Good people of Portland: you are punk. I have seen more tattoos in the past 24 hours than in my past 10 years in the U.S. Navy.
And some unusual daily drivers: a right-hand drive 1978 VW Beetle in bright orange; a 1974 Plymouth Fury; a 1961 Valiant.
This is a city with an edgy center, a bit of rock, a lot of roll. Who knew? I thought everyone here would be wearing duck boots and carrying a fishing pole. And with Alabama plates, I’m probably thought to be driving shoeless. So we’re even.
While here, I made new friends everywhere I went. Motorcycle dudes certainly like the old Cadillac. I think if I were driving an old Rolls Royce or a tattered old Packard, they might not give me a second glance. But the Cadillac, with its huge bullet bumpers (or “Dagmars”) and flashy chrome, gives even the most grizzled two-wheeler fan a moment of pause.
While I was in the Portland Starbucks, I noticed a rash of nicely-dressed (non-tattooed) people come into the store. And when I say “rash,” I mean hoard. About 100 people crammed in, all eager for some java. Each had name tags that said “Keep on the WATCH!”
What was it? Crime prevention? A lighthouse keeper convention? Maybe a group of timepiece enthusiasts?
Actually, it turned out to be a large gathering of Jehovah’s Witnesses. So between my latte and “Perfect Oatmeal,” I discussed some of life’s great questions with a J.W. named Rich. “Does God really care about us?” Yes. “Will war and suffering ever end?” Yes. “What happens when we die?” There’s hope.
These are not questions that I had intended to ponder over my venti latte, but I have to admit they’re certainly worth asking. Rich was a nice guy and I had some questions of my own for him.
“What do you drive now?” (a Lincoln Town Car)
“What kind of gas mileage do you get?” (about 24 on the highway)
“What’s the longest road trip you’ve taken?” (down to Florida)
By the end of our conversation, Rich was a convert to Motorpool and promised to check it out. Holy motor oil.
Rocking in Rockland
When I arrived in Rockland, Maine, the town was clearly in the midst of an open house for art galleries and museums. So I spent a very pleasant evening among stunning artwork, mostly of Maine’s rugged coast.
Rockland is a picturesque town. American flags flapped in the evening breeze. The local theatre had a line of folks waiting to buy tickets. A delicious meal of steamers at the charming restaurant, In Good Company, was the perfect ending to the day.
My hotel, the Island View Inn, was perfect. A beautiful and quaint spot, right on the water, had commanding views. http://www.islandviewinnmaine.com Given a room on the first floor, I settled in for an early night’s sleep. Having been kept up in Boston by the quarreling couple, I really wanted to catch up on some sleep. At 9:30 I opened the screen door to let in the fresh, crisp Maine air and closed my eyes for the night.
Thud! Huh? What was that? 9:35. I opened one eye.
Pitter-patter-pitter-patter. Small feet above my head scampered across the room. Then I heard the sound of running water. Hmm. Maybe the child was thirsty. Larger thuds now–must be the parents. I closed my eyes.
FIve minutes later: THUD! The child jumped off the bed with both feet. More pitter patter. Lots of pitter patter. What is that kid doing? Running laps? I glance at the clock: 9:40. Big thuds again. Louder parental voices. The child starts to cry. I close my eyes.
THUD! The child jumped off the bed with both feet (again). THUD! CLOMP! THUD! Is the Budweiser Clydesdale team upstairs? Argh. This continues for two more hours. I am fuming. Who allows their child to run around a hotel until 11:30 pm?
I call the manager. No answer. I call the emergency number. No answer. I call the new Hampton Inn two miles down the road. “David,” at the Hampton, tells me they have rooms available.
“If that kid jumps off the bed one more time” I say to David, I’m going to come see you.
Thankfully, the tot stays put. I fall asleep by 12:30.