Manifest Destiny: America from the Bottom Up - Day 1 - Portland, ME to Boston, MA - Upon Us All...

I had promised this post on the first day of my trip, but had so many problems that it was just impossible to do until now.

I'm probably not even going to get into why I have chosen to do this cross country journey from Maine to Massachusetts, Connecticut, the tip of New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Missouri, Illinois, Michigan, Oklahoma, Colorado, New Mexico, Arizona, and California--mostly walking. I have spoken about it at Facebook and many of you are coming here to read this blog from there. If you are not friends with me yet on Facebook, feel free to "friend" me and get more private details as they are posted there at my Facebook Profile page.

My cat Buddy examining my homemade tent before I left and giving his reluctant approval.

It's been three days and two nights since I left Maine. From the start it has been an uncomfortable - even painful - experience, but I am left hopeful that it will improve.

I chose to leave Maine not knowing it would be in the middle of one of New England's biggest rain storms. National weather radar maps showed the greater Boston area as having the most clouds, rain and wind of any place in the nation this week.

For me it was more than just Murphy's Law. It was like a ritual ordeal that I must pass through in order to continue on; something to test my metal--as it were.

To start off, I walked six miles to the Portland, Maine Amtrak Downeaster train station in a blindingly bad downpour. If I had simply waited for two more days the trauma of what happened next could have been avoided. I seem to always have those hindsight glasses on. If I could only find a way to turn them into foresight glasses. Hmmmm...

My stuff drying out at the Portland train station.

Tickets: Portland to Boston.

Repacked and ready to go

On the train.

When I got to Boston the rain was even worse. I wanted to spend the night at North Station where I'd arrived on the train, but they were to close at 1:00 am when the last train departs. So, I was tossed out into the dark and stormy night.

Now, anyone who has been involuntarily on the streets of a big city at night with no place to stay (with or without rain) discovers the truth of a few things right off the bat. There is no safe place to sleep. In fact, you can't even sit near any buildings, or you are considered "loitering." If you combine those issues (no sleep and no sitting) with not having enough money to at least go nurse a beer or Coke in a bar, rent a room, or get to a friend's house, you quickly begin to learn just how long a bad night can really be.

I was carrying a bulky 65 pound backpack. And just so we don't forget, the sky above was indeed deluging rain. It was raining so hard that when drops hit the ground it actually looked like the ground itself was "raining" straight up. Finding a dry place became the first priority. Figuring out how to stay there all night came in as a close second priority. And once there, trying to be comfortable for three to four hours would be the real challenge.

I made my way to a dark alley, then into a doorway that was relatively dry. But after a few rather rough-looking dudes walked by and slowed down to stare at me, I decided that moving on was the better part of valor.

Aimlessly - and not remembering Boston very well, though I used to go there a lot - I simply wandered. Every car that passed with smiling people on the way home to their warm dry beds was a like a metallic slap in the face, often accompanied by a big splash on the pant legs.

I had a good $600 in computer and audio equipment with me. Protecting it from getting too wet became an obsession. I also broke my glasses a couple weeks before traveling, so I was (and still am) pretty blind to street signs and other important visual details.

After leaving the dark alley I ended up far over in the most eastern part of the city, right next to the waterfront. The Marriott Long Wharf seemed to sneak up on me like godsend. I was at its entrance. No one was around. I rushed under the glass canopy. To the right were the daytime restrooms. They were locked but the tiny outer hall between them was relatively dry. I snuck into it, pushed my giant backpack against the inside corner and slid down the wall to settle in there as inconspicuously as possible. I scanned the area opposite these restrooms for security cameras. I had the feeling that I had been seen, but there were no cameras that I could see pointed at me while in my nook.

Slowly I began nodding off to sleep over and over again. When I had done this several times and began to feel comfortable enough to let sleep overtake me, I saw black boots come into view. I looked up to behold a balding, over-weight security guard with black pants and a white shirt standing there. I looked at him and he looked at me, saying only, "You can't hang here."

I just sighed, said "I know. I'm sorry," got up, pulled my backpack on and walked back out into the rain. Somehow I wandered to Atlantic Avenue and walked down it until I saw a young policeman hanging out with a 7-11 manager. I asked the guard how to get to Route 1. He didn't know (a lack of knowledge that I would find in many Bostonians over the next few days). He looked for an embarrassing amount of time at his phone, but just couldn't get a location. Finally, I asked where South Station was. This he knew. He pointed me down the same road, saying, "If you stay on this side of the street you will run right into it." He also said it was open all night and much bigger than North Station.

With an eagerness bordering on joy, I marched down Atlantic Avenue with a spring in my step. When I reached South Station two young workers were smoking cigarettes outside in front of the arch-framed doors. As I approached, one of them let them both in, with the large door closing behind them. I tugged on the handle but it didn't budge.

Relief devolved back into frustration as I stood there sopping wet, and getting wetter. I'm not gonna lie. A few really socially-inappropriate expletives escaped my shivering lips.

I was standing at the archway to the left, here...

South Station Boston.

Inside I saw a custodian skipping around wiping off tables as if in a musical, and singing to himself. It was about 2:00 am. I resolved to simply wait there until the building opened. My impression from seeing the train schedules at North Station was that it would be opening around 5:00 am.

It was one of those times - I know each of you has had a similar experience - when you are in an inescapably uncomfortable position. The rain gushed down the edges of the arch like a series of waterfalls. Large raindrops were hitting my backpack, which I subsequently pushed as far as I could against the doors while standing over it.

Time seemed to slow down to a drag-rate, while the rain only increased. I tried not to look at my watch very often. I'd put what seemed like 20 minutes in between looking at it and then checked to see that only four minutes had gone by. Drenched and feeling defeated already, I simply gave up and settled into the punishment--enduring the experience (I've had to do similar things several times now, and it has only been two days!).

Around 3:00 am a gentleman with a heavy Nigerian (I think?) accent, dressed in a very nicely tailored suit walked toward a "T" (what Boston calls its subways) stop doorway with his umbrella. The doorway leading down and under the street was located directly in front of my adopted doorway. He tugged on the glass doors of the terminal but of course it was closed and locked .

He looked at me standing there like a human umbrella over my backpack. Then he walked over to the door next to me and pulled at it. No luck. He looked at me again and smiled. I just said, "I wish..."

He asked what time the trains would be running again. I just answered that I didn't know for sure, because I was from Maine and was reacquainting myself with the system, but that I thought they would be running around 5:00 am. He laughed and said he was from New York City.

He soon settled into waiting with a similar pose to mine. He was on one side of the inner arch and I was on the other. Two unlikely statues forming wet bookends.