absent.canadian

So it’s my birthday today, and that means I get to do whatever I want.

Well, almost.

Not having the resources to erect a replica of the Canadian Parliament Buildings in my backyard, I decided it would be fun to explore Eastern North Carolina.

Destination: Tarboro.

The tobacco farms in this part of the Carolinas were in full bloom, with most of the tobacco fields ready to prime.  As much of a staunch anti-tobacco provocateur as I’ve been in my life, I have to admit feeling a bit sad for the farmers who make their livelihood by growing this rather beautiful leaf.  And while I’m not condoning tobacco use in any way, I do wish there was a more productive use for this plant.  I hate the thought of so many farmers losing their livelihood.

Instead of doing the usual hike across 64, I decided to take the “back roads” – through little towns like New Hope, Bunn and Spring Hope.  These visits bring some complicated emotions to surface, not the least of which is a lonely feeling that these were once bustling towns, and are now struggling to ebb out an existence as bedroom communities for neighboring cities.  But there’s something else; something I’ve been struggling all afternoon to articulate.

In Spring Hope I stopped at an antique store.  The inside was part antique store, part flea market, part concert hall and part family-room.  This was clearly a congregation point for local families, and may had made themselves at home in the various chairs and picnic tables and were enjoying a post-church social with friends.  It was the sort of thing you would never see in a large city, and was made especially fun by the local musician that tapped out homespun gospel music on a little electronic keyboard.

Speaking of music, I’m also remembering a curious stop at another antique store near Saratoga.  In the parking lot, lonely and forgotten, was an old upright piano.  It’s almost as if someone had parked it there 20 years ago and forgotten to pick it up.  A curious thing indeed, and one that was unfortunately reminiscent of the derelict state of many of the small-town “downtowns” I drove through.

I netted no antiques today.  No curious crafts or intriguing local finds; not even a single snapshot with which to chronicle the adventure.  But it was worthwhile adventure nonetheless, and one I hope to repeat on a Saturday morning when more of the antique and curiosity shops are open.

The first morning in a new city is something special.  There’s a heightened sense of awareness; a zest for adventure, and a willingness to try new things you wouldn’t normally jump on.  The logistics of getting from my hosts’ apartment to the training centre I was to patronize (this is, after all, a training trip) was something I hadn’t worked through, but Steph kindly let me use her computer to contemplate the nuances of the Boston area public transit system.

Like many old cities, Boston was layed out during a drunken Colonial orgy.  Streets intersect at angles still undiscovered in mathematics, and the proliferation of 1-way streets means that a few miles as the crow flies could result in several hundred miles driven.  The transit system takes this concoction of concrete and asphalt and makes some sense of it, and I found I could get just about anywhere in the city in reasonable time.

As much of a car snob as I am, I still enjoy riding a bus.  I departed from a station called Alewife (does this imply that one needs ale to withstand having a wife?  At this point I’m willing to agree) and rode through much of north Boston to a little ‘burb called Burlington.

Burlington seems like a fair place.  My training centre is located in a fairly “corporate” setting, next to a mall.  Yippee – five days in one of America’s most historic cities, and I get to spend many hours of that in a concrete jungle.

I’ll skip any further description of the training.  The learning itself is excellent; it’s just that I can’t stand the corporate expanses of grey carpet that comprise these buildings.

After my training I headed back down to Cambridge to take Steph and Natalie out for dinner and some drinks.  We wandered through Cambridge, and let me tell you – I could live here in a heartbeat.  Every little side street is filled with Volkswagens and Saabs and Volvos and Jaguars (back when they had two big chrome fuel doors on the top of the rear sill), and all of the houses look like they shelter intellectuals debating philosophy or physics.  There’s not a Republican in sight.

I stopped at a Middle-Eastern cafe on my way back, and witnessed a group of young women knitting and using spinning wheels.  Thank you, Cambridge, for allowing me to witness such beautiful displays of multiculturalism.

Dinner was at a Mexican restaurant whose name remains unknwon, despite the hearty culinary offerings.  Drinks at a local pub, during which I decided that cider (containing molecules of alcohol) is actually pretty tasty.

To cap off a perfectly perfect day, we exited the pub to big fluffy snowflakes falling from the heavens.  And the furnace a la Paul Revere seemed to be working that night, so I wouldn’t need a hundred comforters to keep blood circulating through my system.

Stay tuned for my next update about ripped knapsacks, finding an REI, getting to this REI, and hoofing it through half the city.