Mt. Washington Steamboat |
We were attempting, in part, to recover the joy and peace we
had experienced during an earlier trip to Lake Winnipesauke in Laconia, New
Hampshire. When we arrived at our destination after a four hour drive, we
discovered – or rather my vigilant wife Andrée discovered, with a shriek -- “Oh
no, Dublin’s dog bag is not here!”
She was, as usual, right. The bag containing Dublin’s food
and other necessities for seven days was resting placidly on our dining room
table in Vernon, Connecticut, awaiting transportation to Laconia.
“You’ll have to go back and get it.”
The going and coming took eight hours. Naturally, there were
traffic delays owing to highway work that, as best I could tell, ended about
3:00 in the morning. I arrived back in Laconia at 4:00, the typical weary
traveler. I felt as if I had just crossed the Sahara Desert on a tortoise. One
of the worksites took a half hour to travel 0.2 miles to an exit, but when you
find yourself in the company of so many patient travelers, you somehow feel
less emotionally stranded.
The drive was instructive. Adversity is a great teacher, as
the longsuffering Job realized. I discovered that the best way to stay alert
during an eight hour drive – twelve when you factor in the in the four hour
morning drive from Vernon to Laconia -- was to listen to jazz on the radio and
engage in imaginary discussions with my alter-ego centering on politics. After
so many hours on the road, even an effervescent Country and Western station
will cause the eyelids to droop. But not jazz.
Political writing had always been forbidden on all our trips.
A vacation is a vacating of the usual dreary routine in search of enlivening
adventure, and so – I-Phones, computers, and the usual means of connecting with
our sorry world were strictly forbidden. Andrée, however, did take along her
tablet, in case an unexpected event required such communication.
Andrée -- who had in the past arranged separate
mind-broadening trips to Paris, Nice, Rome, Florence, Sicily, Malta, London and
other European hot spots – was disappointed that our return trip to Laconia had
been soiled at its promising beginning.
I told her before dumping my wasted body into bed. “Don’t
give it another thought. We’re in Laconia now. What could go wrong?
For two days, the television and WIFI worked perfectly. On
the third day, we were greeted with the following message: “There is no
connection.”
Andrée was disappointed. Prior to the trip, she had tuned in
on her tablet to view “Reacher” – not the Tom Cruise Reacher, but the new
muscle-bound Reacher, what’s-his-name? This was something of a marathon for
her. She had read nearly all of the Reacher novels written by British author
Jim Grant, who writes under the pseudonym of Lee Child. She did not like Tom
Cruise’s Reacher because physically he did not meet the specs in the books she
had read. And now, here in series 4 was Reacher in the flesh. She already had
viewed a few episodes in the new series, and then -- poof! The horrid message
we were seeing meant that even her tablet was incapacitated, and that meant
frequent trips to McDonalds in Laconia to take advantage of their free Wi-Fi.
Up to this time the only site we had visited was mass at a church we had
located via WIFI in McDonalds. All this
time might better have been spent revisiting our past joys, one of which was a
MS Mount Washington two and one half hour cruise on Lake Winnipesaukee, the
largest lake in New Hampshire.
The boat, though not a paddle wheel, somehow reminded me of
Mark Twain’s river fantasies. White caps churning the surface of a lake on a
windy day invite fantasies.
I turned to Andrée mid-trip: “This boat has such an even
keel. Look at the water flowing past. Does it not seem to you that the boat is
stationary, while the water and the surrounding land mass are in motion?”
We were outside on deck and, as usual, Dublin – our Fidelco
“Irish German Shepherd,” we told some passengers – was inducting into our pack
the few people who had introduced themselves to him. Some passengers,
discovering we were from Connecticut, confessed they too had lived in the
state.
Andrée was impressed that the boat service had extended us a
special privilege. We were first in line at the dock.
Finding ourselves at sea, cable communication-wise, we
contacted the owners of our pristine accommodations, and their response was
magnificent. They traveled hours from New York and spent a good part of an
afternoon with us attempting to fix the problem. When an hour spent on the
phone with a troubleshooter failed to resolve the problem, arrangements were made
to meet with a technician who could settle any difficulties. The technician was
to arrive in two days’ time.
The next day we visited Winnipesaukee’s Scenic Railroad.
“Hold on here, this is not like Mount Washington’s Cog
Railway, I hope.”
“No,no,no,” Andrée said, remembering my curses and prayers as
the Cog Railway, growling like a demon with iron jaws, edged up a deep ravine
to the top of Mount Washington. “It’s just a scenic train trip in the Weirs
Beach area on an old train.”
Andrée enjoyed the Cog Railway adventure because she has been
legally blind from birth, and what little she sees is bathed vaguely in a soft
reassuring halo. That saving halo enveloped all in London where we were able
safely to negotiate a walk around the dome of St. Paul’s cathedral, not quite
as exhilarating as the Cog Railway, but close.
“How old is the train?”
“Old enough to be your great-grandfather. You’ll see.”
We bought a first-class ticket because Dublin needs a bit of
stretch-out room, and we did not want to disturb the passengers. Once again, we
were first to board. We were met at the boarding ramp by the train’s conductor
who told us, “You can be seated if you like in the caboose. No one has rented
it today.”
The caboose was two cars at the beginning or end of the
train, depending upon whether the train was beginning or ending its trip, and
the conductor ran the train from the caboose.
He asked where we were from. Connecticut, we said.
“And you?”
“Manchester.”
Detecting a British accent, I remarked, “Manchester in
Britain, not Connecticut.”
“That’s right, though I’m familiar with Connecticut. I moved
from Britain to Manchester, New Hampshire. Some things you just can’t shake.”
“There is a New Britain and Manchester in Connecticut.”
Ever polite, he brought us soda and cookies and water for
Dublin. One never forgets such kindness.
In search of Laconia’s library the next day, the right front
tire on my car went flat, the result of an earlier pot-hole encounter. I called
AAA. Someone would be there, I was told, in an hour and a half. A young girl,
noticing the flat tire, approached us and asked how she might help. She gave us
street information that we relayed to AAA. She liked dogs and, when employed,
drove a large semi.
Dublin and Andrée were outside the car when we heard a man’s
voice. He told us he had a German Shepard much larger than ours. I told him we
were waiting for AAA.
“No need. I’ll get you out of here in a few minutes.”
He disappeared briefly, returned with a hydraulic jack and
put the spare donut on. He saw the dog and the Connecticut license plate from
his window, and there in the window of his house was his dog, a massive and
stately German Shepard, watchful and statuesque. We canceled the AAA visit.
Our Good Samaritan lived in Connecticut for many years but
moved to New Hampshire because, as the owner of a small business, the taxes
were cutting into his assets, and “the regulations were insane. I felt I was
lying uneasily in a casket every night.” I asked him whether everyone
in New Hampshire was a Connecticut expat.
“There are lots of them.”
Blanche Dubois, the hapless lady in Tennessee Wiliams’ A Streetcar Named Desire, dependent
always on the “kindness of strangers,” would have been tenderly treated in New
Hampshire, where people are willing to give you their time and mercy.
A couple of days before we returned home, salvation arrived
in the form of Reilly, the technician. I met him in the parking lot. He first
words to me were, “This is going to be quick and easy.”
“Two of my favorite words,” I replied.
It was quick and easy for Reilly. Often in politics and
journalism, we misuse the word “expert.” But the use of the word is proper in
all technical matters, and Reilly was as good as his word.
“So, Reilly, what problem has been the most challenging for
you lately?”
“Artificial Intelligence.”
The reader may be disappointed should I pronounce the trip a
crashing -- pun intended – success. But so it was. As a cherry on the cake, the
property owners allowed us a full week vacation, cost free, at any time of our
choosing in the future – very generous of them. I told them both all these
difficulties could be waved away because “They made it possible for Andrée and me
to meet with both of you face to face for the first time. The husband was a
retired engineer, the wife an accountant, still working.
“I just love numbers, always have.”
Both had overcome adversity in their lives, and the wife’s
account of their courting under the watchful eyes of her mother was hilarious –
very good people, initially from the Dominican Republic. Adversity had given
them courage and – very important – persistence.
We arrived home safe and sound with our Dublin and our new
tire, procured at Tire Warehouse, which boasts the largest collection of tires
in New Hampshire.
It was the people we met and their unselfish kindness that
made the trip a joy for us – and the many stories. People are larders full of
delicious tales. Humans are story swapping creatures. And Americans are
preeminently a problem-solving, persistent people. The ash heap of recent
history is full of the bones of those of America’s enemies who have
underestimated them. New Hampshire is alive with the ethos of quiet,
inoffensive, just and merciful Americans.
Comments