I realize this isn’t well-written, but the point was ( and frankly is for all my blog posts) for me to let this out first, then revise it later. I promise, when it’s completely revise it will be so enjoyable, so well written you’ll all come on the trip with me….wow that was lame.
BY POPULAR DEMAND, THE ENTIRE TRIP TO NEW ENGLAND…..
Last night I returned from what was without a doubt one of the most fun, most eye-opening trips of my life— Backtracking a bit ,for the purposes of storytelling—As many know, for the past four months or so, I have felt gravely depressed and for the most part, very disconnected with my surroundings. School and work had begun to take a toll on my mental well-being and not in the way that it does to every college student, but in the way that I felt my life was at a stalemate, a complete stop. I had to do something big and with my cousin’s wedding steadily approaching, I decided I would make a trip out of the occasion and revisit New England the way it was meant to be, free from financial worry and in a way that opened my eyes to all that is to be seen in one of the nation’s top areas to visit.
Day 1- Newport’s son comes home
I wake up and grab a red bull, heading off to my Cost Accounting final for which I had studied my ass off for the past two nights. The test is non-cumulative and covers only a small number of concepts, Activity Based Costing, Balanced Scorecards and inventory costing methods are all I can think about. Little did I know this test would be one of my final accounting exams, one of the final straws that broke the camels back. I do pretty well on the test, which is being administered in a cramped faculty office in St. Pete, the professor literally watching every move, every bubbling and head scratch. I head home after the final, racing down first avenue towards the beach, heading off to throw my luggage into my sisters car, who is meeting me at the house. We ride off and I am so relieved that exams are over. I had spent the greater part of that month in an accounting bubble; ignoring so many rather tempting text messages on saturdays, spent day upon day in and out of libraries and cubicles, studying the vast terminology and best practices which now that I look back on it, led me to lose interest in the major. The real last straw would be earlier this year, where I sat in the first class and the professor informed us that we all had to learn a 300 page lawbook within a month. Needless to say, I lost the urge to be an accountant.
My sister’s car is for some strange reason, being driven by my dad to the airport. Everyone immediately begins fighting with each other, stirring up some awful yet memorable moments of those long station wagon car trips from my childhood. These trips, though despite taking us to amazing places like Montreal and NYC, were rattled with confrontation and for the purposes of me keeping my relatively healthy childhood at ease, should never be revisited. I do laugh at the classic “Before-a-big-trip-Abernathy-hostility” and for a brief moment, I am 12 years old. I feel like pulling my sisters hair or biting someone, just to mark the occasion. We arrive at the airport and stop at an everso placed, TGIFridays and immediately I drink three rounds, unwinding for the first time after leaving my” accounting bubble”. It did not taste good, but it really might have been the best drink I have ever had. We get on the plane and I start telling my family of my extravagant plans. “I’m gonna do blah blah” oh and stop off at “blah blah”, ideas and far fetched dreams escape me. “That’s not even In New England” my little sister points out , but I don’t care, I am overcome with energy and with a lot of hard earned money in my account and a brainful of memories, places and people to visit, I am dangerous; “reckless” if you will. I have been waiting for this trip for months, mapping out the places where I want to go, attempting to rejuvenate some of the long lost relationships. I order a jack and coke and fall in to a deep slumber, which is strange being the insominac I am and having never fallen asleep in a plane before. I wake up and watch a little Wall-E on my iPod, explaining to my sister the simple yet beautiful message in the film about how wasteful mankind is. “How old are you?” she asks pointing to her 23 yr old brother watching a pixar film. “I am a kid” I reply proudly. A kid on vacation.
We arrive at the airport and I am greeted by Ed and Nick of which I am reminded of an absurd amount of memories; the time Nick and I made the fire that almost engulfed a garage, the first time we ever hung out, the fact that Ed was the only friend we knew with a car at the age of 16 and though most of these cars were broke down jalopys, he was almost everyones sole means of transportation. The stories and memories pour out of uncontrollably as they often do when remanicing with old friends. It all is meaningless topics though; the weather, the Patriots, encounters with fast women, blah blah blah. I am bored with these conversations already, but delighted to be back in these peoples lives feeling as if somehow listening to some stories could make up for over three years of lost time. The Newport bridge peaks out as we drive across Rhode Island and I have this warm comforting feeling take over my body. I am back in the RI, back to the place where I learned so much.
We meet up with John and head down to the Rhino Bar, which is just in dead center of downtown, a perfect location for a bar and much to my surprise, is sporting a pretty decent crowd for a wintry night in Newport. I am amazed and perhaps a little disoriented, to be out reminiscing and running into “kids” (note that usage) from high school after being in Florida, sitting in an exam some four hours earlier. I begin drinking (which just a forewarning, will be quite the recurring theme in this trip. Again, I’m not an alchohlic, I just like to party a little more than I should sometimes…note that usage as well) and pouring them on like I never do, like I was a sailor on leave in some foreign port. Within minutes, I am refusing to let anyone within a fivefoot radius of me buy drinks. The “I love you mans” are already in full force and its only 9 pm. I am on vacation, for the first time in a while, I am on vacation. The night is full of long conversations that don’t really amount to much. I am a stranger in my own home. A place that I once had thought I would never leave, suddenly seemed to feel like a speck on the map.
I head back to Ed’s to sleep on the couch, Ed is drunk and being the regular scholars we are, we decide to take his dog for a walk at 3am in 23 degrees. Somewhere along the way though we pick up where we left off, becoming rebellious kids again. Ed starts lighting off roman candles and shooting them at lampposts and surely waking up people in his apartment complex. Within minutes, Middletown cops who have to be bored senseless show up and Ed starts running. ” Come on Man!!!” Ed screams, but I am a grown man, no longer in high school and do not run from police, especially not with this little Shih Tzu on a leash over some fireworks. These your fireworks buddy” the thick Rhode Island accent says. “Uhhh uhhh, look man I’m just walking the dog” I say. Ed comes out from some bushes, telling the Cops the fireworks are his. The cops grab him and handcuff him. It was a little stupid to be out doing such things at 3 am, I’ll admit, but why not a simple fine? Fucking puritans. Unless you move away from New England, you really forget how ridiculous and backwards that place can sometime be. I mean, you weren’t even allowed to buy alchohol in RI until like a few years ago, a law that had been enacted sometime around when the mayflower landed. I love the place to death, but it isn’t exactly “progressive”, I wouldn’t be shocked if witches are still burned at the stake in some areas. I begin to laugh. The cop tells me that it isn’t funny and that I should “go home”; “where’s home?” I think to myself. Ed and the cops leave and I am alone with this dog and have absolutely no idea where Ed’s apartment is. I call up every Newport contact in my phone but nobody answers. 4 am rolls around, it is probably 12 degrees outside and I am in a thin sweatshirt. The dog begins to cry and I am standing outside this 7-11 somewhere in Middletown, RI, my phone is about to die and maybe I am about to as well. Just earlier that day I was driving down sunny gulf boulevard and now I am in east bumfuck, RI drunk and disoriented with a little yappy dog who looks just as uncomfortable about the situation as I am. “Don’t worry buddy, I’ll get us out of this mess” I say to the dog. John answers his phone and being the person he is, comes and gets me and we somehow get into Ed’s apt. We go down to the police station, where Ed is walking out with a big smile on his face. John exhausted and surely a little bit on the angry side drops us off at Ed’s. I feel awful about the verbal thrashing Ed is surely going to endure the next day from his girlfriend, who he is living with. It is an umcomfortable sitatution but nevertheless, a fitting one for a first night on vacation.
Day 2- OJ and Irish Brawls
I wake up in typical Newporter fashion, 11 am and a massive hangover. OJ simpson is being put away in prison for robbery, a sixty-something year old man arrested for armed robbery. I laugh to myself as the judge tears him apart, as the man who murdered his wife (I don’t care what any verdict says, the Juice killed her) goes down for robbery. I tell Ed how it’s like seeing Al Capone go down for tax evasion,who doesn’t understand the reference nor my love for OJ jokes. Kerr comes to pick me up and we go down to the handy to grab some breakfast. Its just as I remembered it, the same prices on the breakfast menu, the same motherly waitresses. The breakfast takes me back to so many times as a kid, but I don’t tell Kerr who is and will be constantly annoyed over the entire trip by my constant need to get all nostalgic every chance I get. I feel like I am insulting the man everytime I get this way purely based on the assumption this reflecting makes me seem disconnected with the town I once called home. Kerr and I drive around Newport talking about old times and whats new with each other. We drive past schools, restaurants and old houses. These places, excuse me this town, seemed unfazed by time almost as if as if nothing new had happened at all in the past 3 years. After a much needed sightseeing tour, we grab a drink at Busker’s and Irish pub in the center of town, perhaps the most authentic Irish pub I’ve ever been in; where all the bartenders are from Ireland and even an old man with an Irish brogue sits at the end of the bar watching one of those UFC imitation league fights. You know, the fights were the leagues are named like WEEC and the fighters are strong instead of coordinated, somehow expecting that if they lift weights they ultimately will be a great fighter. Kerr and I talk about Ireland and the legendary summer of ‘05, the last time I was up there.
For those who do not know of the legend, I went back to Newport for the summer of ’05 and became excellent friends with a group of ten or so Irish college students, who we partied and taught our American way of life to all summer. In short, Best Summer Ever. We wonder if we contacted them now, if they would be excited to see us or perhaps more importantly, if they would let us crash with them in Ireland. We had literally come days away from taking a semester off and following the irish students we partied with all summer back to the motherland, in a quest to backpack around Europe. We both agreed it would have been a very reckless and irresponsible thing to do at the time, but left open the possibility for the discussion to be revisited once people are graduated and/or restless. The rest of the day is uneventful, I watch a 9/11 conspiracy movie at Kerr’s who is convinced at all the evidence the guy has that 9/11 was an inside job. Secretly, I am both offended and annoyed by the movie, feeling it is just a tad disrespectful to the innocent people who lost their lives that day, but I don’t say anything. This is not a trip to talk about politics, this is more important than that. I take a nap, meet up with my sister and we head down to O’ Brien’s pub and my sister surprisingly gets in showing her underage Florida license (By the way, if your ever on vacation and underage, I recommend this method. I mean you’re technically not breaking any laws, just playing on the stupidity of big dumb bouncers.) I see a few people from high school, but don’t really want to talk to them. All around me are familiar faces, faces that I shared chemistry labs with, sat next to in Spanish classes, rode buses with in elementary school, teammates on little leauge teams. I’ve never been in a room in which I was so familiar with so many people , but at the same time really had no idea who any of these people were.
“Did you see Alex?” My sister says, asking about a kid I once had science class with I think. “Yes” I sigh. I am annoyed as I always am with my sister, who naively thinks people are the sole reason I go back to New England. I have always felt bad for my sister’s sense of unfinished business in Newport, which was surely provoked by an abrupt move in the middle of high school. I am no psychologist, but as far a social development is concerned, high school is crucial. It is so transparent that this poor girl feels like she graduated in the wrong high school and I don’t blame her for acting this way. I humor it and talk about high school for a little bit, because I love her and this is what she wants to hear from me, right?
As I begin talk about high school, looking around the table, realizing that most of my friends in Newport never grew up have become stuck in our little town, I get depressed and suddenly loose the urge to drink. These are all the same people I left 3 years ago, lacking any distinguishable difference. I know this comes off as being a bit arrogant, but let me make clear, I don’t say this because these people are lacking initiative or passion, I say this because they are all some of the smartest most capable people I have ever met. These are the friends that have help make me the man I am today and to see such idleness was extremely disheartning. I had always laughed at the cliche that Newporters used to say how sometimes you just get “stuck in Newport”, the people who go on to be firemen and history teachers, people who never grew out of their newport shell or spread their wings. There world is much much larger than Rhode Island, trust me. Regardless of how I felt, these were my friends now, but I could not get over the fact they had all became walking stereotypes. For the rest of the night, I try not to think of it as the more I do, the more I feel like I have nothing in common with anyone, once again a stranger in my own home.
We get kicked out of O’ Briens at 1 (remember this is Pilgrim country…Mayflower laws) and it is absolutely freezing outside. A man at O’ Briens is so angry about the 1 am last call that he feels the need to throw his glass at the bartender, you know in an educated response sort of way. The man is pushed over by bartenders and bouncers even taking Kerr down with him. We laugh about the incident and walk down Thames street, we are those guys, that crazy bar crowd that we used to complain about as kids, tourists who littered our town every Saturday in August. My sister and I get back to Kerr’s, trying to get some sleep as we had to make an early train in the morning over to New Haven. Kerr’s younger brother comes stumbling in the door soon after. He is at least 60 lbs heavier and looking even more strung out than I remember him, a textbook example of what this god forsaken place can do to good people. My sister was really close friends with him at one time, but when he began hanging out with the wrong people, she wisely disassociated himself with him. Kerr begins getting confrontational with his brother who is not only being ridiculously vulgar, but embarrassing him once again in front of friends as he always has. Things escalate to unnecessary levels and the two get into a huge fistfight, dishing out bruises to each other and knocking over this nice wooden sailboat replica in the middle of the room. Trying not to laugh, my sister and I look at each other: “Should we leave?” as the fight raged on in the background.
Day 3- The Wedding
I wake up surprisingly refreshed — I have a sleep disorder that really comes out during vacation allowing me to feel “refreshed” on a mere 4 hour rest—Kerr drives my sister and I to the train station and we wait for the train. My sister tells me about her experience visiting her best friend in CT and how ridiculously spoiled some of the people at the school were. I tell her how she is so much better than these girls who will one day wake up and be 40 something and wont have their daddy or some trust fund to carry them through life. I am a firm believer that hard work builds character and there is a fine line between making sure your kids have it nicer off than you did but when you take away the child’s work ethic, thats were the long term damage starts. She doesn’t understand and is rightfully a little insulted by the remark but I am upset that she didn’t have that great of a time with her so-called “best friend”, but respect the fact that she needs to learn that age old lesson in life, where we simply grow apart from people and places. I think we often confuse what is our “best” friend with our “longest lasting” friend. Anyways, we get on perhaps the most scenic train ride I’ve ever been on, crossing through quaint fishing villages and town centers, heavily wooded areas and wood covered bridges, the sights if you saw on a postcard you’d be like “oh thats so New England”. We meet my Parents and my mom’s best friend in New Haven at Pepe’s pizzeria, the oldest pizza place in America, a place that will make you wonder how bread, cheese and sauce can taste so damn good. The line is usually pretty long outside of the place and if you ever stop in New Haven, its a “must stop”.
I tell my mom how disconnected I was feeling in Newport and how upset I was to see people I grew up with and love, not changing one bit or showing any enthusiasm for bettering themselves. A constant problem in my life is that I am constantly trying to better my situation. This affliction was taking its toll on me, especially that day seeing the vicious fight the night before between two brothers. I begin contemplating cutting the trip short in hopes to rid myself of seeing people from my childhood in these conditions, perhaps prefer to leave them to the pleasant memories of the pst. She gives me sound advice, advising me that not only would me going home be a huge mistake, but I would be following a trend of canceling vacations that I often regret and complain to her about. I take a nap as maybe I am not that upset about it all, but rather I am according to my mother “just a cranky boy” that just needs some sleep. I wake up feeling refreshed and get ready for the wedding. I try not to be vain, but fucking damn am I good looking when I put on a suit and tie? I mean, I clean up well. I even steal the mirror several times from my little sister, striking poses “Holy Shit, why am I so good looking?” I joke. Ali laughs and poses along with me, we are Derek Zoolander and Heidi Klum.
We get to the Church and as is the case with most family occasions , we are one of the first people there. My mom trys to sit everyone in like the second row a place reserved for parents and bridesmaids. This need to sit in the very front is an Abernathy trademark and cannot begin to tell you the amount of movies I’ve seen practically under the damn screen. There is a Christmas parade going on in Wallingford and the church is right in the middle of town and has this classic red brick look to it, it is truly a storybook Connecticut setting. Aunts, Uncles, Cousins and relative I’ve never met all begin to file into to the church. Ali and I laugh at the old lady organ player who has the most neon pink hair, you will ever see. This reminded us of something Lauren has said about if my mom gets old and senile and how Lauren would do awful things to her, like dye her hair pink and give her tattoos. Ali and I thought it was funny but I think my mom found it distasteful. The ceremony is very nice, my cousin looks like the happiest person on earth. Just seeing my cousin who I grew up with, who I used to spend countless weekends with as a kid, just so incredibly in love and so completely at peace was truly an amazing sight. A borderline offensive speech is given about sinners and something about damnation as a sermon in the wedding, but my cousin seems unfazed, she is in love and that is all that matters and when you think of it, really should matter when at a wedding. I am reminded how alone I am. I think about the most perfect woman I’ve ever met and become deflated thinking about how I confessed my love for her before she moved away, only to be shot down one last time, cast back into the friend zone forever.
We drive to the reception and get our seating arrangements. For the first time in all of the countless thanksgivings and Christmases, I am not at a kids table, I am an adult! It only took 23 years but finally, I had become a man in the eyes of the family. I am sitting with another first cousin and my uncle at a table of random people. I do not mind and take advantage of the easy access to the appetizers near our table. Lauren is sitting across the way from me and is sitting next to a really cute girl that goes to college in Hawaii, Lauren tells me she asks about me but I feel awkward about it as there is a solid chance I am related to her, if only by marriage. The night progresses and drinks are aplenty, as it usually is in every wedding. I only have twentys in my pocket and even though it is an open bar, I feel awful not paying for top shelf drinks, but not awful enough to give a twenty dollar tip. I meet up with my Grandfather and Dad who are talking about the economy, my grandfather being the business savvy person he is. We somehow get our conversation on Newport and I tell my grandfather how I hated seeing this place, but mainly people, I held in such high regard in such a way. “You can never go back, things change to much” my grandfather tells me, with wisdom beyond my years. I tell him the problem therein didn’t lie in the place being unrecognizable, but being so cold and stagnant. He doesn’t understand my problem with this, coming from a man who openly has a distaste for change, who still has the same brown shag carpet in his house, the same 1970’s decor.
We drink and dance all night, my dad makes his trademark white dad doing a break dance move he does at every party, even though nobody has seen a breakdancer in over 15 years. As is the case in most family weddings, we are the only side dancing. We don’t mind, we are blood, this is a wedding, my cousin is getting married and celebration is in order. “WE ARE FAMILY” we sing to the disco classic. I am jumping around the dance floor with my little cousin on my shoulders, a cousin I have met maybe once but still knows my name. This kid adorable as he may be, is really solid and heavy and probably has a future as some sort of interior lineman position on a football team. The night begins to wind and everyone starts to leave. It is beginning to snow outside, beautiful snow oh how much have I missed you. I am hugging and kissing relatives as the snow accumulates in my hair and my feet begin to freeze.My uncle hints that we can come party and stay at his place, but both my sister and I feel a little strange staying there given the seperation he’s going through, a divorce where we think his wife and children are still living there even though we are not sure and don’t feel its our business to ask. We end up staying at my cousin and girlfriends place. Regardless, I am as one would say “housed” and Steve and me begin talking about life.
Steve begins telling me about his life and the Abernathy condition.He tells me that he is in a rut and doesn’t know why, how alot of Abernathy men have issues with bettering themselves and often fall contempt to a life of paycheck to paycheck lifestyles. He begins to assert that “I have the world on a string” and that I am not taking my future serious. At first I am annoyed, feeling that Steve is making assumption of me based on facebook pictures, which are only taken at bars on Saturdays and give outsiders the impression that my life is one non-stop party. For just once, I want someone to see me on top of a mountain or running, anything other than drinking. I begin to realize, that though a little extreme, Steve is not so off-base in his comments. I have really been stressed out over the past year, and have begun to accept mediocrity in my academics. Basically, I just want to graduate at this point and it shows in the way I handle my weekends and the days after work. This was not news to me, I’ve known I’ve had issues all along, but perhaps it needed to come from someone else. I tell Steve about my internship and how even though it appears things aren’t going well for me, especially with me living back at home the past couple of months, things are a lot better than they seem. I try to get some sleep, but am rattled by the conversation. Have I been coming across as unmotivated as my friends in Newport? When I look at Steve am I looking into the future? Is my life really this complicated?
Day 4- The unshakable Hangover
I wake up at the crack of dawn, 11 am to be exact and we head off for a brunch my cousin has arranged for immediate family. The snow from last night actually is on the ground, which will not last long as it is surprisingly warm that day, most likely in the low 50’s (I assure you this is warm) I am not well, not only because I have perhaps one of the worst hangovers ever, but I am deeply affected by the previous night’s conversation and feel that I am somehow an embarrassment to the family. I am surrounded by screaming cousins. The food comes out and I cannot believe how much my family can eat, cousins are dipping butter and syrup on just about everything. Not to be harsh, but for the most part, this is an overweight family with well documented cholesterol problems. All around me I hear the clangs of forks and spoons, chomping and squishing sounds. For a minute there, I get very nauseous and think I am going to throw up. Everyone asks me if me and my sister are going to NY today and I don’t know how to respond to that question, I am still a little drunk. Family and for that matter, most people do not understand the way I travel, the way everyone should travel, free and without schedule, on a whim. Not going to New York City, This would be my only regret of the trip. My Aunt is having people over and they are singing Karaoke, I would love to go as Karaoke is always a great time, but Steve is really not with the idea and besides the point I am exhausted. My sister and I get back to Steve’s and he asks us what we wanted to do that day. I am confused by the question as he is the host in this operation and really should be thinking of things to do for us, I mean isn’t that a key element of vacation? I pass out on the couch for over 4 hours, I apologize to Steve but hope that he understands how I needed to recharge my batteries, especially since I was on a long vacation and needed the fuel to last me throughout the next week, I don’t think he understands. We go out to dinner and for the most part, their is akward silence, today is “a wash” , I am not well both physically and mentally. It is a casual night, we rent some movies eat popcorn. I try talking to Steve about the night before’s conversation and he seems uncomfortable and perhaps a little rattled as well by it. The subject is dropped and I go to bed.
Day 5- Boston
I wake up and call my Dad, who is picking up my sister to go to providence to catch their afternoon flight. I ask him if he could drop me back in Newport, even though I am unsure of what I want out of this trip which even though has brought me much fun and memories has come at the cost of seeing my life and an entire town in a whole new light. I tell everyone about my issues of staying and ultimately make the choice to stay on the trip. Like a coward, I text John:
Me:How would u feel if I left early?
John: How early?
Me: Like tonight…
John doesnt respond for an hour or two but says he would understand either way, even though I don’t entirely believe him. Despite my best efforts, I head back to Newport. Not knowing what to expect nor what I really wanted out of the trip anymore, I get to John’s and we talk. I try to allude to the fact I am disheartened seeing my town in such a light, but stay away from the topic. As am I, John is in control of his own life and can do with it whatever he wants to, I have no bearing on his life anymore and feel the point is moot. Who am I to sit in my ivory tower? Is my life really even that much better? Can I even make an impact on him? John leaves for work and I am alone all by myself, yet strangely at ease. I had spent so many nights over this old house when I was younger and feel like the house, as old and messy as it may be is truly a second home. I am full of life, awake and bursting with energy. I call up Kerr.
Me: What are you doing?
Kerr: Nothing man, nothing
Me: Wanna go to Boston?
Kerr: Uhhhh,well…..I got…..why not…I’ll be over in a few.
We race off to the Rhode Island highway, interstates riddled with awful drivers. Kerr and I decide to take the T into Boston and leave his car at one of those outside Braintree stops. This is the way Boston is meant to be visited as it is perhaps one of the worst places to drive in the US. We are clueless tourists, bums if you will. We have no accommodations, no plans. Between the two of us, we’ve only ventured into the city a handful of times and only for brief moments in time. I had only been there to catch a Sox game and once to a Bruins game as a kid, which I had amazing seats for. I can remember watching Mario Lemiux being viciously checked right into the boards as my friend and I pounded the glass. Besides the point, we look up things to do on my nifty Smartphone (which rarely shows its value, but in instances like this is quite useful) and atop of the list was the Sam Adams brewery. It speaks out to me and I am sold. We get off in Jamaica Plains, not the nicest of areas in Boston but historic nonetheless and make the trek up the hill to the Brewery. We are hungry, which in case I have forgot to illustrate is a common occurence when I am on this trip, I literally was eating 5 meals a day and am shocked I didn’t come back at least ten pounds heavier. We are in some chic Boston cafe. A place where style is king, oozes out of every booth and table. All of these people are at the very least twenty years ahead, wearing styles and playing with gizmos that will be available to me and the rest of the average joes in 2030.
Boston is an interesting place, it really could care less about tourism or what you think about it. I don’t think there is a visitor center a map or even a god damn brochure in the entire town. It is a city that survives on research and academia, home to hundreds of colleges and medical centers. But perhaps it is this unrelenting disregard for tourism that is what I like so much about it as I live in Florida, where if it were not for Tourism, the entire state would probably be an enormous swamp. The tour starts and it is free, the girl at the tour absolutely loves her job and knows entirely way too much about beer. I can only imagine this woman at a party in college and her epiphany to go into a career in beer. The end of the tour is brilliant and we are given beer that tastes like it is the nectar of the gods. Beer should never tastes this good but it does, it is the freshest and most amazing beer I have ever had. We try a multitude of beers, all equally as good. “I will never drink another awful domestic beer again” I tell Kerr. I think about all that disgusting beers I have drank over the years. Beers with the words “Natural” and “Ice” in them, beers that you drink when you are rookies to drinking, youthful and misinformed. These beers were nothing more than “headaches in cans” and I from this day forward, will never drink another one of them.
The tour gets over and we are both in the mood to drink, the tour tells us of a Bar down the street that has been there for close to 250 years and we fall in to the marketing ploy. This cheap stunt to take advantage of people who just tasted the greatest beer they’ve ever had. We get to Doyle’s and it is the classic Boston pub we all know, Shamrocks and pictures of Bostonians line the walls. Every were you look are shots of Larry Bird and irish flags. A lot of people knock the Irish culture because of its long bouts with alcoholism, but it still is a culture right? Kerr and I talk about the night and are clueless what to do. All that I’ve ever done is the whole freedom trail thing, the Paul Revere house and Fanueil hall. These are day things to do with parents and girlfriends, we need to have a man intenerary, a mantinerary! I call Vanessa, a friend from high school who moved to Boston and I had hoped we could crash with. She doesn’t pick up but only leaves obscure text messages.
“I am out at blah blah”
“Are you blah blah?”
“My mom is blah”
Kerr and I take the T into downtown towards quincy market. It is literally the center of the city and thus, a good base for operations. We wander around Boston for an hour eventually stopping at Cheers. We sing the theme song to the 80’s show based off the bar—makin’ your way in the world today , takes everything you got— Expecting to see Norm and Ted danson and a a regular working class bar the place was on the tv show. We are both disappointed as Cheers is no more than a fancy restaurant with a very small bar with little if any atmosphere. Kerr practically begins falling asleep in his beer, the night has taken a turn for the worse. “We are we going to stay man?” Kerr asks as if we just arrived in Boston. We leave Cheers and head to the North End where Vanessa lives. She tells us her Mom unexpectedly came to visit her, even though we don’t believe her. She tells us to go to a bar down the street and wait for her and we oblige. The bartender is a striking older women, who begins to flirt with me, grabbing my hand and talking to me about some town I’ve never heard of. She actually tells us she lived in Newport at one time and we start talking about it for a little while. Her shift ends but we don’t decide to talk to her anymore, Vanessa is on the way and coming to rescue us. An hour goes by, then two hours and we are getting drunker by the minute. In my trademark style, I send Vanessa a thought provoking text “If you didn’t want us to come by, you could have just said so. We’re big boys. No response. Kerr and I venture out in the Boston night, public urination and singing is aplenty. We decide to head towards the bunker hill area. I take out my handy phone to get us there, but it neglects to account for one way streets, as it only claims to be a driving gps. We pass by the same buildings
” Is that the state building again?”
“Don’t say that man… oh fuck it is”
We ask a police officer how to get back to the north end.
“You seriously are walking there?” She asks pointing to the map of Boston I have taken out. We are somehow on the complete opposite end of the city. We laugh hysterically at the whole scenario, which really is quite funny. The tourist map, “Are you trying to get us mugged walking around with that thing?” Kerr asks. We grab a nearby cab and make our way back to the bar where Vanessa is waiting for us. I see her sitting on a stool, perhaps one of the shortest girls I have ever known. I had been semi “mean” to Vanessa during various points of high school, I wouldn’t take her to prom cause I was trying to have sex that night, wouldn’t hang out with her on various occasions because I had friends that didn’t like her, things that weren’t awful when you think of them, but I regret nonetheless. She is flirty as she always was, but make no mistake about it one of the biggest teases there is. We talk about Boston and how awesome of a place it is. I mention skiing and she puts me on the phone with an old friend, who used to think he was the king of the world in high school but is slowly realizing his “coolness” has worn off. “Hey man!” the fake enthusiasm rings. ” You should come up to New Hampshire sometime, come skiing up here”. I tell him I’ll call him before I go skiing but never do. Fuck him, fuck anyone who ever thought they were cooler than me. We make our way back to Vanessa’s which despite being in perhaps one of the most romantic and scenic areas of the city, is extremely small. It is a two room flat, with a long hallway/kitchen/foyer in the middle. There is no distinguishable place to eat dinner or living room. Though cities are amazing, this is clearly the worst part, paying thousands of dollars to live in a closet, paying thousands pretty much just to say you live somewhere.
We go up to the neighbor’s roof, it is amazing. Skyscrapers beam out from the ground and there is an entire skyline above us. The roof is unsafe, it has no railings and has probably at some point, caused a death or two. We head back out to the bars and Vanessa and I are all over each other, licking ears and kissing necks. In such a way now that I think about it probably made Kerr uncomfortable, but at the time seemed so right. We make it back to her apartment, beyond drunk but really more tired. Her cousin is mad for some reason and yelling at Kerr for no apparant reason. I begin to fall asleep. Vanessa comes in and things begin to get hot and heavy, she stops “you were such a dork in high school and now you are what some ladies man?” I laugh and put the moves on her with all my might whispering sweet things; “I’ve always had a thing for you” I say. Not true. “I miss you”. Not true. “You look amazing” Perspectively true. She has me where she wants me, drunk, practically naked and vulnerable. “You know what, I can’t do this” she says the sign of death, the putting on of more clothing. “What? What did I do?” I asked confused. She calls up a friend and asks to crash at his place. Does this girl have a boyfriend? Did I do something wrong? “You will never see me again” I tell her. “You will never see me again” I reiterate, more clothing is put on. “Oh I’ll see you tomorrow”. She says laughing. This short girl is getting sweet revenge, kicking me when I am down. I am paying the price for ignoring her in high school. This is cruel, this is justice. I fall asleep as she leaves, but can’t help but laugh and admire her for her tactics. Well played. Touche.
I forgot how memorable this trip really was and as such, am breaking up this blog entry in half. The final 5 days, will be posted at a later date sometime shortly….
Day 6- Setimentalville
We wake up in Boston. The weather is a balmy 12 degrees, yet surprisingly comfortable. There is such a romance to Boston unlike other cities I’ve been to. Where New York City kicks of this attitude, it is the powerful CEO, the heiress, the wanna be celebrity, Boston feels like the more avant-garde stepchild, the artsy student, the girl who wears the funny hats. As I said in part 1, Boston doesn’t care what you think of it, it doesn’t pretend to be a city that makes you feel famous, yet it offers the brownstone backdrop and narrow streets that make you feel like you are in Prague or somewhere so foreign. We get some great breakfast at this little place down the street, which in true North End form is ridiculously quaint and rustic. Kerr and I begin to map out the day, but in doing so realize how exhausted we were from a heavy night of celebration, women, singing and man-hugs. We contemplate going down the whole Fenway area, stopping by Harvard Square or one of those academia melting pots, but we decide against. We say our goodbyes to Vanessa, who despite being the world’s biggest tease was a more than gracious host in showing us around Beantown the night before. We find the nearest T station and the Boston excursion is soon over.
For the first time in the trip, I begin to think about money all too much. Sure I had saved up accordingly for this trip, but was it really worth it? Again revisiting the question “What do I want out of this vacation?”
We get back to Newport and Kerr heads home; I meet up with John’s brother and we head down to Ben’s chili dogs. It is an awkward trek down to but nevertheless, one I made many of times as a kid. The place, which is a staple with he locals, is unfazed by time. I don’t mean this in a “wow, how admirable, how historical way” I mean this in a holy shit what is wrong with a little change once in a while. It is literally the EXACT same place it has been for over thirty years. The exact same tables, the exact same plates, trays, the same serving spoon for the chili and cheese and pretty much the only person I have ever seen working there is behind the counter. It is quite creepy, but it really hits right at home with me. I give the cashier my card, “We only do cash”. I laugh to myself at the stubbornness of it all, the town that time forgot. I eat my chilidogs in little under a minute to Bobby’s amazement and we head back to johns. The day is still young and I am feeling nostalgic. I walk from one end of the town to the other, feeling a lot like a little kid who shows up to hid childhood home but finds a new family living there. Ok, bad analogy, but I walked everywhere this day. I walked past elementary schools, the old 7-11, places I used to work, the houses of friends, past playgrounds and parks, libraries. These things seem stupid for the average traveler, but in describing my childhood, constitutes for a significant portion of memories. I stop by my old house and I am overwhelmed with memories. I remember playing in the snow I the front lawn, sneaking out through the basement door as a rebellious teenager. I stand outside the house for a few minutes to breathe it in, a span of time long enough that if someone was inside watching me they would probably feel both creeped out and most likely, confused.
In a weird way, seeing the house I grew up in —yes, I grew up in a dozen houses as a kid but for argument sakes this is my childhood home— all done up, the nice garden in the front the stupid lawn decorations, the happy minivan in the driveway, I feel closure. The move to Florida was a treacherous one emotionally for me, we moved without knowing where we going; to an area with no family or friends, no discernible connection, we just picked up one day and left the place we called home our entire lives. To this day, there are probably people, who never got the memo our family moved to FL and perhaps take me not talking to them for the last 4 years was because I simply didn’t like them. I didn’t even make the trek down to FL with my parents and sisters, I was so torn emotionally I chose to stay up for an additional week or two for what I reason I cannot recall.
I make my last rounds through downtown, passing by a guy who looks vaguely familiar but gives me a somewhat nasty stare. “Abba?” the guy turns around. Nobody has called me this in years; it was a high school nickname, albeit a lazy one, like calling someone “Big Nose” or “Turkey neck”. “Ya?” I turn around. The guy walks up to me, I still do not recognize him. “Do you have any cigarettes man? I could use a bogey bro” I know who it is. I went through a phase in high school and I mean like maybe a few months or so, where when I was out with friends, I had to have some sort of tobacco with me. Probably a product of my persistent need to feel accepted back then, but nevertheless something that was short lived. There was no” how have you been last 4 years”? Just a “do you have a cigarette”. Every town has them, the kids that never grew up or spread their wings but this was an extraordinary case. Here is a kid who I can honestly say I envied, a guy who had all sorts of friends and girls hanging off him that I could only dream of in high school and now, now he was a scraggly and strung out waste, reeking of booze and wandering around town in the middle of a weekday, in the winter in Rhode Island. “Ughhhh, no man” I say “Fuck man, can you give me a ride to work bro?” he asks. I am confused and don’t know what to say “Ummm no, I don’t have a car here. I don’t live here anymore man” I say puzzled
“Aight man, call me later then, you still have my number? I live down on blah blah now” “I’ll call you, take it easy man” In saying take it easy, I truly wish I had the balls to say “I’ll call you later, please grow up before you are found dead in an alley somewhere man”. He takes off and I am puzzled and disturbed by the exchange. I try not to be overly judgmental but I can’t. This is a kid who came from money, attended private schools and I’m sure at some point sailed to Nantucket on a yacht or wooden vessel of some sorts. Why does this town do this to some people? Why is there this false sense of entitlement with so many people? I get back to John’s and try to go to sleep recollecting and both all the nostalgia I walked past that day but not forgetting the negative energy that I begin to feel.
In business, it is common knowledge that when business fails to “adapt “it dies. As I write this, I am reminded of an example a professor told me a few semesters ago about a typewriter company that failed to account for the advent of the pc. When the personal computer revolution started back in the 80’s this company instead of adapting an changing its mission to account for a rapidly growing technology, it decided to stand pat. Needless to say, the company went bankrupt shortly thereafter. The point I am trying to make is that the real world is changing rapidly as well just like the business climate and much like businesses we as people need to adapt and account for this. Adapt or Stay still, eat or be eaten. Newport is a place where only a certain type of person can survive without adapting, that being the wealthiest on the food chain. Do I think one needs to move away from where the grow up to adapt? Absolutely not. I do feel that a lot of people in that little island tucked away in Rhode Island could use some sort of additional perspective.
I go to sleep but can’t help but question again what I wanted to take away from this trip.
Day 7- Bowling for exhaustion
The day is for the most part uneventful, I had been running around for a full week now and could use a day to unwind and relax. I play Call of Duty on Xbox live for a solid three hours. The game is quite addicting and just playing it for a little while gives me a taste of what my roommate went through, overcoming a relatively nasty addiction to the game. It had gotten so bad that he had to destroy the Xbox to prevent himself from playing it ever again. This is the monster that is Call of Duty and I laugh to myself about the sheer wrath the game can take on good people. Towards the end of the day we head off to go bowling as my friends play in a bowling league just across the bridge and needed a fourth for their team. Now, I have been around sports my whole life. I watch them with passion; I am as intense of a sports fan as you will see. I can run a fly route, I can hit a baseball, but when it comes to bowling I am flat out awful. I guess I don’t understand the whole enterprise of it all, the cheap looking building, and those stupid clown shoes you have to put on.
I bowl just over 100 in the first game, which I am proud of much to the dismay to looking bowling connoisseurs The second game I blow big time, I feel awful about it but bowling is about just having a good time. I get back to John’s and we talk about what mountain we would go to the next day. John recommends Killington as he knows people who live in the town and the mountain is big enough so that we can enjoy enough trails so early in the ski season.
Day 8- The Drive
I wake up and call Kerr who I believe ignores me because he has already had more than enough of me for one week. It is early, I mean like fucking 5 am early. Anyone who knows me well knows that I am not a morning person, it takes a lot for me to get up early except for a very short list of things, but Skiing is definitely on tht list. We get to a McDonalds where we grab the everso healthy McBreakfast. I don’t care what your stance is on fast food is, nobody can deny the glory that is McDonald’s breakfast. Perhaps it is a comfort thing for me, remembering how road trips as a kid always began with an sausage mcmuffin. Anyways,I am driving up to VT, which I do not mind doing. I am usually uncomfortable driving bigger cars but probably due to delusion induced by a 5am wake up time, I am fine. The drive is perhaps one of the more scenic drives I have ever been on. When you move away to a place like FL, you forget about this whole other world that exists, a foreign place where it isn’t a perpetual 85 and sunny and actually topography exists. Heavily wooded forests and hills, those huge rock cliffs that hang on the sides of the roads as we meander our way up I-95. We pass Fall River, perhaps the most depressing city in the area (Imagine a town built on factories, all the factories go out of business, then you have Fall River) and make our way up towards Boston.
Traffic. God damn awful traffic. Boston is a world-class city but the worst part; the VERY worst part aside from the sometimes obnoxious accent, is the traffic. Whether it’s in the city, going out, heading in to the city there always seems to be congestion. Not to mention, all around you are some of the world’s worst drivers, “massholes” as us Rhode Islanders refer to them as. Everywhere I look cars are merging across lanes that shouldn’t be merged—you really crossing there bro? Seriously?—. It doesn’t help as well as we are right in the middle of rush hour traffic, 8 am which is obvious bad planning on our part. Finally we get out of the city and it is just a strait shot, we find out that most of New Hampshire and parts of Vermont is suffering from an ice storm and as a result, rolling power outages sweep the state. Killington is a sheet of ice (a skiers worst nightmare) and besides the fact is without power and closed for the day. With the traffic we don’t expect to hit much of the slopes during the day and decide on going an hour or two north to Stowe, VT. As we head into northern mass the trees start to gather frost and soon we are driving on a road through a forest of white. Now, not that I don’t enjoy driving by a tropical beach or over a bridge with the gulf of Mexico right next to me, but this was a truly scenic drive. There is something about mountains that humbles me, mountains are these anomalies that just sprout out of nowhere, without warning and to look up and see something so large that isn’t manmade, is completely refreshing. It really is cliché and perhaps a little feminine, but the only word I could attach to it is “Majestic”. I’ll tell you what, if the right career opportunity presents itself to me in a mountainous area (e.g. Boulder, Denver, Oregon, Washington, Wyoming…) I wouldn’t hesitate to move there without warning or visit. I know that sounds extreme, but its true.
We make our way off the Stowe exit for a stop at the Ben and Jerry’s factory. Vermont is often attributed to many things, maple syrup, the Green mountains, the band “Phish” but without a doubt the biggest export out of the great state has to be the overpriced but goddamn delicious ice cream. The tour begins and it is just the three of us (but seriously it is 2 degrees outside on weekday). The tour guide is enthusiastic; “now we will watch a short mooooooovie” he exclaims in a cow reference. The movie talks about the story of Ben and jerry and it is very interesting how to average dudes (stoners) drove across the country in a VW van giving away free ice cream. This sort of business strategy to me is so amazing; Ben and Jerry knew that there ice cream was far superior to others and felt that by giving it away free all across the country, it would create a buzz and the ice cream would sell itself. Eventually the promotion caught national news and the rest was history. Even though I was a little sad to hear that the two average dudes are no longer involved in the company selling it off for what I am sure was a fat check. Nevertheless, we taste fresh ice cream and get to see the production line where most of the country’s Ben and Jerry’s comes from. The tour guide is upset with the people below who are obviously slacking off. “Fuzzy seems to be the only one working down there” the tour guide explains as the bearded man walks past, an appropriate nickname for such a hairy dude. The tour gets over and the gift shop, where the tour begins, where ever tour begins , is loaded with old people. “Grab your ice cream afterwards!!” the person in charge of the group says to the old man in line to get ice cream. The old man sighs and gets out of the ice cream line as I start laughing at the childish reaction of the old man.
We head off on this road towards Stowe and the roads are ridiculously slippery. Ed and John laugh at me and my fear of driving in the slush, but it has been awhile since I have seen ice, let alone driven on it. We stop and walk around the town of Stowe briefly, it is quite a small town center but the epitome of a New England ski town. There are wooden covered bridges and cobblestone walkways. Red brick and rustic wood are apparently the only building materials in Stowe. There are no franchises, everything is mom-and-pop, which I love. Some areas of New England enforce this even, on my last trip to Martha’s Vineyard I remember being told by a local about the law. I believe a lot of Cape Cod enforces this as well, but I am not sure. We find a place to eat/drink, the beer is local and awesome and I get some slice of home, with a hearty bowl of clam chowder—- I do realize this all beginning to sound like a Steinbeck novel, but when it comes to Vermont I feel it is the only way to convey the scenery and images.— We drive around for a little while looking for a place to stay, everything is expensive, it is early in the ski season, but nevertheless it is still probably in the peak time for Stowe. We find a place no more than a mie away from the mountain. The guy at the front desk is a raving lunatic and talks to us for about half an hour of the worst storytelling I have ever heard.
“ We was like snowed in right….and then there was these tractors….and so I was like…and they was like….you know how those….blah blah blah”
The story went on so long I didn’t know whether to interject or slowly walk away from the talking head. We ask for a two bed but since we listened to his god awful storytelling or probably because the place was empty, we get the suite. The hotel is a little on the dated side but actually pretty sweet for the price (120 I think it was?). There is a kitchenette and a set of bunk beds and another bedroom set off from the main room. I jump into the bed, I am exhausted from a lack of sleep and driving for 5 hours. Driving for long distances really takes it toll on me mentally, which is all the reason I respect those truck drivers who drive across the entire country transporting wristwatches, hopped up on methamphetamines. I pass out for an hour or so but as I said, it is quite tough for me to stay still when I am on vacation. The Matterhorn is the popular local spot in Stowe and we decide to stop in for a few drinks. It is a nice little Ski lodge sort of bar but a place that kind of rubs you in that “holy-shit-there-have-probably-been-serious-bar-fights-here” way. There is a hot older woman dancing in front of us all by herself, I want to go up and talk to her but its probably borderline inappropriate. She is probably the only woman in the bar, but we don’t mind, girls are not what is on our mind. We talk about high school and our more mischief years as kids. The time we had on cabbage night, throwing eggs at cars, the times when cops would break up parties in high school, the time where a hundred or so kids were running through the woods being chased by cops. I think when you grow up in a small town like I did, where everyone knows everyone, you grow accustom to mischief. It is a real nice night, despite me wanting to punch the bartender in the face for asking for my ID four times throughout the night and not accepting my card because the strip was a little worn, ok very worn.
We head back to the hotel, a little more drunk than we wanted to be but nevertheless, excited to go skiing the next day.
Day 9- Skiing
We get up early and head off to the mountain. It is one degree outside (is it one degree or one degrees??) so I put on like 4 layers and John’s comfy ski socks. I wish I could seriously wear such splendid things on my feet in FL. I put on a hefty jacket from John’s brother and underneath, the only jacket I own, t this old military jacket, which is actually quite stylish in a sort of John Lennon Nuevo kind of way, but nevertheless might get mistaken for a threat to America. I tell everyone it is from the Al Qaeda Fall collection, but the reference is not funny and maybe even a little insensitive. We get a huge breakfast from the dining room in the hotel, hoping not to run into the “bad storyteller” and then head out, It is blisteringly cold outside, Ed’s car is a freezerbox with wheels, a place to store frozen meats. I go in reverse and I hear a snap, (which in the long list of car sounds, Is usually not a good car one) and his power steering line froze and snapped. Not a big deal but enough for me to not want to drive anymore. John takes over and we get to the mountain. From the parking lot, I start getting a little nervous. Stowe is unusually steep of slope for Vermont, such in a way that it looks like it belongs as part of the Swiss alps or somewhere in Scandanavia. I get rentals and put on the dredded ski boots which not only make your feet uncomfortable but significantly hinder your ability to walk/not look walk like Robocop. We get to the lift and there is not a whole lot of lines, contrary to what a woman told us the night before; “It’s a zoo up there, too many lines.” The lifts at stowe give you such a “majestic” (yes, I did it again) view of Vermont.
I am afraid I will be that guy who falls getting off the lift, probably one of the more embarrassing things one can go through. Not only do that have to stop the lift if you fall off, but you look so pathetic with your big dorky poles and your skis all mixed up together. I get off with no problem. The bad news is that the only green circle. which for you non-skiiers, is the easiest on the ski scale (green circle is easy, blue square is medium, black diamond is hard and double black diamond is suicidal) I am a little ticked off not only cause I think green circles are the most relaxing part of skiing, those long wide trails are so relaxing its almost theraputic. I go down the blue square and its intimidating, especially for someone who has only been skiing a handful of times that were at least 7 years ago. I fall all over the trail, a lot but in a comical kind of way, making a point to flail my arms everytime I am about to fall. I keep trying to take video of going down the slope and ski at the same time but it is unsuccessful. John and Ed are great friends who laugh as I tumble my way down the mountain for my first run of a long long day. Regardless of how keen you are at skiing and how tuned your motor skills are, It is quite awesome thing to do and as I said one of my favorite things to do. The temperature no longer matters to me. John’s and Ed’s facial hair have frozen over and the two of them look like they were just part of an expedition to the north pole. I have some serious facial scruff going on but it hasn’t reached the full on “mountain-man” status John is sporting. The landscape is beautiful, we jump from slope to slope, chairlift to chairlift and decide to grab some food at the capitalist food lodge. If you’ve never been, something about Skiing or any form of outdoor hiking drains you of precious bodily vitamins and at a ski lodge all you see are people stuffing there faces with carbohydrates. It is really the only food you can eat at these places and really the only type of food you should be consuming. faced skiiers are packed into this tiny room stuffing there faces with pastries and fried foods. I struggle to finish my 12 dollar he-man burger, but I finish it and we get back to Skiing. John and Ed don’t appear as exhausted as me and maybe because they go all the time, but I start to think it is because I am so out of shape. The past few years, I wouldn’t say I’m overweight, but if you look at me you’d say, “Alright he could lose a few lbs”. “I am definitely hitting the gym when I get back to Florida” I say to myself.
I ski till I can’t feel my legs and the day is soon over. We are all exhausted and not looking forward to the drive back to nEWPORT, but tomorrow John has to work and I have to fly home. We stop at a pizza place in Stowe, talking about skiing and all of the attractive waitresses. It is mild banter and we head back on the road, jamming out to tunes. I try not to fall asleep as I have this rule about letting the driver be the only awake person in the car. I remember driving through South Carolina one time in my parents notoriously unreliable Mercedes wagon with my whole family asleep and a broken radio. Just me and a pitch black lonesome southern highway. We get back to Newport and I catch my second wind and even contemplate calling Kerr to see if he wanted to hit the town. After all, it was my last night in Newport. I decide against it, I had enough fun and spent more money than I would have wanted to on this trip.
Day 10- Home to Home
I wake up nice and early and go grab some D & D coffee to start the day. The weather is in the low 50s but it couldn’t have been nicer out there. I call up Matt and ask him if he wants to go to Providence/give me a ride to the airport. Kerr is a little hesitant at first but obliges. John and I talk about the trip and how awesome it was to go skiing and getting to see New England for the jewel it is. It is a tough goodbye as I begin to think it might be awhile before my next visit. I tell John to call me sometime and that hopefully, I get a visit from him sooner than later, and I take off. Kerr and I head up to Providence. I make a point that we must stop in federal hill and grab a slice from Casserta’s pizza, the absolute best pizza I’ve ever had. The wait for the food is long, but totally worth it. On the TV, Brett Farve and the Jets are getting absolutely demolished, I think by the Buffalo Bills. All is right in the world. We are clueless what to do in Providence and it is a little pathetic to see two native Rhode Islanders lost in the biggest city in the state. Providence is strange city, in that people always rave about its vibrant art culture and quaintness, but when you get to the place, you really don’t know where to go. It might be the product of years and years of going to Providence for the mall or to see a concert and than leaving immediately after. I call up my sister who always raves about Providence and ask her what to do. “Um, you could go down Thayer street? Or stop by that whole RISD, Brown University area?” she proposes. We have nothing else to do so we make our way down to Thayer street. It has a real college feel to it the whole neighborhood, I mean it is right near one of the top designs schools in the country and last time I checked Brown wasn’t a bad school. Its like a Gainesville or an Athens,GA. We are both bored with driving around looking at architecture and decide to go to a strip club. Kind of a strange way to end a trip, but I’ve got a few hours to kill. I have been to maybe two strip clubs before and both times I was with a large group on a Saturday night. This time it was just me and Kerr and a bar full of lonely lonely dudes. Lets face it, the enterprise of strip clubs attracts certain types of people, but it truly takes a special man to go to a strip club during church hours on a Sunday. The Patriots game is on and my mind can’t comprehend being surrounded by nude women and watching the team I love so much. I bounce back and forth between the two; “Run Cassell Run” “Go stripper go”. It is a good problem to have. One girl comes out and talks to us, she is really attractive and talks about how she is going to med school next semester at Boston University, which is not a shabby program to get into and we look at her in shock. Not that we were surprised someone as attractive as her would be going to medical school, but that she could put herself through school on a striper salary. She starts talking about her son and how she only wants to make their lives better. It is a really heartfelt conversation from someone who was just five minutes ago, rubbing their breasts in peoples faces. She asks me if I want a dance. I say no, even though I want to, not for me of course , but for that angel son of hers;). I still say no, I’ve got a flight to catch in an hour. “Its too bad” she says, nibbling my ear. We leave, I say goodbye and wish Chastity (forgot her name, but I just assume use a generic stripper name right?) all the best. I get to the airport and say goodbye to Matt, goodbye to the ocean state.
A lot of good had come from this trip, I learned tuly how much growing up I had done since moving away from New England while at the same time, realizing that I need to get a little more serious about my future and start making moves this year. I can’t change that place or put it in my pocket and take it with me to Florida. I can’t tell someone the way to run their life. I’ve never told my father how much I respect him for moving us to Florida, the courage it took to move away from family and friends and a life that was all we knew. Even though I completely hated the decision, I cannot help but think It could have been me walking around disoriented and asking people for cigarettes on a street corner. I’d like to think my head is on straighter than that, but seeing the complacency of so many people all throughout my trip, really opened up my eyes to how much of a crutch any town can be. I want to see the world, I want to backpack across Europe and Asia and perhaps this is all cause I moved away. I don’t know when I will go back, perhaps when I get married or have a kid of my own. For now, I am happy with where I am and that is all I could ask for. The trip was a beautiful moment for me and I can safely say I have come to closure with my move to Florida. Melville once wrote that “life is a voyage, that’s homeward bound” ; no matter where life takes me, I will always reflect on the places that made me who I am, while still not take away from the places that will carry me into the future.
“A man travels the world over in search of what he needs and returns home to find it.” – George Moore
