My wife and I found ourselves driving 20 hours east this October to celebrate her younger sister’s marriage in Boston. Personally, this was exciting on a few counts. First, I’m a total grandma when it comes to marriage . . . I urge almost every young man or woman in my orbit who’s in a committed relationship to get married sooner than they think they should. (What are you going to learn in four years that you haven’t in one?)
Second, my wife, Em, who’s been dealing with chronic debilitating migraines for two and a half years, was feeling well enough to go as my eye-mask-wearing co-pilot — a major milestone on her return to normal life.
Third, and most selfishly, I had been at 40 out of 50 states visited for a number of years, and this trip promised an opportunity to check off three more (and states I had dreamt of visiting in the fall since having seen the east’s colors in a Windows XP background as a kid).
Boston underpromised and overdelivered. I had heard the traffic could be horrendous, the people cheerily abusive, and the weather variants of vile. What we received was an easy ride to Hotel Commonwealth, appreciation for “Baht Stahh” (Bart Starr, the Packer jersey I wore), and a month’s worth of sunshine.
With my wife happily occupied with her sister’s wedding prep, I was at liberty to get lost in Boston’s Back Bay. The Christian Science Plaza was quite the looker, with an infinity pool in the fore and Northeastern University’s columns like vertical blinds leading to the First Church of Christ, Scientist, and its gorgeous masonry and carved front doors.
West from there were the Back Bay Fens, where Canadian geese patrol as if they hadn’t heard the War of 1812 was done with.
Fenway Park comes out of nowhere, at least it seemed to me. One block behind a tiny gas station and here was one of baseball’s most storied properties. The Red Sox, having already exited from the playoffs, the stadium had the air of a former church that functions as an office building for alternative medicine. Kinda sad.
The highlight of the meanderings was the Boston Public Library, with its wrought-iron lamps at the entrance, its restful courtyard, and glorious frescoes. It’s one of those places where one can fully appreciate the power of words in their written and spoken form. John, writing that in the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God, would see that sentiment reflected in this library. The tea room is well worth a stop to sit and savor this worshipful place.
With the day advancing, I headed back to the hotel and put on the tuxedo I had bought in a panic three days prior (a man’s custom suits from his deployments to Thailand and Vietnam cease to fit as they did when he was 21 years old and 150 pounds . . . imagine that). The wedding took place at the Harvard Club, which was just a couple of blocks from Hotel Commonwealth. It was as posh as you might imagine, with wood paneling and leather covering just about anything that wasn’t sentient. I thought it might be little more than an upscaled Elks Lodge . . . not the case! The young couple was successfully married, and Grandma Luther spent the rest of the evening contentedly observing his wife dance and laugh in a way she hadn’t been able to in years. A good, good day.
The next morning, we were shooed out of the city by a stupendous downpour, and that was just the tone for driving into Maine. On the way there, we came across a DOT sign that not even boozy Wisconsin can boast — a state-operated liquor store benefitting New Hampshire. I felt compelled to stop and marvel at the shameless warehouse of sauce and sozzle. Note to other travelers: the bathrooms are not great, but the store is nevertheless fun to peruse.
From there we made good time to our accommodations just north of Belfast, Maine — Captain Nickels Inn, a bed and breakfast on the shoreline. Given the occasion, I sprang for the last, best room, the lighthouse suite on top of the inn. Equipped with a spiral staircase to the light, a private balcony looking over the 500-yard-long lawn that sloped down to the coastline, it was mint.
It was there, while Em recovered from the wedding excitement, that I learned my Grandpa Selle was likely to die in the next few days. It’s a rotten feeling being too far from home, and too needed where one is, and I’m grateful for family who knew what I was going through and urged us to continue our trip as planned. I was able to speak with Grandpa twice by phone, though given his catatonic state at the time, as his body warred with pneumonia sepsis, I won’t know in this life if he heard me. Wanting to get out and move around, and do what he and Grandma had done for their 63 years of marriage, I drove around and checked out the state parks.
Outside a park, there was a shot that I think captures the essence of Maine . . . a state full of cast-offs, eccentricities, and natural beauty.
I got as far as Fort Knox and the Penobscot Narrows Bridge Observatory. If you ever get the chance, the observatory is amazing. Built into one of the bridge towers, the lookout at the top is, according to the guide, one of only two in the world available to the general public. On a drizzly October day, the views were ravishing.
Em and I went out to dinner at Young’s Lobster Pound, where the Jamaican lobstermen and I gesticulated at one another until they understood my interest in a lobster roll and I understood that my order number was a completely arbitrary and hilarious 15,000. I said my last goodbyes and thank yous to Grandpa from their outdoor seating overlooking the harbor.
The next morning, we said our goodbyes to the Atlantic and headed inland to the New Hampshire and Vermont highways and byways. The roads were fabulous, our Acura gleefully diving into corners and leaping over rises. On the way, we got to visit the farmhouse of one of NR’s editors, who provided us with homemade soup and sandwiches for lunch, and we spent the night at another editor’s home in New York. Working at National Review is such a blessing . . . not only do I get to write and edit with the best, but they open their doors and larders to pilgrims passing through.
What a trip. What a time. What a land. New England, you magical, mercurial place.