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Published: October 21st 2009
Painting the town ... orange It's been a varied couple of weeks. Only one constant: the endless stream of bright orange pumpkins found on every street, in every front yard, in every store front. Rather than mourning the end of summer, America appears to be basking in the rich hues of autumn with pumpkins, chrysanthemums and wreaths adorning doorsteps like ornaments on the Christmas tree. Throw in some (okay, a few hundred thousand) trees with their turning leaves, and it's a pretty magical place to be. :-)
So, about two weeks ago I found myself sat in a Jersey motel in amongst all the pumpkins. Where to next? I have three days to get to Hartford, Connecticut for the ol' marathon. Where can I wile away a few days? After the hustle and bustle of Jersey - turns out that in the areas which are not consumed by agriculture people really do live on top of each; the noise and fast traffic were mind-blowing - I needed some more peace and quiet. Flicking through the guidebooks and trawling the internet I eventually decided to head east, out onto Long Island. The Hamptons. Famed for being a summer destination for the
well-heeled, I figured it would suit me well. However, rather than stay in the thick of things, namely the village of Hampton with it's designer boutiques and Michelin-starred restaurants, I aimed instead for Montauk, a small fishing town at the end of the south shore.
I think it was a week ago last Wednesday that I pulled up in Montauk. It was about 2pm. I had driven the length of Long Island amazed by the endless suburbs, one strip mall blending into the next, and relieved when they petered out around Riverhead. I did indeed drive through stunning Hampton but failed to stop. Should have, great photo opp. But I was eager to get to Montauk and find myself a bed for the night. Which turned out to be more of a challenge than I expected. Being off-season many of the motels had closed until next May or June. Stellar. I kept driving up to motels. No life in them. Except for Daunt's Albatross Hotel. What a random name?! My time in Montauk was short but productive. A walk along the coast, a visit to the Montauk lighthouse (famed for one reason or another which failed to make an
impression on my brain), an afternoon in an Irish pub (I think the first such establishment in the US of which I have been a patron), brunch in a 1960s diner (only thing missing - servers on rollerskates), and several hours sorting through and packing many of my belongings in boxes to be shipped home. Slowly but surely I am moving back across the pond. Fingers crossed one more box will suffice...
To ferry, or not to ferry, that is the question From Montauk I cleverly planned to get the ferry across to New London, cutting a couple hundred miles off my next journey to Hartford. It was a genial plan. But I should have known from my failed ferry crossing in North Carolina that it wouldn't work in my favour. Having booked a place on the 1pm ship from Orient Point, I figured on departing from Montauk at 10am. It's only a 35 mile journey. Plenty of time. Right? OOOOOOOHHHHHH NOOOOOO. I woke up that Friday morning and double checked the departure details; turns out I needed a printout of my confirmation e-mail. This town had to have an internet cafe. And indeed it does, but at present
they have no computers. Brilliant. But I'm told there is a cafe in Hampton. Just turn right at the main light, carry on past the school and you will see a sign on the right-hand side: 'Internet Cafe'.
You already know that I followed the directions but I didn't find the cafe. It's already 11am. I now have only 2 hours. Plenty of time? Ha! Rather than lapping back around Hampton, I continued on my way, stopping at the next town, Sag Harbour. I rushed around, printing out my ticket at the town library, grabbing coffee and a cinnamon danish (sue me, but I hadn't had breakfast), and finding out that I would need a good 1.5 hours to get to Orient Point. It may only be about 25 miles away but ... a HUGE, GIGANTIC but ... I need to take not one, but two, TWO, little ferries to get there. My map was such a large scale I didn't realise that the gaps between the inlets weren't joined by bridges but ferries.
So with exactly 1.5 hours to go I sped out of Sag Harbour. A few miles down the road I boarded the first little
ferry. Reach for my purse to pay the ferryman. Excuse my language but, shit, I didn't have any cash. Little ferrymen don't accept Visa or Mastercard or American Express or anything except cash. I reverse off the ferry and drive back to Sag Harbour. I find a cash machine and call the ferry company: can I transfer to a later boat? Yes, but the only tickets available are for the 8pm ferry. Meaning I would get into New London at 9.30 and into Hartford by about 11pm. Utter rubbish as I needed to be there before 9pm to register for the marathon which started at 8.30am the following morning.
La-di-da. I am never buying a ferry ticket ever again. I am clearly not meant to sail the ocean blue. Instead I am meant to burn rubber. Pamela reckoned the tarmac trail to Hartford, involving driving almost all the way back to New York City, was close to 200 miles and would have me arrive at 3.52pm. I couldn't complain about that. And I didn't start complaining until about 4.30pm when I was sat in the world's longest traffic jam somewhere around, ooh, New York City, with a good 100
miles still to go. Despite all the signs advertising store closures the following Monday (public holiday to celebrate Columbus, who did sail the ocean blue, in 1492, as it happens), I had failed to remember that it was a bank holiday weekend with the associated increase in traffic. Doh.
It was dark by the time I arrived in Hartford. I was tired. Grouchy, no less. I wound my way into downtown Hartford, gazed at the plentiful glass skyscrapers, swapped my registration down to the half-marathon, got back in the car, typed the hotel's address into Pamela and pulled out of the underground car park. And the games begun. The combination of skyscrapers and underground car park left Pamela searching for a signal. She searched and searched. Whilst I drove around trying to escape the skyscrapers. I ended up back on the freeway, took a random exit and stopped in a hotel car park hoping that a lack of movement would help her search. It didn't. I went into the hotel, hoping they could assist me. With no map and no phone number for my hotel (how is possible to have been a Brownie and a Girl Guide and still
be SO unprepared??), I had no idea how to get where I wanted to go. The hotel lobby was empty. No staff on duty. I rang a bell on the front desk. No response. I limped (metaphorically) back to the car. He offered little comfort. And then a little voice piped up, 'continue to I-91'... Yay, Pamela was back. I have to say I never thought I would cry tears of joy over a GPS, but ladies and gentlemen, it has now happened.
Finally settled in my hotel room at about 9pm, I reflected on the day. It was downright rubbish. Except for one tiny gem. Sag Harbour. It's the first place I have visited here where I immediately saw myself living. It is a gorgeous little town, no doubt economically driven by tourism but still very much alive out of season. I fell in love in an instant.
In the running I shan't dwell on the rest of my stay in Hartford. I ran the half-marathon in a half-decent time. The course wasn't as pretty as some make out, but at least being new scenery it kept me distracted. Then I slept, did laundry and slept some
more.
Then tried to leave Hartford.
Which was as difficult as trying to get into it.
There is a Bermuda Triangle in Connecticut; between Hartford, Glastonbury and Wethersfield. I had hoped to drive east out of Hartford and down to Providence, Rhode Island, rather than just follow the freeway. The Triangle had a different idea. I spent about an hour and a half driving between these three towns, admittedly all extremely lovely, but I didn't really want to be there. I took one road which suddenly ended, for no apparent reason. I drove back again, took a left turn supposedly in the opposite direction from whence I came to find myself back where I started. Eventually I capitulated, stopped by Starbucks and reluctantly headed back to the freeway. It's just easier that way.
My night in Providence was unremarkable. It's a strange city - confirmed by fellow travellers - with a downtown almost entirely given over to a vast shopping mall and a selection of upmarket hotels. And a brewery. You know where I ended up...
Moving on to Newport the next day, I was incredibly excited. Newport, Rhode Island, is somewhere I have wanted
to visit for a long time. In fact, it was somewhere I was thinking of moving to. Even found myself a beautiful black house to buy. But that was last year and only on the internet. Would the reality meet my expectations? For the most part, it did. The scenery is stunning, the architecture is right up my street and the people are just lovely. Yet (is there always a yet?? a but??) for a supposedly upmarket sailing town, it felt just a little tacky. It wasn't quite what I had anticipated, and although I thoroughly enjoyed my visit, I won't be rushing back. Even though it is home to the splendid Breakers mansion and the first Jewish synagogue, first Baptist church and first Quaker meeting house in America. And apparently Newport was the site of the first speeding ticket in US history. Fascinating stuff.
Hitting the Cape A week on Cape Cod. This was always planned as my vacation within a vacation. Travelling is tiring, and I was in need of a rest before heading back to the city. Boston, New York and then London in a couple of weeks. Let's not even think about going back to
work just yet.
And what a vacation it has been. Driving through the Cape along 6A was one of the most magnificent journeys I have ever made. Undoubtedly the season has something to do with it. It's simply as beautiful as everyone makes out. Rainbow-coloured trees, dainty villages. The epitomisation of New England. Had it not involved driving into the ocean, I could have driven forever. As it happens, I drove as far as I physically could, to the tip of the Cape and Provincetown. Or P'town as it's locally known. I saw an article about P'town in a magazine last year and have kept it in my wallet ever since. It looked like a charming place, and delivers on every count. The Pilgrims' first landing spot in 1620, today it is overwhelmingly a tourist town. Bars, restaurants, coffee shops fight with t-shirt shops, beauty spas and gift stores for the attention of the throngs of tourists who swamp the town in summer. Among the famous seasonal visitors are Jon Snow from Channel 4 and Helena Kennedy (a prominent women's rights activist). Why do I know this? It's not exactly information I sought out intentionally. A trip to the doctor (no need to worry, nothing serious) involved disclosing my occupation. For ease, I wrote 'women's rights activist'. The doctor duly noted this and was delighted to know I have met Baroness Kennedy a couple of times. Turns out the good doctor is also the summer landlord to the Baroness, Jon Snow and many other political activists. I left without having to pay for the consultation and tips on how to get my medication for free. Sisterhood is a wonderful thing!
In fact, P'town was bubbling over with sisterhood last week. A mecca for the gay community for decades, one week in October is given over to 'women's week'. I have never seen so many women in one place. Actually, I have. At work on several occasions. Still, it was funny to walk into a store, a cafe, the supermarket and be 99% surrounded by women.
A violent storm over the weekend kept me wrapped up on the sofa with a duvet, a pile of DVDs, hot chocolate, red wine, Hershey kisses and potato chips. Just was I needed. Yesterday I headed down to Chatman, a gorgeous town on the elbow of the Cape. With the sun shining, a breeze blowing, and - with only 10 days to go until Halloween - an indecent number of pumpkins on show, it was a perfect autumnal day. When I have finished this blog, I am back into town, off to the post office and out to Truro and Wellfleet. The latter being known for it's oysters. Hmmm, oysters and champagne for lunch looking over the bay? Well, best make the most of it before I am yet again shuttling to and fro on the London underground...
My final dilemma. Tomorrow I had hoped to take a trip to Nantucket or Martha's Vineyard. Both being islands, it would require a trip on a ferry. Past experience would dictate giving it a miss, but you never know, this could be my crowning ferry moment?
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Auntie Boobie
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Martha's Vineyard
Hi sweet, sounds as if you have had a world wind trip, just reading it makes me want to rest...oh, to be so young again: I have always wanted to visit Martha's Vineyard, so if you can, please go, have heard it is outstanding, beautiful and so much more....take care my dear, and know we keep you close in heart and prayer....