by Doreen Orion
I love this area of the country, the Finger Lakes, although I never really got the whole “Finger” part. I mean, if you look at a map, there are actually eleven of them, even though only seven are commonly admitted into the fingerhood. Who has seven or, for that matter, eleven fingers? Perhaps the area was once struck by a radioactive meteor, leading early cartographers to accurately reflect, through honorary nomenclature, the supplemental digits on their subsequent mutated generations. Or perhaps these communities, smug in their abundant natural beauty, are giving the finger(s) to the rest of the state? Whatever the rationale, I heart New York’s Finger Lakes.
Remembering how much we loved biking around the flat trails of the lakes in Minnesota, it was not difficult for Tim to persuade me to take a few rides here too, something I also never did while in college. Near Cornell, we found a delightful, easy, two-mile bike trail along Cayuga Lake and, as we rode, were treated to the quintessential Ivy experience—watching the crew team as we paralleled the student rowers. (Now, that’s exertion.)
Of course, we also took the Jeep on several day trips throughout the region for ice cream and wine tastings, passing waterfall after waterfall along the way. (They don’t say “Ithaca is gorges” for nothin’.) When we entered the Neutral Zone in the town of Romulus (between Cayuga and Seneca lakes), I couldn’t help asking some of the natives if they called themselves Romulans (as Tim tried to pretend he didn’t know me). It was as if I were the alien. Next time, I’ll wear my Spock ears; then maybe they’ll understand what I’m talking about.
We headed to Bar Harbor, Maine, and while my phobia about the bus careening still surfaced, it was an actual crash that caught me by surprise; that of my computer. (Peter had installed a program I finally ran for the first time which was supposed to “clean it all up,” since, of course, it was my practically brand new computer’s fault that the satellite Internet wasn’t working properly.) Out of the Bangor yellow pages, Brian to the rescue. We soon learned that he was much more than just another computer geek; this obsessive, chocoholic (rows of neatly stacked peanut butter cups in his office were a dead giveaway, even with my, by now, dusty diagnostic skills), number-three-ranked-in–New England water-skier, regaled us with the trials and tribulations of following his passion while living in that frigid clime. I certainly admired his tenacity, but despite the lure of multiple outfits (including different weight wet and dry suits, albeit all in black), I couldn’t help wonder if there was a leaky valve in his tank.
Although water-skiing, especially in the freezing cold, was not what I would choose to do, meeting Brian certainly brought home what had been somewhat of an alien concept in our household: the importance of pursuing what one loves. I couldn’t help wonder if we were being attracted to certain people on the road for a reason (which in turn made me wonder if I’d lived in karma-crazed Boulder way too long). For after only a month on the road without any career at all, not to mention discovering histories of characters and meeting actual people like Brian, Tim started dreaming about a part-time private practice, taking on only the types of cases he enjoys. And in a long overdue nod to his inner Project Nerd, he also pondered spending the rest of his time working with his hands, renovating old houses.
Ever since Vanture started our bus conversion and we became friendly with the guys in the shop, Tim had been envious of the owner. Chris said he didn’t understand people who got up in the morning and complained about their jobs. He woke up every day looking forward to what he had to do. As Tim started thinking about his work life in a new way, he reminded me of what Chris told him.
“That’s how I want to be,” he said.
Although I lamented being the only woman I knew married to a white-collar man with blue-collar aspirations, it thrilled me that Tim might actually start taking better care of himself. And it turned out my husband was not the only one contemplating new ways of relating to the world: In exquisite Maine, anticipating some lovely photographic opportunities (I had found, unfortunately, that the artistic possibilities of my new hobby—nature photography—were rather limited indoors, no matter how hard I tried), I actually suggested a (short) hike.
It wasn’t hard to get hooked, as long as we were walking in Acadia National Park. Even though we had a perfectly nice view of the ocean from our campsite (I suppose it’s not really that I hate nature, just that I prefer experiencing it through a window—unless I have a camera in hand—which, I guess, is still kind of like experiencing it through a window, just a much smaller one), almost every day we’d head out with Miles for the park. There were so many varied “hikes,” ranging from short strolls for me to long, arduous climbs for Tim, that I’d sling my camera over my shoulder and actually have a smile on my face while lacing up my shoes. We even spent a day at the beach, where some certifiable people—and believe me, I’ve certified patients for less—were actually swimming.
Maine was Miles’s first taste of ocean—literally. As he cavorted on the shore, running away from the waves (although poodles are, by nature, water retrievers, ours has always eschewed getting himself wet), he could not resist taking a drink. SNORT. Poor poodle. Throughout the rest of the year, he always repeated this mistake at the ocean, never able to grasp the concept of salt water.
One day, we got to talking to an elderly park ranger. He and his wife had spent most of their lives traveling the country, working in one national park after another. While I still could not ever imagine that for myself, for the first time, I could understand the appeal for other people of doing so: living what you love, every day, rather than living with what you love (like—and Lord help me for saying this—shoes). I wasn’t anywhere near there yet (and wasn’t at all sure I wanted to be), but now I could at least see what the attraction was for others.
The ranger boasted that the sunsets on Cadillac Mountain were the best of any national park, including Denali in Alaska, where he’d also spent some time. Hearing the word “mountain,” I figured I was out of luck and the only way I’d get to see the sunset was if I could convince Tim to take my camera. But, turns out, you can drive right up to the top, then make your way on foot over an expanse of flat rocks to find a spot and await the multihued extravaganza. That evening, as we sat and watched the waning daylight sweep over the ridges, pools of water, and ocean, creating an otherworldly landscape, I could almost imagine what it must be like taking a moonwalk, but without having to endure the rigorous training, the nauseating G’s, the tragically disco-inspired space suits, or the diapers.
We also spent several pleasant afternoons wandering around the town of Bar Harbor. After years of shellfish drought (although not kosher since childhood, I still can’t bring myself to eat the stuff), Tim insisted we go to lobster pounds for all of our evening meals. (He even sampled lobster ice cream at a local confectionary. The verdict: “Tastes like vanilla,” which, I guess, is the chicken of the dessert world.) I couldn’t even force myself to try a bite of the no longer forbidden, if still-foreboding, crustacean. It’s not a religious thing; I just can’t understand the appeal of having my dinner stare at me while I dismember it. As my late Uncle George might have said, “With all that pounding, no wonder I always have a haddock.” BaRUMbum!
Most of these places pounding lobsters were decidedly no-frills, so much so that I wondered why they didn’t make us pull in our own traps. At least they all had ocean views.
Our idyllic time in Maine lulled us into believing that all was right in our own little bus world. Tim actually allowed himself some pleasant musings about the fact that we hadn’t had any disasters recently. Up until then, he worried every time he started the bus that something would go wrong, but now he was feeling his confidence rise. He realized, looking back on all our adversities, that they had been learning experiences which only left him more secure in his busing abilities. For the first time, as he gazed at the limitless ocean view we were about to leave, he felt he knew our rig well and could handle anything.
He felt one with the bus.
Tim
and I completed our departure preparations while the pets completed theirs. Somehow, Miles and Morty always seemed to know when we were about to pull up stakes. They arranged themselves on the love seat, sitting together expectantly. (Miles with an expression seeming to say, as always, “Oh, my! What adventure shall we have next?” Morty with one that was more “This better be worth waking up for, assholes.”) Shula, it seemed, remained in denial, so I scooped her up from the bed and sat with her on the buddy seat. Tim turned the ignition key. Nothing.
The battery was dead. He immediately realized how ridiculous the whole “one with the bus” thing had been, especially given that we were backed into a campsite with no easy access to the engine compartment. Although we called AAA, the mechanic who arrived informed us very apologetically (he was a Mainer, after all) that he could not give us the 24-volt jump we needed. What’s a Project Nerd to do? Like any superhero in crisis, he must return to the very source of his power: in this case, Sears—specifically, the Craftsman tool department.
“Do you want me to look up the address for Sears on the Internet?” I asked, trying to be helpful.
“Nah,” PN replied, gazing off into the distance, with an almost imperceptible nod. “I can find it.”
Of course he could. Maps were for mere mortals. Bat signals for wusses. My superhero husband comes fully equipped with his very own homing device. I don’t know how he does it, and for once, he can’t really explain it to me. It seems he’s just hardwired to home in on home improvement stores—kind of like salmon spawning. (Although if that’s what’s going on at Sears, Tim’ll find he has a lot more in common with those fish—it’ll be the end of his life cycle, too.)
Tim bought a 12-volt battery charger (sadly, that was all Sears had, proving the old adage “You can’t go home again”). It took over twenty-four hours to charge the bus. Unfortunately, our gray water tank was full; we had planned to go to the dump station on our way out of the RV park. So that night, under cover of darkness, we surreptitiously and illegally drained our gray water into the New England countryside before it overflowed our tanks, in what we later termed the Midnight Dump of Tim’s Bus Rear.
As much as I’d grown to love Maine, I was a bit put off by just how darn nice people are in this state. When someone smiles at you in New York, it could be benign, it could be malicious, or it could be just plain crazy, with about an equal likelihood of any of the above. We New Yorkers have therefore mastered the art of looking through people, as if the entire city consists of urban ghosts. Doing that seemed a bit creepy in the Pine Tree State, so I forced myself to smile back. It’s actually not that bad.
Those Mainers are not only genuinely friendly, they also like to do things: Brian offered to deliver the computer to me (over an hour drive) after his repairs took longer than expected. The AAA mechanic returned on his own, just to see if the spare battery Tim bought did the trick. With all the niceties abounding, I feared I’d lose my mind in a state full of Tims. I felt especially panicked when I sneezed in a bar of locals and they all said, “Bless you.” Try that in New York City, where instead, the next day, patrons would be scanning the paper for my obituary in the hopes they could snag a cheap apartment.
Since we had an extra day or two we hadn’t planned on (we hoped no more, as the weather forecast indicated the imminent arrival of the season’s first snow), we took a suggestion from Brian and drove the Jeep northwest to the nearly 75,000 acre Moosehead Lake. It was a three-hour drive, and by the time we got there, we were ready for lunch. We happened upon a cozy place in Greenville, The Black Frog, with good food and an even better menu. With entrées and descriptions such as “Mooseballs: Unquestionably the tenderest cut of the moose. Sautéed or broiled to perfection and graced with our own special sauce. Requires 48 hour advance notice and 25% deposit…$1,495.00.” Or “Blooming Onion: The kitchen hates making this. Irritate them and order it anyway.” Or “The Misteak on the Lake: Either a great steak sandwich or this restaurant.”
Afterwards, we grabbed some homemade ice cream across the street, liberated Miles from the car, and sat on a bench by the lake to watch the seaplanes land and take flight. Thus sustained, we took a chance in the wilds and drove for about a hundred miles on a logging road Rand marked “private” and which didn’t even register on Map Breath. It was quite rough and gravelly at times, with many places to veer off for four-wheeling and moose watching, although despite all the posted signs about moose crossings and “high impact” moose areas, Tim and I were apparently the only people ever to have been to Moosehead Lake and not encounter one of the beasts.
About halfway along, we crossed the Appalachian Trail at Mount Katahdin in Baxter State Park, near where hikers of the 2,160-mile footpath finish up in the fall. Sheryl (the same friend who came in second naming our bus) hiked part of the trail years ago. Her lifelong dream is to finish it (I apparently not only have lunatic patients, but lunatic friends as well) and she had told me the hikers always appreciated some “trail magic” (i.e., unexpected bits of good luck like food or a lift). With Miles in the back, we didn’t have room for the latter (and truly, the hikers were rather ripe), but I did hand out a couple of my low-carb snack bars. They were taken gratefully, only reinforcing to me how truly miserable the whole hiking thing is.
We managed to get out of Maine just in time to avoid the snow, but caught considerable precipitation in the form of rain when we stayed just off Cape Cod, Massachusetts. The RV park there had a Jacuzzi, and after partaking, we hung our bathing suits on a line over the foot of the bed. I awoke the next morning with my feet soaking wet. I nudged Tim. Could it be the bathing suits? He sleepily said yes, but even in my foggy state I realized that if we’d both worn size 20, there was no way a bathing suit could hold that much water. Our bus was leaking.
It rained for two days straight. Our bus kept leaking. Tim donned his best Project Nerd water-repellent rain gear, retrieved the brand-new Holy Grail of ladders he’d stowed in the bay (“What’s wrong with your old ladder?” “On the bus, I need a ladder to do more than one thing.” “I didn’t know ladders did more than one thing.” “It’s a stepladder and an extension ladder.” I see. A veritable Swiss Army knife of ladders, if you will), and draped heavy plastic over the bus. He wasn’t the only superhero in the park doing so, although surely, none of them sported accoutrements as spiffy. When the weather finally cleared, PN of course went even further, using super-duper caulk recommended by Chris to fill in all the cracks, applied with a brand-new caulk gun. Then he cleaned all the water spots on the inside of the bus with the industrial fabric cleaner he also got at the local Home Depot. (There always seemed to be one of these near an RV park, probably because lots of PNs, wings clipped by their wives, use various rigs as their alternate modes of transportation.)
It was also in Massachusetts that I rediscovered Friendly’s. As kids, we used to go to Friendly’s for ice-cream treats, and for really special occasions, we’d preface our desserts with one of their fabulous burgers. Being an East Coast thing, Tim had never heard of it until I squealed with delight when we happened by a Friendly’s in our Jeep. I hadn’t thought about the place in years.
“We have to go! We have to go!” I exclaimed, channeling my inner twelve-year-old as I bounced in my seat. Tim dutifully drove us back for dinner that night.
I remembered not only the food but the service, which strives to live up to the restaurant’s name. To every single one of my change orders (fried onions and a slab of raw onion on my burger, no bacon, no bun, low-carb chocolate in my milkshake, ranch dressing with my onion rings, and don’t forget the steak sauce), the waitress whooped an enthusiastic “NO PROBLEM!” As a kid, to have an adult hang on your every word and treat every request as gospel was kinda nice. As a bus phobic, to hear a “NO PROBLEM!” in a situation where I could really be assured there was none was kinda liberating.
But the next Friendly’s we tried near Boston (yep, I was on a roll reliving the highlights of my childhood, just as Tim was on a roll sl
eeping on the couch because he couldn’t stand the reek of onions in our bed) seemed to lack the same…Friendlyness. When I gave my by now usual order, there was not a “NO PROBLEM!” to be heard. Instead, the waitress practically sneered, “The woman likes her condiments.” Hadn’t she been trained that sarcasm is not particularly friendly?
Then, my order complete, I was treated to a “She’s a veritable condiment queen!” I consoled myself with the fact that at least she was giving me a promotion of sorts from Princess. Tim, who always rolls his eyes at my dining requests (and who takes great pride in following his order with “and I’ll have it exactly as it is on the menu”), was trying not to let his soda shoot through his nostrils after my Heinzien coronation. Then, unfortunately for us all, I noticed my ice tea glass said “Free Refills.” You must understand that at Friendly’s, freverything is freenamed. The onion rings are “fronions,” the shakes, “fribbles,” and so on. So I asked the fraitress, “How come the drinks aren’t called freefills?” She shot me a strange look, finally got it, and narrowed her eyes in a manner that was anything but friendly.
“Freefills. Cute. I’ll let management know. One more thing for them to throw at us.”
That was the last time we dined at Friendly’s.
In early October, we dipped into New Hampshire, mainly to climb to the 6,200-foot summit of Mount Washington (by car, of course). As we waited on line just before the entrance, I leapt out of the Jeep to take pictures of a pretty stream that perfectly reflected the hues of the surrounding trees awash in the colors of fall. The air was warm but with that crisp hint of winter to come, layering the moment with a familiar wish that things could stay just as they were. I thought of how lucky we were to be able to do this, to experience and see all we had thus far, and I realized I owed it all to Tim.