I can't remember much about this, but I was driving up Route 1, through Damariscotta and the midcoast region of Maine. I used to do it as often as I could afford the gas. In fact, having been single for so long, I made it a major priority to explore the state in the last three decades.
Driving to explore was probably my very favorite past-time. I'd filmed the sunrise eclipse from the top of Cadillac Mountain, stepped on a giant ant hill while taking a pee on a sideroad near Mooselookmeguntic Lake, seen hot water tossed into the -40° F air in Caribou turn to ice, stopped along I-95 between Bangor and Houlton to let a mother black bear and her two cubs cross. I adore my home state.
On this dream trip I was headed out to Pemaquid Point to drive up Route 32, probably the single most beautiful road in the nation. After driving around the point and seeing Pemaquid Light, then heading up 32, I slowed down to watch the lobster boats come into New Harbor. Then, the strangest thing happened. The sun was behind me, but there was a huge flash across Long Cove at the rocky tip of Long Cove Point. It looked like a bomb, without smoke or sound, then faded back to daylight. This seems to be a recurring theme in my dreams.[1, 2]
I pulled over to get a better look, but I was jammed up against the car door and couldn't reach the handle to open it. As I held onto the steering wheel to adjust myself, it came off in my hand! I felt like I was being pushed from the side. Then I woke up in the tent, lying on my back with my left side squished up against Saggy.
* * * * * * *
As with any day that I wake up and know I'll have a room that night, there was no sleeping in. It was raining. I sat up quickly to look around the tent for leaks. There were none. Even under the sleeping bag it was relatively dry. I smiled. The dream and the images of Maine were stuck in my mind, as if projected against the inside of my eyelids.
I kept hoping - just short of praying - that the rain would lighten enough for me to get to Starbucks without being drenched. It was about a mile (18 minutes of walk time). Then, as I finished stuffing the sleeping bag into Saggy, I noticed only occasional drips outside on the tarp/fly. The rain had let up. Yes!
Again, the tarp/fly was sopping and had to be put away as-was. Swinging the pack over my back I negotiated the rough terrain in the still-dark woods, finding the now-more muddy road, hopping from little raised island to island until I reached Paris Road. The large house on the corner was just coming to life, with lights on the second floor and doorway, where a little Benji-dog barked to be let in. I've been barked at by 10,000 dogs. But when I passed by, he and I looked at each other and made a little connection--both of us out in weather we didn't really prefer, and he refrained from barking at me.
The blue skies of a Maine summer seemed to overlap the gray skies of this town every time I blinked. I wished I could just climb into bed and dream about Maine for the rest of the morning. It became almost an obsession. Taking a right onto Maine Street (oops), I pulled out my wallet and checked for cash. The bills had the Maine state seal on them, then faded back to pyramids.
When I got to Starbucks and put my pack down on a chair at the nearest table, I waited in line. At the register I ordered a Maine roast, then changed it to a dark roast. Settling into my table, I pulled out the Maine, I mean laptop, and checked for any word from Joyce about the room. Soon, her cautious reply came. She said the Motel 6 manager sounded skeptical about the whole thing, like it might be a phone scam or something, but reluctantly agreed.
Again, there happened to be a window of clearing for about one hour. So I packed up the laptop. I wanted to take a bus if the rain started, but was willing to walk the whole way. Interesting to note that when I had gotten off at the Downtown exit from Old Route 85 the afternoon before, I had seen the Motel 6 right there. I was walking the three or so miles back to where I had entered the town. So thankfully, I knew exactly where the place was.
Maine - I mean, High Point - is polar. By that, I mean that there is a south and north side of Maine (oops) Street, with the same box stores and chain restaurants at either end. And in this case, the two are practically reflections of each other. Each has a McDonald's and a Wal-Mart Supercenter, for example. The one thing that is lacking on the south side is a Starbucks (hence, why I went so far north the day before). But, I didn't need a Starbucks if I had a room to work in. I did need the Wal-Mart for new socks.
I almost reached a bus stop just as the bus passed me, stopped at it, and then took off again. With eyes sufficiently rolling, I accepted my fate. I'd missed my chance for a ride. Sprinkling began about forty five minutes into my Maine (oops) Street trek--with still one more mile to go...
High Point has a nice Amtrak station, that reminded me of my many
times taking the train in the last months.
Finally, I passed by the yellow non-Nomad's tent, under Old 85--where I had walked into town the day before, and into the south part of town. Again, I was quite happy to know there was a Wal-Mart nearby since I desperately needed those socks. And, to my delight (well, very few things really measure out as "delight," but...) there was also a laundromat right across from the Motel 6 driveway...
One difference between the West Coast and the East Coast is that on the West Coast places are
simply named something, and you have to figure out on your own what kind of business it is.
Here, you are told in large letters what kind of business it is ("Laundromat," for example,
or "Mexican Restaurant"), and if they they have space they'll also name it something unique.
The first order of business was to buy the room. This was one of the crappier Motel 6's I'd seen. It's driveway was shared by an onramp/offramp to Old 85, with (of course) no sidewalk. I sloshed through the muddy grass up to the office.
Walking in, I saw a counter with a small older Indian gentleman sitting in a chair behind it. He rose unsmiling and said something I didn't understand. It was probably, "What the hell do you want?" (Kidding). I told him I had a room reserved under "Wall, Alexander." He nodded and spent an inordinate amount of time clicking away on the computer, hmmming and haaaing. I mentioned that my manager had called in too. He raised his eyebrows, perhaps remembering the conversation with her. He mumbled that he didn't have the queen bed room ready until 3:00 p.m., but there was a double ready now. I took it.
In the picture of the rooms there online, the queen room had a fridge and microwave. He handed me the key card to Room 112. When I got to the room and opened the door I was disappointed not to find appliances. It was barebones. There were cigarette burns in the bed covers and crinkly plastic under the sheets. I couldn't tell if the plastic covering the mattresses was there to keep things in it or from seeping into it from the outside. Honestly, I didn't even want to consider either. There were burn marks all over the top of the tub. Obviously at one point this was a smoking room. Other than that, it wasn't too bad...until the construction started.
I wanted to just plop down on the bed and take a nap, but there was too much to do and I wanted to get it all done before nightfall. First thing: laundry. But, to get to that, I had to take all of the wet tent parts out and hang them up to dry. Then I just dumped everything out of the pack to reorganize later.
Piling just the laundry back into the pack (which was every piece of clothing besides what I was wearing which also needed to be washed), I headed down the muddy grass and driveway to the laundromat. It was quite a nice and modern operation with tons of machines...
That bit of blue in the dryer was my sleeping bag.
They had a bathroom to change out of my pants and shirts so they could also be washed, and into my bathing suit and my one last clean t-shirt. I kicked myself for not bringing the laptop, as Wi-Fi was available. So, I killed the hour and a half watching trash TV--the Justice Network, with John Walsh. I wished I could change to PBS. Maybe they'd have a documentary on Maine? But no. It was all serial murders for my time there. John Walsh certainly has made a career for himself after the brutal murder of his son, Adam in 1981. And, even though this is hyperbolic, melodramatic, afternoon, cookie-cutter format TV, at least it wasn't Bridezillas. Thank God for small favors! Still, I couldn't pay attention to this crap, and found myself back in my Maine State of mind.
When the dryer buzzed, I pulled out my Maine and folded it on the Maine. In the bathroom I reMained distracted as I climbed back into my pants. It was nice to have the Maine done. It all went back in the Maine and I walked across Maine Street to my room at the Maine.
Okay, it was time to remove Maine from my brain, so I could at least function. As a refrain, even rain could not stain the memories of Maine. I turned on the TV (an enormous old-school behemoth) and found the Travel Channel. They were having an Andrew Zimmern Bizarre Foods fest. I liked that show and it freed me from Maine long enough to get some work done. I took a break to organize my backpack stuff and check on the tent parts...
Okay, it was time to remove Maine from my brain, so I could at least function. As a refrain, even rain could not stain the memories of Maine. I turned on the TV (an enormous old-school behemoth) and found the Travel Channel. They were having an Andrew Zimmern Bizarre Foods fest. I liked that show and it freed me from Maine long enough to get some work done. I took a break to organize my backpack stuff and check on the tent parts...
Do I really need all this crap?
Tent and tarp/fly.
Blue hiking tarp, tarps bag and tent bag.
Green base-tarp.
Same ones I'd bought a couple weeks before. I threw the old holey pair away.
Pre-shower, pre-shave.
This picture is interesting in that it shows the only way I ever see myself--reflected.
Other people see my features in the opposite orientation.
I think I prefer this one.
After the shower I finished a blog post and then just sat back on the bed to travel along with Andrew for a few hours. At about 4:00 p.m., directly above me, began hammering and power tools. Sounded like they were ruining sheetrock screws by rounding them out. It was loud. I couldn't even hear the TV. I went and complained, but it took another three hours for them to stop. It turns out that all around my particular room there was construction going on. It dawned on me, that the manager had duped me into this end of the motel. I say "duped," because I believe my appearance told him that I would be satisfied with any old room. I was displeased, but got my revenge in a review a few days later.
I shut off the TV and went back to work, processing pictures and writing. I couldn't handle the construction and the TV. At about 7:00 p.m., when the guys upstairs came down, jumped into their pick-ups and left, I was finally at peace again.
I had received a specific amount as a donation to get a second night. But, I wasn't positive that it would be at this place. Unfortunately, if I'd gone somewhere else I would have to pay at least $20 more for a room; meaning that I would have no money left for food after that next day. I really needed the rest, and it was due to rain for another twenty four hours. I put off deciding on a second night until the next morning.
Eventually, I got tired and climbed into bed. Besides the plastic crinkling sound under me, I was fairly comfortable. I definitely like smaller beds now. The smaller the bedder (ha!). I fell asleep with one word on my lips... Maine. And, I made it through the night without even waking.
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