After we left the Coolidge homestead, we drove to the north part of the state. It only took us a few hours to get there – Vermont really is tiny! We ended up spending the night in a town called Waterbury. We decided to eat a simple dinner in the RV, and then take a walk through town. That’s when we stumbled on this store called the Cold Hollow Cider Mill. They were selling cider donuts, apple pie, and even more local foods. The cider donuts were amazing! They made them fresh on the spot and they were warm and dripping with grease. Needless to say, they were delicious, but so filled with sugar and fat that Mom made us all eat apples in an effort to stay healthy. I didn’t mind – the apple was somehow almost as good as the donuts!

There certainly does seem to be a lot of local eating around here. Even when we went into the grocery store, it had a ton of local products, and we’ve already passed like three farmer’s markets. Glenda told us that the state has a lot of small farms, especially dairy farms, which is why there’s so much cheese and ice cream.

Speaking of ice cream… I thought George randomly picked the town of Waterbury to stay in, but I was wrong. He stopped here because it’s also the site of the Ben & Jerry’s factory! When Ray and I heard that we’d get to take a tour of the factory, we both started jumping up and down, barely able to contain our excitement. I think it’s the first time we’ve agreed on anything since this trip started!

The factory was just as cool as I imagined. We saw how the ice cream was made, and we even got to sample some of the new flavors! My favorite was Red Velvet Cake, but of course Ray liked Schweddy Balls the best. What a perv.

The next day we finally arrived in Burlington. I was starting to worry that we wouldn’t make it in time to find Amy before her sister’s wedding, but thankfully we got there on Friday, and the wedding wasn’t until Saturday.

We spent most of the day exploring downtown Burlington. It has a great open-air mall called Church Street, with a ton of shops and restaurants. Mom and I decided to do a little shopping, and she bought me this killer beaded necklace and a long, flowery scarf.

There are certainly a lot of hippies in Burlington. Musicians were playing all over Church Street, and girls in long flowing skirts danced to the music. A bunch of people had dreads and tattered clothes. Ray plugged his nose every time we passed them, until Mom told him to stop. “I don’t want to smell them! They don’t bath!” Ray practically shouted, and I had to pretend I didn’t know him so I wouldn’t die of embarrassment.

That afternoon we checked into a hotel near Lake Champlain. I watched the sun set on the water before we went out to find dinner. The lake was wide and blue, framed by mountains on all sides. Vermont really is pretty, though it’s hard to believe that Burlington is the biggest city in the whole state. Gloria told me that Vermont only has around six hundred thousand residents. That’s crazy when you realize that New York City alone has eight million people! Maybe that’s why Vermonters seem so protective of their state, and why they call outsiders “flatlanders.”

We had dinner at a great restaurant on Church Street called Sweetwaters, and then we went back to the hotel to crash. I could barely sleep, thinking about Amy and her sister. What would I do if I couldn’t find them? Would the wedding be ruined? I tossed and turned and worried –

And then woke to the sound of George’s voice. “Ami, Ami, wake up.”

“What is it?” I grumbled, burying my face in the pillow.

“You overslept.” George shook my shoulder. “It’s almost noon! Didn’t you want to try and find that wedding?”

Oh my God! I jolted awake, my heart pounding. I didn’t know what time the wedding started, but I couldn’t waste a single second if I was going to find Amy in time. I threw some clothes on and ran out the door, George close at my heels.

Fortunately, the waterfront wasn’t far from our hotel. Unfortunately, I didn’t know where the wedding was! Mom, Glenda, and Ray had already gotten up and gone to get food, so it was just me and George searching. He was being surprisingly helpful as I combed the park near the water. But as hard as I tried, I couldn’t find any evidence of a wedding.

Finally, I slumped down onto a park bench.

“It might be time to give up, kiddo,” George said, patting me on the back awkwardly.

“What am I supposed to do with this ring?” I groaned and held up the box.

“Maybe it’s an afternoon wedding?”

I shook my head. “We can’t stay here all day, waiting for them. We don’t even know where the wedding is supposed to be. This was a dumb plan in the first place.”

“Hey!” George frowned at me. “No one calls my daughter dumb. Not even her.”

The way he said it made me smile, but I was still feeling pretty discouraged. “It’s hopeless, George. We’ll never find them.”

“Let’s just walk the length of the park one more time.”

I reluctantly agreed, and we walked along the water, passed the boats in the harbor, and around the ECHO Lake Aquarium and Science Center. Then, just down the boardwalk, I saw people gathering around a big white tent.

“I think that might be it!” I yelled as I started to run toward the group of people.

“Ami!” I heard someone call my name and I turned.

“Amy!”

She was dressed in a pretty pink gown and she looked a lot cleaner than the last time I saw her. But her face was downcast and she was obviously upset as I jogged over to meet her.

“I’ve let everyone down,” she said softly. “I should never have gone hiking right before the wedding. My sister is so mad I don’t even know if there will be a wedding anymore.”

“Amy, I – ”

But she wouldn’t let me finish. “I lost her ring, Ami!” She threw her hands up in the air. “How could I have done something like that?”

“Wait – ”

“If I hadn’t insisted on going down the Long Trail, none of this would have happened.”

“Amy!” George had finally caught up with us. “Ami has something to tell you.”

“I found it!” I handed her the box.

“Oh my god!” Amy shrieked and took it from me. “Thank you, thank you!” She threw her arms around me. “Now my sister won’t kill me or cancel the wedding!”

I smiled at George and he smiled back. It was nice to be able to share this with him. He’s usually so embarrassing that I don’t even want to be around him, but every once in a while he comes through for me. I shouldn’t forget that.

After I returned the ring, Amy and her sister invited us all to the wedding. And so we spent our last day here eating cake and dancing near the water as Christmas lights twinkled all around us. It was pretty magical, and a perfect way to end our week in Vermont.

I told the family about Amy’s sister’s wedding ring, and they agreed that we should bring it to Burlington on Saturday. But that still gives us plenty of time to explore the rest of the state!

After breakfast at the hotel in Ludlow, we went to swim in Echo Lake. We were heading to a beach the front desk girl recommended when we passed this rope swing by the side of the road. There was a car parked nearby, with a few kids hanging out on the rocky shore.

“A rope swing!” Ray exclaimed. “Dad, can we stop, please?”

“Sure!” George said. “But it might be private land. We should ask.” He pulled up next to the teenagers and rolled down the window. “Hey there kids! Can anyone use that thing?”

They glanced at George, and at the hulking, rusted Falcon. There were three boys and one girl and they all looked about my age. The girl started to giggle as soon as she saw us.

“Oh my god,” I mumbled, slumping down into the seat as my face turned bright red.

“Yeah, it’s open to everyone!” one of the boys called out.

“Rad!” George pulled over and they all piled out of the RV. I was so mortified that I wouldn’t even get out of the car at first. But then I saw one of the boys handing the rope to George and everyone laughing as he swung out over the lake, dropping down into the water below. The three teenagers thought George was hilarious. And even I had to admit that the loud, girly scream he made right before he hit the water was kind of funny. So after a few minutes, I got out of the Falcon and jumped into the water too. It was just too hot to stay embarrassed!

After we swam, we drove into town for lunch at a café called Java Babbas, then went back to the hotel to pack up. On the way we passed a little Vermont store called Harlow’s Sugar House. They had a sign out front for Maple Creemees.

“What’s a Maple Creemee?” I asked.

“It appears to be ice cream,” Glenda replied.

Of course Ray immediately started shouting, “Ice cream, ice cream, ice cream!”

George pulled the Falcon over and we went inside. The shop was so cute! It was filled with tons of Vermont stuff, like real maple syrup, t-shirts with moose on them, local cheese, and the mysterious Maple Creemees. The woman running the shop told us that it was maple flavored soft-serve. We all decided to got one, even Gloria. I swear, it was the best thing I’ve ever eaten! The store clerk laughed as soon as she saw the expression on my face. “The more ‘e’s’ in a creemee, than the better it is!” she said.

Probably due to a sugar rush, Mom decided to buy out half of the store. “When will we have a chance to buy real Vermont maple syrup again?” she asked George as we loaded gallon after gallon into the back of the Falcon. “We can give it out as Christmas presents.” George grumbled, but he still helped us carry all that syrup. I think he was just as impressed with the creemees as the rest of us.

Soon it was time to hit the road, but we didn’t get far. Gloria insisted that we spend the night near the Calvin Coolidge homestead, which was only a few miles up the road in a town called Plymouth. We got there kind of late, but the homestead was next to a large state park and we decided to camp in the woods. That night we built a fire and told ghost stories and ate s’mores. It was a little cold at night, even though it was nearing fall, but through the gaps in the trees you could see like a million stars. I decided to sleep out in the open, but then Ray started talking about the bears in the woods and I chickened out and went back into the tent. I’m glad I did because you could hear coyotes howling all night long.

The next day we hiked through the woods for a little while, then went to the Coolidge site. Gloria was filled with facts about Calvin Coolidge. Apparently he was our thirtieth president, and was born and raised in Vermont. To be honest, I kind of tuned her out. Especially because the homestead was so much cooler than I thought it would be! There were all these old buildings, and old churches. There was even an old-fashioned general store. George bought me and Ray stick candy and rock candy and big sour pickles. By then it was late afternoon and time to hit the road again. Let’s hope we can make it to Burlington by Saturday – who knew there was so much to do in a small state like Vermont!

So I’ve been excited to see what Vermont is really like, and I stayed glued to the window as we drove toward the southern part of the state. As soon as we crossed the border from Massachusetts, something in the scenery changed. Almost by magic, the hills seemed greener, spotted with cows and trees. There were no billboards rising up into the sky. Everything felt cleaner, brighter somehow.

I opened the nearest window and stuck my hand out, spreading my fingers into the wind. We passed a dairy farm, where cows clustered around a red barn.

“Ew,” Ray said, pinching his nose. “Did you just fart?”

I turned away from the window and glared at him. “Don’t be an idiot. It’s from the farm.”

“Well, shut the window! It smells worse than Dad does after Mom makes tacos.”

This is a photo I snapped driving through the lush rolling greens of Vermont

I made a gagging motion as George turned around from the front seat. “Ray!” he yelled. “It’s just fertilizer.”

Ray wrinkled his nose. “You mean it’s cow sh-”

“You better not finish that sentence,” George cut in.

“There are over a thousand dairy farms in Vermont,” Glenda said. I noticed that she had a guidebook spread out on her lap.

“That doesn’t seem like a lot,” Mom said.

“It is when you consider how small the state is. Vermont is one of the least populated states in the country. Only Wyoming has less people.”

“Are you brushing up on your facts, Glenda?” I asked, pointing at the book.

She adjusted her glasses, looking flustered. “This is a small state. I’m just trying to remember everything, that’s all.” Looks like I’m not the only one who forgets about Vermont.

I glanced out the window again. We were passing through a small town, with just a gas station and a post office. As we were driving past a tiny school, I saw a young girl walking down the side of the road carrying a huge backpack. She looked like she was struggling under the weight of it, and she stuck her thumb out at us as we got closer.

“George!” I yelled. “Stop the van!” To his credit, George pulled over quickly.

“What are you up to, Ami?” Mom asked as I opened the door and leaned out. The girl walked toward me. She had stringy brown hair, like she hadn’t washed it in a while, and plain, kind of sweaty clothes. I was kind of regretting making George stop, but then she smiled widely.

“Thanks for stopping,” she said. “I’ve been walking forever.”

“We can give you a ride,” I said, stepping back to let her into the car. “Right ,George?”

“I guess so,” he said, eyeing the girl. “Where are you headed?”

“Just a few towns away,” she said. “My name’s Amy.”

“That’s like my name,” I said. “It’s Ami with an I though.” She smiled at me and I smiled back. It had been so long since I’d talked with another girl my age! It made me realize how much I miss Trish.

“Why were you hitchhiking?” Mom asked. “It seems a little dangerous for a young girl. How old are you, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I’m 16. I don’t usually hitchhike,” Amy said, dropping her heavy bag onto the floor. “But I’ve been hiking the Long Trail for the past few days with some of my friends, and I need to get back for my sister’s wedding in Burlington, by the waterfront. It’s a week away, next Saturday.”

“What’s the Long Trail?” Ray asked.

“This super long hiking trail that runs up through the green mountains, and all the way through Vermont.” She glanced around the Falcon. “I saw that you don’t have VT plates. What brings you here? It’s a little early for the ski season.”

Her question perked George right up and he talked for like 10 minutes about our trip across the country. It was kind of embarrassing, even though Amy seemed into it.

“Cool!” She said. “I’ve lived here my whole life, and I’ve never really seen the rest of the country. Where are you staying?”

“First we’re staying in Manchester,” George said.

“Oh no, you can’t stay there!” Amy exclaimed. “It’s filled with tourists! You need to have the authentic Vermont experience, otherwise you won’t see anyone but flatlanders.”

“What are flatlanders?” I asked.

“Um, well, anyone who’s not from Vermont.”

“Really? Is it an insult?” I was starting to get kind of offended. After all, we’d seen much bigger mountains in other parts of the country. And Vermont might be pretty and all, but does it even have anything other than cows and trees?

“Sort of.” She looked uncomfortable. “Vermont gets a lot of tourism. It’s how the state makes most of its money. Skiers show up in the winter, and leaf-peepers in the fall. Those are people who come to look at the foliage. There’s a big divide between the locals and tourists sometimes. We can be territorial about our state. My dad moved here almost 25 years ago, but he’s still not considered a local.”

That sounded a little crazy, but whatever.

“If we shouldn’t stay in Manchester, then where should we go?” George asked as he drove.

“I’ll give you a list of the best, non-touristy spots,” Amy said. “But for tonight, you should head north a little until you reach Ludlow. There are a string of lakes out on Route 100, that you have to see.”

She started to tell us a list of places to visit, and Glenda diligently took notes. Pretty soon she asked to be dropped off, saying that a friend was coming to drive her the rest of the way. We left her on the side of the road, waving goodbye.

“What a nice young lady,” Mom said. I agreed, wishing she could have spent more time with us. It would have been nice to hang out with a girl my own age for a while.

We reached Ludlow just as the sun was starting to set. The downtown was a picturesque New England town, with a gazebo and only one stoplight! We had dinner at a local restaurant called DJ’s, and it was amazing. The hostess recommended a hotel for us near the lakes and we drove out there, passing a ski mountain called Okemo. The hotel was The Echo Lake Inn, and even though it’s a little more expensive than what we’ve been used to, it was worth it – it looks like a colonial mansion! All white and huge and fancy. Echo Lake was right across the street and we walked over to their boat landing after we got settled. So late at night, the water looked like glass. I was having kind of a nice moment until Ray threatened to jump in with all his clothes on, and Mom made us walk back to the hotel.

It wasn’t until we were in our rooms that I realized I forgot something in the Falcon, so I ran out there in the dark. After I got my bag, I noticed a small square box on the floor. Curious, I opened it, to see a diamond wedding ring! It must have fallen out of Amy’s bag when we gave her a ride. I remembered that she said her sister’s wedding was on Saturday, in Burlington by the waterfront. So looks like we need to make it there before Saturday or else her sister will be missing a ring!

We stopped in Salem for the afternoon, where we spent a quick hour each in the Salem Witch Museum and the Peabody Essex Museum. I didn’t know much about the Salem Witch trials beforehand, but I found it strange and sad that so many seemingly innocent people were criminalized back then. Almost 200 were accused and 28 were hanged.

Most interesting thing I learned and took notes on at this museum: There are multiple ways of “killing a witch.” To drag a person through water while tied up is considered “swimming the witch.” If she floats she is considered to be a witch. If she does not, she isn’t a witch but she is usually drowned. A witch would be unable to repeat the Lord’s Prayer correctly since it was thought that she regularly said it backwards. It was thought that the devil sucked the witch’s blood through it. “Pricking the witch” is when someone rubs the skin on the face of the accused and then pricks it. If no feeling is displayed the accused is considered a witch.
I remember thinking about how it must have been for those accused people back then—being ostracized by society and by their peers, families, and loved ones. They were persecuted for being just a tad bit weird, a daring dose of different, and a little bit against the grain. I like to think we all possess some of that inside all of us, but fear prevents us from letting it escape. Based on horrific stories like these, I can certainly see why!
We filed out of the museums silently as thunder rolled across the sky, making the cobblestone under us tremble.

“That was my tummy!” Ray announced. “I’m starved. Where’s a good place to eat around here?”

“I’ve got just the thing in mind!” Mom said. “It’s called the Clam Box. I saw this great piece on the Travel Channel about it a few months ago. It’s another twenty or so miles up the road, but it’ll be worth the wait.”
So we made our typical food pilgrimage in the footsteps of the travel guides before us. We studied their literature intensely so we would look more prepared than the average tourist when we arrived. But the Clam Box differed than some of the other gourmet icons of previous states’ folklore. For starters, it was in the middle of nowhere, out in the boondocks of Ipswich, MA. However, this middle-of-nowhere feel is unique to driving in New England. On one hand, it felt like I was driving to sleep-away camp on an endless road canopied by low-hanging trees, containing no semblance of civilization. Meanwhile, we would zoom by these brown signs, ravaged by the storms of a hundred winters, reminding us of this “middle of nowhere’s” historical significance: Ipswich, MA: The Birthplace of American Independence, est. 1687. (Wow, I wonder how many towns around here are making that claim! I thought it was just the birthplace of fried clams.)

We eventually arrived at what appeared to be a crooked parking lot with an oversized restaurant take-out box as the landmark. The corners of the roof opened up like an open box as though to suggest that the clams came into their kitchen like precipitation from a drunken sky.

This place was a claustrophobic’s worst nightmare: a small cramped space with clusters of undecided people sweating and shouting out numbers for meal combos, trying to be heard over the shrill circus bustle. There were easily more than fifty people packed into this order line that was not much larger than your average elevator. I became engrossed in the wallpaper of newspaper articles doting about the simple brilliance of this place and the immense satisfaction it brought to its patrons.

“Whoever traveled the fah-thest to be here can skip to the fronta da line!” the cashier piped.

“Sweet Home, Oregon!” I heard George yell and assume his victory at the head of the line. That meant we had to make a decision fast. “Whaddya kids want?”

“Clams!” I threw out my response without thinking. It seemed like the natural thing to get here.

“Side item?”

“Clams!” I yelled again.

“Clams with a side of clams then!” was George’s barking order to the stressed out and frustrated cashier.

Ask and you shall receive, George Rehnquist. Minutes later, we were bombarded with a heaping mountain of golden fried Ipswich clams, accessorized only by a smaller side portion of crispy-coated, squishy-bottomed fried clams.

Clam lovers of the world, unite! This is the Champagne of Clams.

As we wolfed down the deliciousness, paying no mind to napkin or calorie intake, we overheard a group of middle-aged Midwestern men chatting casually of Clam Box trivia.

“…It’s like the Champagne region of France,” I heard one guy say in between chomps. “You can have sparkling wine anywhere, but it’s not the best unless it’s true champagne from Champagne. Same with clams—only Ipswich clams can call themselves Ipswich clams.”

I stared admiringly at the tentacle-looking sea creature drenched in batter before me. “Bon appetit!”

No one had really forgiven George yet for last night’s incident. It was easier to forgive Ben since we were saying goodbye to him. But George’s sentence of punishment could last the whole trip and the rest of our lives if we demanded it.

An ambient radio broadcast of college football played on the radio as we drove north of Ipswich. I think Boston College was losing to some team, but I don’t know. There are too many colleges to keep track of! We were all rapt with the scenery outside.

Surprisingly, I was the first to break the silence as we rounded up near Swampscott. “George, I found a way you can make it up to us for the atrocities you committed last night.”

“Oh?” he said, bored. “I wasn’t really looking for a way. I still think it’s hilarious.”

“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, we should move to Massachusetts,” I announced. “This is where it’s at.”

George chuckled. “Oh, Ami. And just what is this proverbial Holy Grail of it you’ve been looking for that seems to be located precisely in this state?”

“It. Everything. Cool city, great food, beaches, snow, culture, people, colleges, sports, history, foliage, nature…” I trailed off. “The good life.”

“We’re just barely halfway through all the states in the union! We’ve still got a whole lot of America to see, dear, so sit tight.”

“Speaking of that, which state’s next, Daddio?” Ray asked.

We had adjusted our route so many times that no one really knew where the heck we were going next anymore. The original itinerary had been crumpled, scratched out, and ripped so many times throughout the course of the year that it looked like a dog’s breakfast as it gathered dust on the wide horizon of the Falcon dashboard.

Being in New England put us in a unique situation where we could fashion our route in a number of different ways. New Hampshire might be the obvious next choice, but we decided to hold out and hit that on the way back from Maine.

“Vermont!” George announced. “I’ve got a hankering for some maple syrup.”

I started to inch back myself. My lips, numb from fear, struggled to produce words but my voice was now absent, having descended into the lowest caverns of my body, away from the threatening outside.

Instead, I just hiccupped in response. Finally, after a long pause, we were back in business and I managed to speak again. “What… do… you… want?”

“A one hundred dollar bill,” the voice responded. It seemed muffled this time, almost as if it were trying to ward off unwanted laughter.

“That’s not much of a ransom,” I heard Glenda whisper to Mom. “I guess this guy hasn’t researched the inflation rates of the 21st century.”

“Silence!” the voice yelled. “I want to see a picture of Benjamin Franklin!”

Glenda spoke again, this time louder. Her fear seemed to be subsiding, which was comforting to me. It helped me to realize just how silly all this actually was. “Odd,” she muttered. “He pre-dates Ben Franklin by a century or so.”

Just then, the laughter erupted like stew oozing from a boiling cauldron. It sounded like two grown men chuckling boisterously. I saw George and Ben’s silhouetted figures leap out from behind the statue into the yard.

“Fools!” Ben shouted. “Fearsome fools, all of you!”

“We caught you!” George fired. As he stepped into the light, I saw his face was bright red and tears ran down his cheeks with laughter.

Glenda was the first to react verbally. “Ben, how dare you orchestrate such tomfoolery?”

“How could we not? It was too easy,” Ben responded playfully. I smelled stale beer and honey mustard on his breath. “We wanted to keep it going, but George here was about to have a heart attack.”

“Christopher George Rehnquist, just what is the matter with you?” Mom rebuked. “You scared your wife and your children!” She paused to push him slightly forcefully into a tree. “And your paid tutor!”

“Don’t call me Christopher,” he interrupted as he shook himself upright. “And besides, I didn’t scare all of you. Ray was in on it the whole time, right, buddy?”

Ray slapped him high-five. “Yeah, that was awesome! But the hundred dollar bill thing was kinda stupid. I thought you were going to ask Ami for her first born child?”

“We decided that was a little much,” Ben said with a shrug.

I gasped. “You guys are pure evil!”

“Hey, now, we didn’t even get any money out of the thing. So don’t get all bent out of shape about it. We’re just having a little fun.” George put his hands up as if to showcase his innocence.

“Anyway, we thought it would be a nice way for you to remember me by,” Ben explained, his voice softening, “since you’re leaving town tomorrow. I’ve really enjoyed spending the last few weeks with you here. Boston and I will miss you crazy people.”

“Come to Salem with us!” Ray pleaded.

Ben shook his head solemnly. “I can’t. Ben Franklin isn’t nearly as relevant in Salem. The place for me is here.”

We all sighed and were wrapped in a semi-awkward group hug when a bunch of drunken college students ran past us in a frenzy yelling something about needing “more kegs.” It certainly killed the mood a little bit.

We left Boston the next morning in a sleep-deprived stupor. We packed up our things from Ben’s place and loaded them into the RV with minimal communication. Everyone was pretty sad to leave this wonderful city. I think everyone except Mom and I felt the pang of melancholy because they would be missing Ben. But I’ll be missing the city of Boston, an urban wonderland of sailboats and seafood, encased in truffles of American history and the pinnacle of New England charm.

To make leaving even harder, Boston just had to be dressed up in its late summer’s finest attire: a coat of cloudless blue skies and warm sunshine that didn’t dare heat a tick past 75 degrees, steered by a calm ocean-inspired breeze wafting from the harbor.

Jeez, give it a rest, buddy. You were a big deal way back when, but now you’re kind of washed up. You’re probably like a B or C-list celebrity now, compared to Brangelina and the Royal Couple.

However, when Benny actually steps off his own pedestal, he certainly does know a thing or two about Boston. He took us to his parents’ grave site in Granary Burying Ground, which happens to be the oldest cemetery in the country. It’s also the final resting place of Samuel Adams, John Hancock, and all of the victims of the Boston Massacre. Weird thing is, the location of the tombstones don’t actually coincide with the bodies themselves anymore because of years of landscaping and re-design. That means if you try to follow the old courtesy rule of stepping around the gravestones, chances are you’re probably still stepping on some dead people. I apologize to any of the deceased whose eternal slumber I may have mildly interrupted. Please don’t haunt me. I’ve got enough Facebook-stalking mortals to threaten my sanity as it is!

Speaking of haunting, Boston is heavily populated with historical ghouls, according to Ben. He assumed Ray and I would be scared of ghosts, so he tried multiple times to creep us out with ghost stories as we sauntered along Boston Common or through the halls of King’s Church. We just kept saying, “Prove it! Prove it!” to the point of borderline jeering. It was kind of annoying, I’m embarrassed to admit.

And it got to him. He went from Poor Richard’s Almanack to Crabby Ben’s Out-of-Wack in a matter of three or four rounds of “Prove it!” It seemed like something just wasn’t quite right anymore.

The first “incident” occurred when we went to tour Harvard in Cambridge the second weekend we were in town. We ate cheap Mexican food at a place called Border Café in Harvard Square. Mom had a few more margaritas than she should have and was having a grand old time while the rest of us watched with contempt as she made a fool of herself dancing in the street.

We walked right past an ancient-looking movie theater that seemed like it would have been in operation during Ben’s colonial days. I saw Deathly Hallows on the marquee and cried, “Let’s go!”

“HARRY POTTER!” Ray yelled. “I’m there!”

George rolled his eyes. “Harry Potter is so juvenile. I can’t believe they’re still making those films.”

“Yeah, there have already been more movies out than the Star Wars trilogy,” I quipped. “What say you about J.K. Rowling’s obvious triumph over the George Lucas enterprise?”

George rolled his eyes. “Please don’t waste my time, Ami. Lucas has the decency to quit while he’s ahead. Anyway, I certainly won’t be joining you for this tomfoolery tonight.”

Ben used this opportunity to isolate George. I was immediately skeptical of this. He hadn’t said a word during dinner, except to order more Sam Adams summer ales periodically.

“Hey-o, George, there’s a great brew house nearby called John Harvard’s. What would you say to some brews there?” Ben suggested, nudging George’s shoulder.

George was engrossed in the spectacle before him. Mom was in the midst of trying to buy a newspaper from a guy who didn’t speak any English at the news stand. Like any good ignorant American, she raised her voice with the logic that an increase in her volume would increase his comprehension.

Without turning to Ben, he agreed. “I’d like to have a couple to catch up to Ellie here.”

Since when did my parents become such vehement alcoholics?

There was an awkward moment as we waited for my mom to get a hold of herself and warn George not to squander his money on beer. Glenda and I exchanged worried looks, while Ray giggled at her expense. She was singing a mixed-up version of the song “I Will Survive” and paying no mind to any of us. She had a rolled up Boston Globe positioned as her microphone.

“Alright, Ben, let’s go,” George said hurriedly.

With that, he followed Mr. Franklin down Massachusetts Avenue toward John Harvard’s. Glenda initially sped up to join them, but they quickly made it clear that this was an “old guys night out” type of thing.

She turned back to us and shrugged. “Well, I didn’t read the last three books, but I suppose you can fill me in, right, Ami?”

“Of course!” I exclaimed. This not only meant that she was going to the movies but also that she was paying, which was great since Mom seemed a bit incapacitated at the moment.

“Ma, you coming or are you just gonna give a free show out here all night?” Ray asked as he tugged her purse strap. She was still singing, but softer now.

Mom finally acknowledged us. She caught the judgment on Glenda’s face and the impatience in Ray’s eyes. “Yes, yes. I love Harry Houdini. Let’s go!”

Walking out of the theater almost three hours later, our roles had virtually switched. This time I had befallen the enchantment of some mind-altering substance: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, part 2. I was in a swirled stupor of mixed emotions: a fusion of glee at the magic and majesty of the final chapter coupled with the deep sadness you probably feel when you graduate high school or bury your childhood dog… “it’s the end of an era.”

Mom’s inebriation had worn off, solidified by her loud snoring during the movie. Glenda asked Ray dozens of questions during the movie, thinking his little peanut brain had actually digested any of those books. Ray tricked her and just made up responses to all of her plot-developing questions. I didn’t even notice later that she kept on referring to Draco Malfoy as the third cousin of Snape, who is actually Hermione’s father. I didn’t bother to correct her errors, since she would likely forget by the next morning anyway.

Glenda checked her cell phone for any missed calls from Ben. Mom checked hers for any from George. No on both fronts.

“Where are they?” Glenda asked with the tone of an overprotective mother whose children were out past curfew. “It’s after ten o’clock!”

“Now, Glenda, let them be! We spend too much time together with them anyway!” Mom didn’t seem to mind his absence at all. This worried me a bit. “What’s there to do around here?”

“Yay, late night adventure!” Ray shouted. “BOSTON PARTY!”

“You mean Boston Tea Party,” Glenda said with a wagged finger.

“Nah, I don’t really like tea.” Ray made a disgusted face. Suddenly, his expression switched to its typical childlike wonderment. “Let’s go there!” He pointed to a large collection of ivy-clad brick buildings draped under sweeping oaks, encased by collegiate gates.

“HARVARD!” I announced, awaking from my post-Potter depression.

Mom groaned. “Snooty kids with bank accounts larger than their IQ’s reading dusty old books in a library and thinking the world owes something to them. Been there, done that.”

I stared at her in shock. I had never heard such bitterness from her directed at Ivy Leaguers.

“Oh! Let’s go close their books in their faces and blow a cloud of dust on them!” Ray cried. “I call science nerds!”

I envisioned the library to look like Hogwarts and every boy there to look like Ron Weasley. It sounded like a great idea to me.

We walked across Harvard Yard, which already felt a little spooky because it was so deserted. The wind howled, as if on cue. The famous yard, well-known for its inability to house cars, was really just a wide open green space surrounded by dormitories, classroom buildings, and the enormous Widener Library.

Glenda, of course, had an aquifer of dormant knowledge she was dying to divulge about Harvard. When we got to the statue of John Harvard, she told us to rub his left shoe for good luck. She told us that millions of aspiring Harvard students visit each year in hopes that a simple rub of the toe or kiss of the heel will secure their admission into the prestigious university.

The ghostly John Harvard statue who will yell at you if you call him a liar.

This proved to be true, considering the fact that his left shoe looked especially worn and tarnished compared to his right one.

“So that’s why it’s called Harvard,” Ray said, reading the statue’s inscription: John Harvard, Founder. “Why can’t these dudes come up with more creative names instead of just naming it after themselves?”

“Actually,” said Glenda as she prepared to launch into a verbal paragraph ripped from a guidebook. “this statue represents the three lies of Harvard. The statue is not actually of John Harvard but instead of just a 19th-century student there who sat for the sculpture at the time. And even so, John Harvard didn’t found Harvard. He was just someone who gave a lot of money to the university back in its inception. Finally, it wasn’t founded in 1638; it was founded in 1636.

“Wow, what liars!” Ray shouted.

Suddenly, a low rumble shook the ground under our feet. It was almost like the scene in Aladdin when the old man touches the jewel and the Cave of Wonders is about to collapse.

“Who are you calling a liar, young man?” bellowed a deep voice coming from somewhere near the statue.

Ray looked at me and then looked at Mom, who up until this point had shown little to no interest in anything on campus. His lip quivered. “M-M-M-Mom!”

At first I assumed it was some socially deprived Harvard student looking to get a rise out of tourists on his way back from the library. So I played along.

“Ray, I believe Mr. Harvard just asked you a question. Don’t be rude. Answer it.”

Ray ran over to Mom and hugged her waist. They started to inch away from the statue. This left me and Glenda within closest proximity to the spooky, inquisitive statue.

“You stand on my property and insult my institution!” the voice thundered, this time seemingly louder than the first.

No one said anything for several eternal seconds.

“He’s just a kid,” Glenda pleaded as she did the sign of the cross. “Have mercy on his soul!” She jogged back toward Mom and Ray and they huddled to form a human shield.

That left me at the mercy of this pissed off ghost statue with mismatched shoes, erroneous inscriptions, and a serious identity crisis. No, thank you.

Slowly, I came to a realization that this could very well be a revenge-seeking specter, just waiting to destroy a herd of tourists who insult his statue late at night. After all, Ben is always telling stories of the haunted streets of Boston. What could be more haunted than the oldest university in the country?

Stay tuned for the nail-biting conclusion to our Cambridge ghost story…

I don’t quite know what it is, or how the magical history and charm of this city enchanted me so aggressively and irrevocably as it did when we first hopped off the Blue line from the Airport on that breezeless summer day last week. We had to park the RV in a long-term lot at Logan Airport. It was a pretty penny, but there was no way we were hauling that beast into Boston Proper. So that’s what led us to jump on the airport shuttle that took us to the Airport T stop on the blue line that ultimately took us to the Aquarium stop, which found us at the breathtaking Boston Harbor.

Yes, this is the same harbor that those crazy colonists dumped all that tea into so many years ago! We chose to recreate that historic act by sipping on some strawberry-chocolate tea from a local coffee chain called Peet’s. Ray violently splashed some on me, and shook my cup over the harbor in a provocative, “come-on-what-are-you-going-to-do-about-it” gesture. I can only imagine the colonists used the same tantalizing tactics of mind control.

“Kids, come on,” George whined as he nudged us in the direction of the New England Aquarium. “Quit your horseplay. I want to see the penguins! There are 88 of them!”

“That’s too many penguins,” Ray said matter-of-factly but still handed over my drink in defeat.

“I didn’t know there was such a thing,” George replied. “Rick Steves says this is a must-see in Boston!” Rick Steves has been the unofficial sixth member of our Rehnquist clan as of late. My father uses his guidebooks as his compass, companion, and concierge.

I rolled my eyes to play up my teenage angst, a silent protest of how I’m just “too cool” for such a ridiculous attraction. “I want to go to go see Paul Revere’s house. I heard you can still hear his cries at midnight.”
“We’re going to be in that part of town tomorrow for the Fourth of July stuff,” Mom reminded us. She was consulting her map as well.

Glenda laughed. “This ain’t New York City. We could be in that part of town in a 10-minute walk. That’s why Boston is called the Walking City!”

“Oh, I thought it was called that because of the big marathon here,” I admitted.

“I thought it was called Beantown because people farted a lot here,” Ray snickered.

I could strange him. I really and truly could. Instead, I grilled him with my famous Amidala death stare, hoping I could force-choke him like Vader.

No such luck. He continued to giggle like a schoolgirl.

“You can take duck tours here!” Mom exclaimed as she leafed through the guidebook. “We didn’t get to do that in Pittsburgh. Whadya say? We can pick one up here.”

“Now, Ellie, the last time I rode on the back of a duck… things got ugly,” he chuckled.

After another romping round of corny banter, Mom finally got her way for once and we boarded an amphibious vehicle called a ‘duck boat.’ Ours was named Fenway Fanny. All of the current tour boats were used as cargo units during World War II so that the allies could have a way of transporting men and cargo to and fro dock facilities that had been destroyed or had never existed.

A duck's eye view of the Prudential Center in Boston, MA

The duck tour, as cheesy as it may be, was a great introduction to Boston. We started off cruising up and down the city’s main streets, bypassing the landmarks along the Freedom Trail, and hearing a multitude of Boston trivia along the way. For example, Dunkin Donuts is headquartered in Canton, MA. This means Bostonians are blessed to have a Dunkin Donuts on every single block. In the itty-bitty state of Massachusetts, there are more than 300 DD’s. Our tour guide joked that locals tend to give directions by DDs rather than streets. For example: “So you go down about four Dunkins and then make a left. Go down another mile ‘til you see the Dunkin’ on your right and then go left.”

For the skeptics out there, check out this Google maps screen shot. All those red dots are sprinkles on the massive doughnut-filled landmass that is the commonwealth.

After returning to the harbor, George dragged us into the aquarium to catch the penguins. However, after looking at the price and calculating how much we’d already just blown on the duck tour, we decided to just use the bathroom in the aquarium and catch the penguins some other time.

We walked across the street to the Faneuil Hall Marketplace, which is home to a lot of great stores and restaurants, including a vertical food court that seems to span for a mile long. It also has one of the not-so-original Cheers bar, which is the set bar designed to look exactly like it did on the show. I’m not a fan of Cheers, but I thought it was the place “where everybody knows your name.” I walked in there to get a soda and I was deeply disappointed when the bartender didn’t say, “Here ya go, Ami!” Talk about false advertisement.

The city was abuzz with patriotic activity, and we seemed to be at the apex of it. Street performers did an alternative rap to “America the Beautiful” as one guy drummed violently on a pot. Uncle Sam towered over us in stilts, terrorizing the children in his path. Ben Franklin approached Glenda, asking if she needed a Ben Franklin impersonator for any of her parties or gatherings. The two of them hit it off remarkably well, and I’m pretty sure I even saw a subtle exchange of business cards. Bow-chick-a-wow-wow.

Uncle Sam gave George directions to the rest of the Freedom Trail, which is marked by a thick red line that stretches for three miles around the city along a historic route of the American Revolution. Faneuil Hall is a little less than the halfway point, so we could take it in either direction.

Ben Franklin came along with us for some of it, as we headed toward Boston Common. I know he only followed us because he was in relentless pursuit of Glenda, who was conveniently playing hard-to-get for old Benny boy, but it was incredibly informative to have him come along. He never broke character once and delighted us with all kinds of historical truffles along the way. He pointed out the Old Statehouse, where a Thomas Jefferson character reads the Declaration of Independence from a balcony each Independence Day.

The balcony overlooks the site of the Boston Massacre, which is actually nothing more than a traffic median in this millennium. It’s not even officially marked to boast its place in the history books! What’s more is the basement of the Old Statehouse has been converted into a T station on the orange line. I guess even the country’s arguably most historic city can’t preserve everything!

We ended the day with a sunset stroll in Boston Common. Ben and Glenda were getting pretty cozy on a bench, arguing playfully about taxation without representation. Glenda always did love to play the role of a loyalist when the time called for it.

The four of us sat nearby at the famous Frog Pond, which is converted into an ice skating rink for almost half of the year. During the summer, it’s a small watery playground for kids. We watched as toddlers and puppies ran through the fountains without a care in the world.

I was locked in the moment and couldn’t think of any place else I would rather be. Nowhere else in all of our travels has captivated me in the way Boston has drawn me in so far. I may detest clam chowder, but I still felt like a part of me belonged to the city. I still can’t tell you why, but I’ll spend the rest of the visit trying to figure that out.

With the fawning attentiveness of a parent, George immediately picked up on my quiet reflective moment and seized the chance to interrupt it.

“So, Amster, whadya think of the trip so far?” George asked solemnly. “Have I done right by you?”

I looked up at him with the awestruck eyes of a child. “Dad, at this point I’m beginning to think that despite all of your wacko decisions, you can do no wrong.”

He slid his fist toward his chest in silent celebration. Then he yelled, “Thank you, Rick Steves!”

The water fires were spectacular, enchanting, mesmerizing and more than anything else –- entertaining. After napping into a full-on coma, we all crawled out of bed, gasping for water. We sent Ray to grab a bucket of ice, and we all drank water from the faucet out of the little hotel cups.

Word from the wise: Since Providence is an old colonial city, the infrastructure is very old, and therefore the water tastes like rusty pipes. So, just be prepared if you drink the tap water. But, I’ll take a beautiful city over tasty water any day. That’s what bottled water is for anyway!

The four of us got out of the hotel once again, and luckily because of the prime location, we didn’t have to walk more than five minutes to be in the heart of the festivities.

The water fires are simply breath taking. I can’t imagine finding anything quite like it anywhere else. Buckets of wood centered throughout the river are set on fire, sending the most lovely scents of oak, eucalyptus, or maybe even walnut in the skies of Providence, fermenting all attendees. The fires must have gone through the river for a mile. It was almost like I had entered a dream world with loud dramatic music playing as couples romanced on the river’s walls and banks, and young children laughed beside their parents.

You could even take gondolas rides, just like in Venice. I will surely come back for this one day with Mr. Right.

We walked away from the river where the international food stalls were set up. We perused, and then took a family vote, which concluded in us grabbing some Indian food.The samosa, from the Indian stall, was something I would say is: India’s gift to the world. Ha-ha. The samosa was filled with delicious peas, potatoes, cilantro with scents and flavors of coriander, cumin and cayenne. This was definitely a high point of the trip thus far.

So after that, we were pooped and didn’t even try to stay out for the street party filled of people dancing to salsa music. George was surprisingly into it though. He asked Mom to stay out with him, but she and Ray were still feeling a little down after the weenas. I guess the samosa was not for everyone as well – to each his own.

The next morning we woke up at 8a.m., and George called the car shop. The RV was still getting worked on and wouldn’t be fixed until later today. So we rented a car from the hotel and headed for Newport.

The drive to Newport was picturesque; it was just one bridge after another, vineyards and fields along with many nice waterfront homes. We went on a mansion tour of the Breakers, the original home (actually summer home) of the Vanderbilt family.As soon as we entered the mansion, Ray and I were a little bored. A lot of lavish tapestries and uncomfortable-looking furniture does not impress me in a home. We wanted to see some of our outdoor surroundings, even though the giant oiled canvases, breathtaking views, and gold ballroom ceilings were great and all.

Unfortunately, we didn’t have much time in Newport because George was concerned about the RV, and he doesn’t trust mechanics. Just to clarify, it’s not the RV he is really concerned about, it’s his stash of Star Wars memorabilia hidden underneath the floorboards of the RV.

The 40 Steps Cliff Walk at Narragansett Avenue, Newport. Beware of the misnomer, there are actually 48 steps!

So we went to the 40 Steps, which is an awesome cliff walk on the edges of Newport’s cliffs. On the way down, I actually took a count of my own, and it’s not really 40 steps– it’s 48 steps. Once you get to the bottom, it’s a beautiful view of ocean and miles of Newport’s gorgeous coastline. The scenery there is something I didn’t know existed in the US. I always figured you had to go to the coastal plains of Ireland to find a view like this.

We went off course a bit and traveled along the rugged three-mile Cliff Walk, passing a couple familiar mansions along the way. The Cliff Walk was specked with caves that made my imagination go crazy. I can only imagine the crusty old pirates that once found refuge in these caves!

After the cliff walk we rewarded ourselves with dessert at the New England famed Newport Creamery! This small spot is in both Rhode Island and Massachusetts, and after eating there once I can say: I hope we stop by another in Massachusetts tomorrow. The place offers a full-diner selection of food and desserts. We weren’t quite hungry for dinner, so I just got an Awful Awful. You heard right! Once I got one slurp in my mouth, I realized the name is simply the opposite of the taste. An Awful Awful is a milkshake-ice cream hybrid that can easily replace any meal. I guess you could call it an ice cream drink. My waitress, Betsy, said it’s a blend of flavored syrup, milk, and a secret frozen ice-milk mix. I would love to get that secret mix, so I could make these at home. There were more than 15 flavors– and you can mix them too! So the possibilities are endless.

Well now, I am once again filled by the wondrous foods of Rhode Island. I can’t imagine what’s for dinner. I am excited, but not sure if my stomach can handle it. I hear the clam chowder in Massachusetts will be a great addition to my New England menu so far. See you there!

Rhode Island is something I could never understand growing up. I always guessed there were many roads connecting to islands in the small state. Lucky for us, George reminded Mom and I of the controversy last year, when people in Congress wanted to change the name of the state because it’s actually named “Rhode Island and Providence Plantations,” and the word “plantation” surfaced rotten memories of slavery and the Civil War era, which was rampant in RI at the time. RI eventually saved face and ended up being one of the major hubs for the Underground Railroad as well.

Although I do like staring out the window during these long trips, today we just drove 30 minutes past the border of Rhode Island, directly into the capitol city of Providence, which turns out to be one of the more colonial-looking cities we’ve come across. It looks like how I would imagine Washington, D.C. and Boston to look.

A beautiful summer day in Providence

Since the beginning of this trip, George has been mentioning to mom these things called the “water fires.” Supposedly it is a pretty common activity for Rhode Islanders, where the Providence River, which runs throughout downtown Providence, is set on fire and actors perform Shakespeare in the streets for all pedestrians to view. Not to mention, food vendors set up shop along the street selling various foods from across the globe. Well, I imagine I’ll talk more about that after I attend tonight.

George and Mom decided to get the RV checked as to prevent any future problems. So, we pulled up to a hotel, The Westin, which we bid on Priceline for and paid only $80 a night. What a steal! It was in the center of the city. The city was vibrant with liveliness because people were arriving to see the cities river set on fire later tonight. I have to say this was one of the most decadent hotels I’ve ever been in, and for the price I don’t think there’s much more one could ask for.

So we ran in and dropped off our things. As soon as I laid on the big fluffy bed, Mom yelled at me to not get too cozy because George was hungry.

Little did I know that in RI, hotdogs are called wieners, and with a traditional Rhode Island accent it is pronounced “weeeenas,” which truly hurts my ears. That explains why George kept saying he wanted to try the “weeeenas” right next to me ear all morning. After two times, I wanted to smack him.

So we find out there is a legendary place called New York System in a neighborhood called Olneyville, which our cute bell boy Robbie (said on his badge) told us about. The only problem was: This Olneyville happened to be a kind of rough area, according to Robbie. But, of course my family decided a couple wieners were worth the possibility of getting mugged or worse, so we went for it.

We finally got to NY System after traveling the wrong way down not one, but two, one-way streets. We arrived to what looked like a hole-in-the-wall with a big sign reading “Olneyville N.Y. System, R.I’s Best Hot Wieners, Hot Wiener Sauce Spice Mix.” So with no shame or worries, my family walked in the doors only to be greeted by some tattooed, tough looking folks.

The man greeted us kindly and asked what we would like immediately. He suggested we get our hot dogs “all the way,” which included ketchup, mustard, onions, relish, chili and the special sauce. We cautiously ordered one each.

As soon as we ordered, the same man that took our order started stacking hot dog buns, or shall I say “wiener buns,” to the top of his arm almost touching his armpit. Then he tossed the wieners into the buns and started splashing the various toppings all over the hot dogs – spilling bits and pieces of the relish on the ground. Looking at the crowd sitting at the tables and the men behind the counter, there was no complaining about sanitary regulations, so we went with it. Then I ordered one of RI’s most common beverages, coffee-milk. Lucky for us, coffee-milk was on tap and there were free refills! It was delicious. I think I might be hooked on coffee now.

To make a long story short, we went back up to the counter multiple times to order more wieners. Finally, all of our stomachs were full and food was practically pouring out of our mouths while Ray was fast asleep. So, we decided to leave the place. To be honest, it was difficult to move. I wanted to go in a food coma right away.

Throughout the two-hour lunch or early dinner, I kept looking at Ray sleeping with drool coming out of his mouth in the red color of ketchup. I begged mom to clean it off his face. She refused, and it ended up making me absolutely ill.

On the way out, the large bearded man by the counter recognized that we were not from around here, so he asked George for feedback in regards to the wieners. George was a little delirious and caught off-guard, so he responded with the one thing he knew best by saying, “They look like lightsabers, so I loved them!” The guys behind the counter looked at us as all of our jaws dropped to the ground.

The burly, now sweating man, simply said, “Right on, thanks for stopping by!”

Between the hustle through Olneyville and eating till our bursting point, we had become extremely tired, so we retreated to our castle-like hotel in the safer side of town to freshen up, take a nap, and get ready for the water fires – if we make it. From the way everyone looks and how I feel right now, I wouldn’t be surprised if we slept until tomorrow.

One last thing, it’s been bothering me all day, and I was too afraid to ask the gruff gentlemen at NY System, but why is RI’s self-proclaimed “best wiener” spot named after the state of New York?

Anything one could possibly want to learn about ships and sailing could probably be found in that place. It was enormous. We were greeted by massive ship restorations, architectural drawings of ship plans, and collections of artifacts. We scoped out some of the exhibits, but the coolest attractions were all of the hands-on activities. Let’s just say Ray was in all his glory the entire time pretending he was starring in Pirates of the Caribbean. But this picturesque port town was nothing like the Caribbean.

We eventually split up so Mom and I could walk through the recreated 19th-century village. While Mom investigated the map to figure out how to get there, I checked my phone anxiously. I still had not heard from Marc. Doesn’t he know that you can’t let a girl linger over a text for so long? But, as my phone had been silenced in the museum, I did have a text that I had not seen. Drumroll, please.

Marc: Enough to break the ice!

Cute. But I needed a swift reply.

Me: Did you have to Google the punch line to your own joke?

I was satisfied with my own reply. A little bit of attitude can’t hurt.

“How cool is this, Ami? A 19th century maritime town!” Mom exclaimed, trying to get me into it. I was into it plenty, but in comparison to the historians, musicians, and storytellers around me, my face must have looked pretty expressionless. They were so incredibly into their characters. I liked that all the women were wearing hoop skirts. You could fit a whole family under one! The buildings we walked through were real buildings transported from different places around New England. I don’t really understand how that works, but that’s pretty cool!

When we tired of parading through the past, we met up with George and Ray at the Charles W. Morgan exhibit. This is more than just an exhibit- it is the last wooden whaleship in the world!

“Ahoy me hearties!” a scruffy man gruffed as he appeared from nowhere. “Welcome aboard!”

He helped us climb up onto the ship where we joined a dozen other families watch some of the restoration process. We learned about tools and skills they use to make sure progress on a huge beauty like this. George and Ray bombarded the captain with questions, and Mom and I wandered around reading blurbs of information and watching the men at work. They were restoring the ceiling with long planks from what I was told, but it was simply too much for me to wrap my head around. When George suggested we go take a boat tour neither mom nor I hesitated. Ray was a bit harder to convince, calling us “landlubbers,” which apparently means a clumsy person who does not know how to sail.

It was a gorgeous day to be out on the water. We went for a tour on the Sabino, a 56-foot steamboat that is the last remaining wooden, coal-fired steamboat in operation in the U.S. It is one of the only national landmarks you can ride on! We cruised along the Mystic River in this piece of history built in 1908. That’s pretty crazy if you think about it! Our guide pointed our mansions with elegant wrap around porches (Mom’s favorite), shipwrecks, and ships in progress. I snapped away with my Polaroid and got a shot taken of the whole family with the captain. I didn’t get the memo that we were making pirate faces for the picture, and so it turned out looking like I’ve been held hostage by pirates.

Behold the Mystic Drawbridge in action! The ice cream shop is right at the end of the drawbridge; this was our view.

Our adventure in Mystic was definitely not as relaxing as Hartford. We did a ton of walking. We eventually made our way down the main drag to Mystic Pizza, a family owned restaurant that opened in the early 1970s. Hollywood came knocking on their door wanting to film a major motion picture in the ’80s. Mystic Pizza was released in 1988, and ever since then their business has been booming. But I can surely tell you that it can’t be just because of the movie hype. The pizza was out of this world. We ordered two large pies and they were gone so fast. Mom wasn’t much of a help though. The lobby and restaurant were filled with news clips and running footage of Julia Roberts starring in Mystic Pizza. Needless to say she didn’t sit still much. No article escaped her as she read her way through the lobby. When she came back and joined us, she was all smiles.

“I would love to meet Julia Roberts,” Mom said randomly, as if speaking her dreams out loud. We all chuckled. She was acting so loopy.

When the waitress came to see how we were doing, Mom perched on the edge of her seat and said to her, “You know what I wonder?”

The waitress, unsure of whether she was speaking to her, replied with a nonverbal, inquisitive look.

“What the hell do you think Leona really puts in that pizza?” She burst out laughing, and none of us got it except the waitress. Apparently it’s one of the last lines of the movie or something.

Gasping for breath, Mom said, “I know, I know, I am probably not the first person to have said that.” But she was clearly so satisfied with herself and it made me so happy. I guess it’s the little things in life..

The waitress simply smiled and handed us the check.

As if we weren’t full enough from our delicious meal, we stopped at an ice cream place recommended to us by a museum employee called Mystic Drawbridge Ice Cream. It was literally right next to the Mystic Drawbridge which made for a nice backdrop as we ate our treats outside. Ray wouldn’t keep quiet, recapping the day and detailing which ships were his favorite. He had retained a lot from the exhibits and was now clearly an expert. When the bell rang for the bridge to go up I think he almost peed in his pants it scared him so much. I thought it was so elegant. It had such a unique charm to it. Connecticut was definitely full of character in a way I hadn’t imagined. Who knows, maybe one day I will be the one to own a summer home up in CT!