No Visit to Roanoke is Complete Without a Side-Trip to New England

Yeah, it's been awhile. Weird, too, because I've had plenty to write about, starting with our big trip to New England, which I built up in my last post two months ago and then left you hanging. Two months ago. Damn.

So we did in fact take our long-planned trip, or as I kept referring to it "Our Vacation to Roanoke" which only happened to include one night in that mid-size Virginia city. Of course I was kidding, because nobody plans an entire vacation around Roanoke (although it does seem like a lovely place to live), but Roanoke had the last laugh, providing me with the most photo-worthy scene of the whole nine-day journey:

It looked like a pretty nice hotel room (by my loose standards) even before I peeked in the bathroom (which I always do before I settle in just to make sure there isn't an organ-harvested body in the bathtub.) Apparently the "quality" in Quality Inn means being able to order a pizza while simultaneously making a delivery of your own. Amenities indeed.

This isn't to say that the rest of the trip was downhill, but the toilet phone did set the bar high. Luckily, New England was up to the challenge, thanks in no small part to NPW, who graciously (which is an understatement) lent us some real estate in her living room (okay, all of her living room) and a high-end air mattress for four days and nights in Massachusetts. She also drove us around the whole time, paid our subway fare, acted as tour guide for much of Greater Boston, and bought us cannoli from Mike's Pastry in the North End. See what I mean by understatement? Oh, and she's cool and makes good coffee.

Things to do in Boston when NPW is showing you around:

-Climb the Bunker Hill Monument on your first evening in town, ensuring cramped quadriceps for the next few days.

-See every single thing you can think of that dates from the Revolution. This is Boston after all.

-Eat a sausage from the Sausage Guy at the Boston Food Truck Festival.

-Pee on the Bucky Dent-shaped urinal mints in Quincy Market. (Not really. I didn't actually even use the restroom at Quincy Market but this is what I daydreamed about while waiting on my companions who did. No word on whether girls get things to pee on, or if they are shaped like former Yankees players. Also, I watched the pigeons.)

-Visit Harvard Yard and wonder if you really are as smart as you think you are.

-If you are a lady, drink a Boston Cream Pie Martini. If you are a dude, drink a beer and watch the ladies drink Boston Cream Pie Martinis.

-Have dinner with Aaron (who may be even funnier in person than he is in writing) and his fiance Mara (who is equally charming but has more hair), who are obviously in league with NPW in trying to prove that the term "Northern hospitality" is not an oxymoron, as people from the overrated South would have you believe.

And when you've had your fill of Boston (for now), visit historic Salem, where NPW will treat you to the Salem Witch Museum, which she assured us would be the cheesiest, lamest, most low-rent Hall of Presidents-style musem ever, and an absolute must-see. (She was right: it was either gloriously stupefying or stupefyingly glorious, I'm not sure which.) Also, when riding the historic tour trolley, do not get off at the first stop. It will not be coming back around shortly as they claim and the cooler stuff is still to come. When you are done with witches, clean your palate with a drive up to Newburyport, an absolutely charming seaside town with no known history of crushing people to death with stones.

Eventually, you will wear out your welcome in Massachusetts or NPW will have a plane to catch to Denver, one of the two. That's your cue to take the scenic route up to Portland, Maine and spend a few days there drinking local brews, eating lobster as often as possible, strolling the cobblestone streets and kayaking the island-studded coastline. Now that you've laid low in the most eastern of states, sneak back into Massachusetts for some more history in the charming village (there is no shortage of these) of Concord, where not only were the first shots of the American revolution fired, but a suspicious number of famous authors put pen to page. (I'd say it must be something in the water, but I had an iced coffee there and didn't write jack shit for two months.)

By now you're probably sick of all this damn New England charm that seems to be in such abundance, so spend the night in Worcester, where you'll drive around for an hour before finding an area that even seems safe enough to stop the car, let alone actually get out and find some dinner. That's sometimes the price you pay for avoiding the Crapplebee's by the interstate.

That's one scenario, anyway. The first step is cozying up to NPW, internet-style, so she invites you up in the first place. After that the rest takes care of itself. On our particular version of this vacation to Roanoke (the rest was just gravy,) Courtney and I also spent a night in New Haven, Connecticut where we walked around Yale University and ate a pizza on New Haven Green, attracting the attention of just one of the alarming number of homeless people there. If you have six hundred dollars you want to invest in a revolutionary new exercise machine (or maybe just some pizza you're not going to finish,) I know the guy you need to see.

For more amazing photos of our trip, none of which are from the inside of a bathroom, click here.

Good Thing We Don't Get Our Lobsters From the Gulf

It's taken three months, but someone (in this case in an article for The New York Times) finally asked where our outrage over pollution in the Gulf of Mexico was before the Deepwater Horizon catastrophe. In the time that the broken-off well has been gushing oil into the sea, no one (at least among the publications that I read) had made the comparison to that other, infinitely larger horizontal pipeline, the Mississippi River, that's been discharging its filth ever since we first began fouling it up a century or more ago. The Mississippi constitutes the largest drainage basin on the continent, meaning that every bit of runoff - the fertilizers and pesticides from farms and golf courses, every drop of oil that drips from a car onto a parking lot, and even the pharmaceuticals (human-filtered and otherwise) that get flushed down the toilets - between the Rockies and the Appalachians ends up discharged straight into the Gulf, creating, according to the NYT article "a zone of lifeless water the size of Lake Ontario just off the coast of Louisiana." You know the saying- "Every time someone pees into a storm drain in Pittsburgh, a fish dies in the Gulf." Okay, you've never heard it before, but it happens to be true. We've capped the oil leak (for now), but as of yet nobody has suggested we plug the mouth of the Mighty Mississippi with shredded tires and golf balls. Boy, that would sure ruin Mardi Gras next year.

---

In other news, the lady and I are taking a trip to New England about a week from now and it may include some camping on the Maine coast. Knowing that we'll have to feed ourselves at some point, and not being too excited about the idea of eating the same old camp fare, I came up with another possibility: Since most camp food involves a boiling pot of water anyway, and since we'll be in Maine, why not... and you're probably way ahead of me on this one... go ahead and shout it out if you know it... think Maine, the cold waters of the Atlantic, dinnertime... LOBSTAH!

Courtney thinks this is a terrible idea.

I just figured since cooking a lobster is no different than boiling a hot dog (except the hot dog died long before it hit the water, and probably in a much more gruesome, unsanitary fashion), it would make less sense to not take advantage of the fresh, local (and oh so delicious) catch. One of the campgrounds I've been looking at even sells the large crustaceans in its camp store, along with bug spray, postcards and marshmallows. Sure, it has the potential to be a tad messier than the average hot dog, but that's part of the fun.

And no, this is not one of my patented schemes to save money and deprive my lady friend of a romantic dinner. On the contrary, what could be more romantic than watching the sunset from a rocky outcrop over the sea with a bottle of wine or a bucket of cold local brews while tugging the meat from the steaming, splayed-open carcass of a crustacean while it looks up at you with its beady, lifeless eyes?

Yeah, that's what I thought, too.

By the way, if any of you have been to Boston or Maine or really any part of New England aside from Vermont (we won't be making it there on this trip unfortunately), now would be the time to tell me about anything that we absolutely must see while we're there. NPW can abstain from this part of the discussion (or not, if her enthusiasm simply can't be contained), since she will be sharing her local expertise in person.

Go West, Young Man! And Then Go Northeast.

Have you ever seen an RV with one of those maps of the USA on the back with all the states filled in that the RVer has visited? You'll find it just below the sweet airbrushed panorama of a dolphin jumping over a sea turtle or a wolf howling plaintively at the moon as a giant comet streaks by, unless it's a rental, and then you'll just see 1-800-GO-RVING and a back-up camera. You'll know they're full-timers if they're showing off both their map of interstate conquest and appreciation for soft-focus animal portraiture.

I've always wanted an RV (Because what's better than owning your own home and being able to park it wherever you want?), but so far I've had to make do with my compact pickup truck. I know what you're thinking- "What better canvas for a mural of a wolf fighting a grizzly bear or a galloping herd of wild mustangs than the back window of a pickup?!" Believe me, I've thought about it, but my truck has a sliding window, which is good for breezes but bad for murals- it would break up the flow, you see. Yeah, there's plenty of room back there for Calvin to be pissing on random shit for sure, but that's not my style either. Actually, my ride is devoid of all personal expression, unless you count the gigantic dent on the side which clearly implies "Yep, I'd rather pocket the insurance money than have a dent-free car." I'm waiting for someone to run into the other side so I can buy a kayak.

While I don't have an RV on which to display my intracontinental travel tick-list, I do have a blog. So here's my map, graded in color. In blue are the states I've both driven and slept in. In purple are the states I've only driven through, not stopping long enough to sleep. Red states are the ones I've visited only from the inside of the airport. White states have yet to feel the tread of my shoes or tires, along with Alaska and Hawaii.*

The reason I was thinking about this is that I should be filling in a few more states with blue or purple before long, because the lady and I are planning a trip to New England in August that could see us knocking off perhaps five more. Exciting, no? That would only leave eight states entirely unvisited for me, but I have no reasonable expectation of ever seeing North Dakota. Who does, really?

*Also, my truck and I have both been to Canada, but not at the same time.

The furthest I've ever been from home (even though we were homeless at the time), Redwood National Park, California.

I also have a post up today at the Greenists, if anyone's interested.

For My Viewing Pleasure

But I'll give you the opportunity, as well.

As promised several weeks ago, I put together a video of the trip Jacob and I took on the Chattooga River Trail. It features waterfalls, a bit of wildlife and, as usual, too many shots of people walking. Also, music.

Chattooga River Trail from dennyswaitress on Vimeo.

Things I've Done (and Eaten) Over the Past Week

-Realized it's July.

-Ate three different kinds of tacos with Traveling Em: pork, goat and beef tongue. Both the goat and the tongue were firsts for me. Goats are cute and it's a bit unsettling putting something that was in another creature's mouth into my own (except for the Dutchie, whatever that is, which should always be passed on the left hand side), but the tacos were excellent. I highly recommend Mr. Taco in Roswell, although I couldn't tell you why they went with Mr. instead of Sr., since the menu was in Spanish and the TVs were tuned to Univision.

-Watched some soccer. Turns out it's not so bad once you make peace with the fact that there is only marginally less chaos on a pitch (that's soccer for "field") full of international stars than one with a bunch of grass-stained eight-year-olds. The difference is subtle, but it's there. Actually, I've watched damn near every match (that's soccer for "game") of the World Cup and my appreciation of the sport has grown considerably, from "Maybe if they could use their hands they'd actually score a goal now and then" to "This would actually be a decent way to spend two hours if the players didn't act like such pussies every time they got kicked in the shins, the matches didn't so frequently end in a draw, and the officiating wasn't so random and inconsistent." A game that can end in a tie? Really?*

-Spent the 4th of July (also known as the day we asserted our right to call football soccer, the ultimate middle finger to those limey bastards**) at a cabin in the woods, where I ate meat, drank beer and climbed a waterfall. In that order. Photos here.

-Cleaned the apartment in anticipation of Courtney's return from D.C. I like to give the lady occasional reasons to keep me around (see also the sweet potato waffles I'm about to make her for dinner.)

-Drank beer, ate wangs (which of course is a typo for "wings," but I'm leaving it) and watched more soccer with Traveling Em and Courtney at Taco Mac, where the tacos are nothing like the authentic little tongue-stuffed gems at Mr. Taco but the draught list is incredible.

-Wrote a blog post in list form. Just what is it that you want from me? Narrative? Structure? Write your own damn blog then! (I did manage to include the descriptor "tongue-stuffed." That's got to be worth something.)

*Actually, I was totally digging the World Cup and the game itself, but being critical of soccer is the American way. And the players really are total pussies.

**Actually, soccer is a term coined by the English themselves; we stuck with it once a different variation of the game was created that involved use of the hands, an oblong ball, Don Knotts and a mule.

Ned Beatty Was NOT Invited

Although Burt Reynolds would have been more than welcome to come along.

My friend and fellow blogger Jacob and I took a little three day backpacking trip this week down the Chattooga River Trail. Although for many people it's a running gag to invoke the first few notes of "Dueling Banjos" when entering the woods or venturing into a particularly rural part of the country, a trip along the banks of the Chattooga makes it a little less funny because this is where the classic 1972 film Deliverance was actually shot.

While it would have made for a more interesting blog post, I'm happy to report that nobody squealed like a pig nor were we forced to kill any toothless hillbillies with a bow and arrow. But we also didn't get to enjoy the company of a cocky and strangely bare-lipped Burt Reynolds either, so I guess there's always room for improvement.

What we did enjoy was a trail that follows one of the most beautiful rivers in the southeast, if not the country. And I'm not the only one who feels this way: The Chattooga was designated a national Wild and Scenic River in 1974. It is well known among whitewater enthusiasts for it's wild, roadless nature and imposing rapids, and I'm sure this is well-deserved. For now I'll have to take their word for it, though, because the lower half of the 30-mile trail kept us well away from the river, up on the ridges among the impenetrable forests. We could hear what sounded like some serious cataracts down on the river and the occasional whoops and hollers from exhilarated rafters, but the action was well out of view.

The upper half was a different story: the trail spent long stretches winding beside the river and we encountered a slew of waterfalls and trout-filled pools. Our campsite the first night was actually located on a tributary between two scenic waterfalls, the lower of the two cascading directly into the river, creating a nice deep pool that was perfect for a pre-dinner swim. Not too shabby as campsites go.

Other highlights included a close encounter with a copperhead snake, Mark Doucette's left-behind fuel canister (writing your name on your litter must be worth a merit badge), a spirited thunderstorm that drove us to seek shelter in a conveniently located and temporarily unoccupied camp kitchen (probably saved my camera) and innumerable downed trees and a washed-out bridge resulting from the deluge.

You can see some pictures of our journey here. I highly recommend it. And coming soon, I should have another shaky video set to music you've never heard of. I can feel the anticipation building already.

Greetings From Nordstrand!

Not really, but this morning's World Cup match between Denmark and the Netherlands, besides proving once again that I will watch anything competitive, even when accompanied by an incessant buzzing that probably hints at what it's like to have kazoo-blowing wood nymphs infest your inner ear, reminded me to take another look at my family history.

See, I had a source that possibly put my paternal lineage in Nordstrand, a peninsula in northern Germany near both Holland and Denmark. I just hadn't bothered to connect me to it. Through the magic of the internet and thanks entirely to someone far more driven than I who happens to share my last name, I now know who my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-grandfather was and where he came from: Nordstrand, when it was a part of Denmark. I'm a Dane (or at least part Dane,) which means I'm retroactively pissed that my guys went down 1-0 to the Netherlands. Damned orange-clad tulip-sniffers. Legos rule, windmills drool.

Arguably more interesting, I also learned some cool stuff about all 10x great-grandpas. Some high(and low)lights:

-9x shipped to America in 1638 with a Swedish fellow named Bronck, whom he also leased farmland from. Bronck's name was attached to a river that ran beside the farm and was eventually misspelled as Bronx.

-9x also was convicted of selling his wife (my 9x great-grandmother,) resulting in his banishment from New Netherland, which I believe is how most people end up settling in New Jersey.

-4x was murdered by his wife and a minister, the two of whom were alleged to be intimately related.

-3x met a similarly violent end to his father's, bringing a pistol to a shotgun fight. He took one barrel's worth in the stomach, expiring several hours later. He apparently had it coming and was known to have previously killed two men himself.

And those are just my direct ancestors. Along the line there were also soldiers (Revolutionary War, Civil War- both sides,- and one guy who fought in the "Mormon War" in Nauvoo, Illinois,) scalpings by indians and a stolen keg of gin. Pretty cool, if you ask me.

Obviously, the genes for violence and adultery have skipped me entirely, although I did recently attend a seminar on the marketing and selling of wives. Couple that hobby with my blue eyes and Lego skillz to rival any Zack (He's a Lego maniac!), and my connection to the motherland is clear. Now all that's left is for me to spearhead a revolt that wrests the state of Schleswig-Holstein from Germany and returns it rightfully to Danish rule, inspiring statues in my Scandinavian image and songs celebrating my name. That way when I visit I'll never have to pay for a beer. But the gin's on me.