century stage props, baking bread, mending fishnets, running back and forth in the invigorating sea air, then there is that big lump out there like an excessive jolt of reality, kind of makes you believe in alien abductions, I digress…the gift shop is so small you have to go outside to change your mind. Maine lupine flower seeds were irresistible, Greg bought a lighthouse flashlight. 

Standing next to the lighthouse tower, which has been around since 1855, you feel dwarfed by its size and history. It’s absolutely huge – I looked it up and down, trying to mentally calculate how many bushels it could hold were it a silo. The tower is very bright white, shiny and thick-looking, as if hundreds of layers of white enamel paint had been applied since 1855. In a folding chair, on the very hardy grass, sits an artist selling prints of (guess what???) a lighthouse with a rowboat docked near it. You can have your name painted on the boat. Yes, Greg bought a lighthouse print...which puts his lighthouse total at 160. You can’t go inside Portland Head Light, nor could you go inside Portland Breakwater Light, which is just off the coast of South Portland at Bug Light Park, where we next stopped. This little sparkplug, built to resemble a fourth-century Greek monument, has six Corinthian columns built into the sides and a 250-mm optic that flashes white every four seconds. (I told you they’re as distinct as fingerprints!) Right about then was when we encountered what I call the Bermuda triangle of Maine. Route 207, 77 and 1 caught Greg in their spider web once again, even though this may be the tenth time he was here – the Portland Triangle snares him every time. This is my first time in Maine, so I’m the navigator who finally got us turned around and back on 207 until we found 95 and escaped. Pemaquid was next, the lighthouse on the “Maine quarter.” We happened to show up when the lighthouse preservation society was there, and were able to climb up inside the lighthouse. Being up inside a lighthouse is amazing! You’re not really up that high, but the view seems different – which it is because you’re in a cupola with a 360 degree view. It was sunny, the ocean was dark blue, the trees were dark green – everything was beautiful and sparkly. It sounds so corny, as I read this, but I had that Disneyland feeling you get when you do something amazing for the first time – I’m up in the lighthouse! I can’t believe this! Look all around – oh no, I’m not looking forward to climbing back down that steep spiral…oh well.

On the last leg of the road trip to Bar Harbor and a drive through Acadia (Bass Harbor Head Light, fourth-order Fresnel, red light every four seconds, owned by the Coast Guard, not open to the public) we arrived in Ellsworth via Route 1 aka Route 3 aka Bucksport Road, which annoyed Greg. “Why does the road have three different names?” he grumbled. We crossed the waterway below Leonard Lake and I tried taking pictures of the river, the bridge and the leaves as we waited at the light. An instant after I took the picture, the two men standing on the bridge looking at the river turned and waved to me. Greg wanted me to go over and introduce myself. I wanted more bridge, water and fall foliage color; instead there were my two new friends.  We were looking for a gas station when we spotted a “genuine” LLBean outlet on High Street near Washington, where I bought three pairs of men's wool socks for about $20. These socks were so soft, warm, cozy and comfy that I put a pair on, as we drove to Acadia.