It’s Good to be the King!! (New Yawk: Part II)

The Massage:

So, after the overwhelming palates of wines, I knew it was time to head to my room. Now, I had more surprises yet that awaited me. The first was when I entered my room. In the few hours I had been gone, they had changed out the towels from the shower, straightened up the room, emptied the trash and left me a nice note with some small cookies and crackers from their bakery.

At first, I was a little taken aback and my Midwest “spidey” sense kicked in…. Someone had entered my room whilst I was gone!! But, the note explained that this is a “service provided by our onboard staff”… wow. Okay. I'm hip, man.

About ten minutes later (I was just about to turn on the television) I heard a knock at my door. What the?? I opened the door and there stood a minute, impeccably dressed (and beautiful) Asian woman. Behind her was a gurney of sorts. Her smile was radiant!

“Hello. My name is Sasha. I would like to know if you would like a massage tonight?”

In my best nearly-redneck-Midwestern-fake-Southern drawl I said, “You’re shittin’ me…”

She laughed and explained that this was a legitimate service offered by the hotel, free to it’s guests. Free? Huh? Wha?

“Yes, sir Mr Glaudell (she also pronounced my name perfectly!), we believe the our weary travelers seek peace and some serenity here, and we offer a sample of our services free of charge. Would you be interested?”

I said I would. She came into my room, pulling the massage table behind her. Then she informed me that I would need to undress. For modesty reasons she produced a soft terry towel with “casa blanca hotel” embroidered on it. I went into the bathroom to strip down. While hidden from site, I explained that I was very shy of my body. I told her I had several…um… personal issues regarding….my weight and my less than attractive back.

Sasha said, “Sir! I am a professional! ALL bodies and ALL backs are beautiful to me.”

Perhaps it was the wine, or maybe just the way she said it… I shrugged and said okay. I lay on the table. She rubbed a generous supply of warm and teak-wood smelling oils on her hands…and then on my back.

For the next 40 minutes, she proceeded to rub NEARLY every part of my body. I was completely at ease… as it was not sexual…but it was sensual.. it was loving…but not personal. Very strange.

In an effort to keep things lite, at some point I told her, “This is the best sex I’ve never had!” She laughed and said, “Mr. Glaudell. You are a funny man.” I told her that with no looks, talent or money, all I have left is wit. Again she laughed, and even the sound of her laughter was relaxing.

Finally, she told me she was done, and asked me if I needed any help getting off from the table. I told her no. She warned me that sometimes people have difficulty after a long session. Well, she was not kidding. I nearly fell on my knees after exiting said table.

You could have just poured me from the table into the bed (with the luxurious Egyptian cotton sheets, that felt nearly like silk, but not quite), like a pad of melted butter into a pan. I was just that limber and relaxed. In my whole life, I’ve never felt like that!

I did not know if it was proper or not (still trying to get a handle on the whole “tipping” thing), but I gave her a ten dollar tip. She bowed and thanked me and packed up her things onto the table.

I was already in bed, and nearly asleep already when she asked if she should turn out the light as she exited. I said, “Yes, thank you.”

And that was all I could remember until the next morning.

To borrow a much over-used phrase from a famous movie, “I am KING of da WORLD!”

New Yawk City, Baby!!!

Friday, Saturday, Sunday Morning:

What can you say about New York City that hasn’t been said, sung, written, or photographed already? I know it’s a sin to impart intimate objects with human qualities, but I’m tellin’ ya… if ever there was a city that was alive… it is New York. Okay, other landmark cities I’ve been in have their own personalities; Los Angeles (big, concrete roads, beautiful people); Las Vegas (Lights, sex, money); Atlanta (funk, blues, soul, traffic); Chicago (Finance, Midwest values, Wind and Water). But New York literally seemed alive to me. There was so much energy everywhere. Nothing slowed down. Everything had a hum or a beat to it. You could put your hands on the sidewalks and they hummed and thrummed with their own rhythm, and it never ever stopped.

I entered the doorway to the Casablanca Hotel, located on West 43rd street, literally eight whole steps away from that iconic picture of Times Square, with the signs, and the triangular building parting the traffic. I couldn’t stop from looking up!


The Hotel concierge at the desk was a tall, black man dressed in (and I’m not joking here) a tuxedo. He smiled and asked me, “How may I help you today, sir?” His demeanor was fatherly, in that he portrayed the perfect fit for an upscale Manhattan Hotel. I registered and from that moment on, he addressed me as “Mr. Glaudell”. He pronounced my name perfectly. Wow.

I took the elevator to the 3rd floor where my room was located. Room 306, just two doors down from the elevator. When I entered, I imagined myself as “Rick” from the movie Casablanca… tired, weary and cynical as hell. I sluffed off my clothes and for the next half hour enjoyed one of the most luxurious showers I’ve ever had.

Refreshed and changed, I headed to “Rick’s Café” located one floor down. I heard talking, laughing and generous piano music coming from below me. I took the stairs down, and entered the café, and was greeted by a beautiful young lady standing by the front of serving area. She held a glass of champagne to me and asked if I would like a glass. Yes, I said… all the while awash in luxury and her beautiful smile.

I sampled the foods laid out along the front counter. Brie cheeses. Cookies. Crackers. Little sausages. Finger sandwiches. Caviar. And wine. Your choice of any type of wine you want. As much as you want.

Since the room was full of people, I opted for a corner over by the piano. The piano player was adept at his craft. Moving from one “favorite Pop” to another with ease. When he took a short break, I asked him, “Well. Here we are at the Casablanca Hotel. Do you play it?”

“Play what?” he asked. “Oh….”

Well, of course…and for the next few minutes, time and space…reality and film noir collide as he plays “As time goes by”. I imagine myself as “Richard Blane, American.. age 35. Cannot return to his country…for reasons a little vague.” I’m waiting for Ilsa and her husband whom I hate, yet admire to show up. Sam is at the piano, and I’ve had just a little too much to drink.

Well, after a good hour immersing myself in an old Black and White movie, I decided I should probably venture forth onto the mean streets of ol’ New York City.

I exited the elevator and the same doorman that greeted me, wished me a “fair night out on the streets.” Wow. Okay.. so I stepped out and headed out to Broadway.. and Times Square.

The street itself has been segregated in the middle by what can only be described as an huge outdoor seating area. Traffic surging around the middle, where chairs and tables sat. There were streams of people coming to and fro on the street, yet the middle was also populated with what seemed like hundreds of people.

I opted for turning up Broadway, headed north… 43rd.. 47th.. I was going to try and find the George Gershwin Theater.. that’s where the play “Wicked” was playing, and where I had tickets for the very next evening.

The walk up and down the crowded and busy street was like wandering through wonderland. Every kind of department, specialty store, restaurant, clothier, club, theater, nightclub you could ever imagined right in front of your eyes. Names everyone has heard, The Brown Derby, Sacks of 5th Avenue, Macy’s (the REAL one…where they have the thanksgiving parade.. and where “miracle on 34th street” took place!), The Paramount Theater (more on that later), The Ed Sullivan Theater… It was like having the world at your fingertips. All you had to do was enter..

Street vendors everywhere!! And purses! Oh my gosh, Ladies!!! Thousands upon thousands of purses for sale on tables on nearly every corner… Magazine stands… Hot Dog-Peanuts-Sandwich vendors…Rickshaw taxis (I still say that’s the wave of the future!)… sidewalk saviors squawking about the end of the world and repent now… tour bus ticket hawkers….sandwich board salesmen selling tickets to the newest comedy club… there’s lady liberty in full blue dress signing autographs… people walking 10 dogs at a time, all on tangled leashes… yellow taxis everywhere…tour buses dodging in and out of stops at the speed of light…

Funny thing was, I never ever felt in danger at any time… there were truly cops everywhere… most of them were directing lost citizens… pointing here and there. And it was amazingly clean (well, except for the smells coming up from the grated sewers at some of the cross streets) and safe. And even contrary to what some people have said about New York people in general.. I found the experience to be unbelievably pleasant.
I went as far up Broadway as I could manage… stopped into an Irish Pub named “McGuinnies” (no, not like the beer)… and had a wheelhouse. I stopped into the M&M’s store to look around… wow. That’s a lot of chocolate! I turned back just a block up from the Ed Sullivan Theater (wishing David Letterman would tape his shows on the weekend!) and headed back.

I noticed on one spot a few blocks from my hotel, there was a center section, which looked like bleachers and lines of people waiting to enter. I didn’t know it until later, but these were the “last minute” Broadway Play tickets… If a show does not sell out… they raffle off the tickets to the people in the bleachers…first come, first serve. Up until just recently it was cash only.. but now they do accept credit cards. It is possible (I was told) to get some good seats at a marquee Broadway play for pennies on the dollar…

I’m thinking I was really hungry (I had passed in and out of about 30 restaurants during my evening stroll), so I settled on a little restaurant (recommended to me by the father-like desk clerk at the hotel) called “The Brooklyn Diner”…located just one door down from the hotel. I decided to take his advice. I paid about 35 dollars for a burger, fries and 3 beers. Okay, well the burger WAS excellent.. but 35 bucks?? Oh, well. When in Rome, I told myself!

I headed back to the hotel, full and satisfied. I did stop back to Rick’s Café in the hotel… to listen a little more to the piano player and have some more wine. It was nearly 11 p.m. and the piano player had left, but the wine was still being served…

I sat down next to the bronze elephant (one of two) that graced the room… drank my wine and thought to myself…

“Ah. It Is Good To Be The King!” And that is exactly how I felt!

7th Leg of the journey: New York City!!!

212 Miles
Left Boston: 11:00 am
Arrived NYC: (Lower Manhattan) 4:25pm


I left Boston not really feeling good about stuff. It had been a very long night. And of the entire road in front of me, this part scared me the most. I had been warned about the drivers in New York City. Its do or die there… eat or be eaten… Stand or fall. No place for wimps. Not for the faint of heart.

Part of the problem was timing. Checkout at the Milner Hotel was 11:00 am, and check in at the hotel in New York was not until 4:00 pm. It was only a three-hour trip from Boston to New York.

I decided to take my chances anyway. I figured the earlier I made into the city, the less I would have to worry about Rush Hour on a Friday afternoon in the worlds 6th largest city. I did stop a couple of times for rest and nourishment. The traffic on the highway was not too terrible, although I did have one unfortunate tussle with a lane of “cash only” traffic on the Massachusetts Turnpike. Why? Why? Why? Would they ever put a toll booth on the top of a bridge, where all the pay for cash traffic has to suddenly veer right (under construction) and then a sharp left….to get to the “cash only” (one lane) booth? Again, several fingers and gestures flew my way, as I had to brake into the line waiting to pay the toll.

I thought to myself… this is what the highway to hell must be like!

It wasn’t Hell. It was New York City! And, this time I let the GPS do the talking. Once across the Queensboro bridge (Stands for “Boro of Queens”) I was pretty much a slave to the GPS.

It didn’t help that because the U.N. was in session with all the world’s dignitaries (and Not-so dignitaries: I’m thinking of Kadfi’s rant at the U.N.), many of the roads were blocked off and there was NO detours to anywhere. “Up-dating Route…” was what my GPS kept telling me.

I wound my way around and down the slim island of Manhattan, until I was only three blocks away from Broadway. It’s was actually quite easy, as on the South tip of the island, the blocks are all numbers (North/ South) or easy to remember names (East/ West). The motel parking was right next-door at a place called “Meyer’s Parking” and I found the place easily and I was soon toting my luggage into the Casablana Hotel.

The Casablanca Hotel: Well, the pictures did not do the place justice I’ll say that. At the enterance way there was a well-suited young man that asked me, “Will we be staying at the Casablanca Hotel today?”

Here is the Web site for the Hotel: http://www.casablancahotel.com/

6th Leg of the Journey: Boston, Massachusetts

Left Portland, Maine: 1 p.m. Thursday
Arrive: 6 pm (after lots of turn-arounds!)
128.7 miles
30.00 Gas @ 2.65/ gal
31.7 MPG

I checked out of the Portland by the bay (reluctantly) at noon, and went again to the DogFish for a lunchtime Soup and Salad. Clam Chowder was the order of the day, as I enjoyed my meal while people watching outside the huge bay windows.

I got in my car, and made the trek to Boston in no particular hurry. Perhaps I should have been.

First, I had the wrong printed out directions for the wrong hotel. Over the course of the past year or so, I had changed my mind on several hotels, either because of cost or location. I had finally decided on the older, cheaper and better-located “Milner Hotel” right in the heart of the city.

The printed directions I had were for an earlier choice of hotels just outside the city. I had realized my mistake as I arrived at the wrong hotel. Flustered but not un-done, I decided to use my handy dandy laptop to lookup exactly where the heck I was supposed to be.

My laptop is the one I use for work, which is pretty useless considering the battery no longer holds a charge. Foreseeing such a problem, before I had left on my journey I went to the local Farm and Fleet store and purchased a DC to AC power inverter. This handy do-jiggy plugs into your cigarette lighter, and can power small electrical appliances, such as…um.. … a laptop! Yeah me! I was prepared!

After booting the computer, and getting a wireless source, I found the correct hotel and address, fed that into my handy GPS unit….and back on the road I went. When I arrived at the correct destination, there was NO hotel. Lots of old fashioned store fronts in brick and brownstone, but no grand hotel. I had to re-boot the laptop and again to gain the hotel phone number, which I did.

“78 Charles Street? Yes, that’s where we are located,” Said the pretty voice on the end of the phone. A pause. “OH!! THAT Charles Street! Oh, heavens no, we are on the OTHER Charles street across town! You’re looking for Charles Street South.” I must have rolled my eyes across the wire, or she could hear my irritation when I ask how I could find the other Charles Street across town.

The directions she gave me were useless, as I found out the grand old city of Boston is rife with one-way streets and roundabouts. Ah, we pause our story here to tell the story of the roundabout.

You know, near where I live, they have installed what is called a “roundabout” to supposedly increase safety and decrease traffic congestion. Now, I’ve heard it’s a sound and scientific principle, but frankly…. I don’t believe it for a second. The idea is that traffic goes around to the right, as other connecting roads join in and go to the right until you find the right “exit” out of the whirlpool. This way, traffic never really stops but slows down and everyone gets on to their correct connection, as it were. That’s the theory, anyway.

Now, add eight or ten connections and three lanes of traffic and instead of a roundabout you have what my friends back in high school loving called a “circle jerk”… I entered said roundabout and was not seen again for days. I just kept circling around and around, as there was just no way to break into the traffic mess that was all around me. I think I counted six times around the bend I went. Finally, some guy in a BMW must have felt sorry for the Wisconsin hick that was lost, and let me get ahead of him… and finally out of the tempest I came, back on the road to the lost hotel.

It took all I had to find the location of the hotel; maps, GPS, phone, Laptop and my own sometimes not-so common sense of direction. After circling the general area (and one more time through the roundabout AGAIN!), I parked my car a few blocks from where I believed the hotel should be located. I walked two blocks down and one over, and WHALLA!!! There she be!

The Milner Hotel was wedged between a parking ramp and some small shops in what I would characterize as an alleyway. The outside of the hotel was actually beautiful, with a carved stone front, and flower boxes outside the windows…it had the look of a very old, but grand hotel.

I parked my car in front (only a 10 minute limit and tow-away zone!!), and registered. I stood behind a very nicely dressed business lady who was having an argument with the front desk clerk. She was complaining her room was too small. She said she didn’t even have a place to put her computer. She asked if she could get a bigger room and the desk clerk lady (I’m assuming the one that gave me the bad directions) said there were no bigger rooms than hers. Angry, the woman skulked off.

I just thought she was being overly dramatic. I would find out she was not. My room was on the ground floor…room 104. Remember what I had written earlier about rooms on the ground floor?

Well, of course there was no place to park. Parking was “generously” provided across the street and part of the Park Plaza Hotel parking ramp. Parking was only 25 dollars per night. I’m beginning to see a pattern here… So, after parking the car, I checked into what can only be described as a closet…

After a quick shower and a catnap, I headed out on foot to discover Boston proper. The city itself was booming with people. I did make my way to the Boston Commons area, and there was the world-renowned pub, “Cheers”. The front looked just like the television show. Inside didn’t look anything like it. Actually, the inside was very touristy and expensive. After have one of their “house ales”, I decided I would find a better place to have dinner, as Cheers was a total disappointment. No Norm…No Coach. No Woody. No Dianne. No Dr. Crane.

Inside it looked just like a TGIFridays. Uhg. Spare me!

It was recommended by Natalie, the nice desk clerk to find a restaurant called “The Rock Bottom Brewery” just a couple of blocks off from the hotel. I found it, and had a great burger and fries. I found out they supposedly brewed the “best of Boston beers”, so I asked the waiter what he would recommend. He suggested I tried the “Rocktoberfest Lager”… I must say, it was even better than the “Wheelhouse” I had the night before. The meal and the three pints of local brew were pretty cheap and worth every penny.

I walked around a bit more, and headed back to the hotel. I was nervous about my impending road trip into New York City the next day…and I wanted to make sure I had a good night’s rest.

Didn’t happen.

When I entered my room…er….closet, the air conditioner (which was precariously hung above the window, above the bed) had been on all this time (On and OFF were it's only mode of operation), and the room was very chilly. I shut off the control for the air and made my way into the tiny bed in the corner of the room (which was pretty much every corner)…

I slept a whole hour before people talking loudly outside my window awaked me. With the air conditioner off, I realized I could hear pennies drop outside on the sidewalk. For the next several hours, I suffered another night of unending traffic, party-goers and one small argument between two drunken men fighting for the right to take some lady home.

Right around 3 a.m. I turned the air back on and made do with as many covers as I could manage. I awoke early in the morning to find that I could nearly see my breath in my room…my nose was cold and I had to pull my coat onto the bed to help in the cold. At least I couldn’t hear the street noises anymore….

5th Leg part 2....er...duex..

5th Leg: Part Duex…er…Two.

The Holiday Inn Portland By the Bay was, by far, the most luxurious of the Hotels so far. I was on the 9th floor of this amazing Hotel. The view from the window was breathtaking! I could see the Atlantic Ocean for the first time… as I just stared out of the window for nearly an hour, as darkness fell upon the water.

I had made arrangements months in advance to eat at a supposedly “Authentic Irish” restaurant name RiRa right on the waterfront. It was just a little further than could be walked easily. The nice lady at the front desk directed me to the shuttle and the drivers stationed at the door awaiting; Eric and Eric. I laughed and say, “Perfect! My middle name is Eric!”

Eric dropped me off about 18 blocks along with waterfront, and gave me a number to call him back when it was time to return. Wow.. now that’s some service. I walked into the RiRa Restaurant.

It was a very beautiful place, I will grant you that. I took the “upper loft” seating overlooking the water (of course). I will say it may have advertised itself as such, but for an “Authentic” Irish restaurant, it was pretty Americanized. There was a 50-inch Big Screen television that several of the patrons were watching the Boston Red Sox game.

The bar keep was a pretty agreeable guy. I asked him what a good Irish beer that’s a little softer than a Guiness. He suggested the special (of course), a lighter Irish “Lager” called “Wheelhouse”. I agreed to try it, and indeed….it was perfect. Just enough of that hops taste…but not so weighed down as a full Pulstas. I ordered the Fillet Minong along with a good helping of “Irish Potatoes”. It was a wonderful mean, though I hardly think it could be termed “authentic”. Fifty dollars lighter, I left RiRa full and just a little tipsy.

Irish “Wheelhouse” has about 8 percent Alcohol by volume! Not to mention my “desert” which was a big shot of Jameson Whiskey. Doggone ya, Dena!!! It was YOU that introduced me to the Jameson... Good Irish Whiskey! And only like 10 dollars per shot! Grrr...

I called my faithful driver Kato… er… Eric, and in five minutes he arrived at RiRa to pick me up. He said he had one other pickup to make before we went back to the hotel. He picked up a nice elderly couple who (unless I miss the big clues) were Jewish and together forever.

They were at another restaurant on the waterfront, and were a chatty couple of folks for sure. They asked me where I was from and I said Wisconsin. They started talking about how great the snowmobile races were up Eagle River.

It was nice to chat with them. Seems like most of the people I chatted with were at least in their 60’s. Is this my elderly-bonding moment? Dude!

Eric informed me if I want to go to a cool local pub that was not so commercialized, it would be the “DogFish” just 2 blocks up from the hotel. Tonight they had open mic night and it was always packed.

Still a little tipsy from the pub, I decided I would wander up the street to the DogFish. Wow, what a place! It was packed, and okay… I did indeed sign up for open mic, and was handed an ancient guitar and told to sing into the microphone.

I gave them two songs; “Yesterday” (Which received moderate, and polite applause) and then my own “Midlife Crisis Song”…which I had people singing right along. At the end of the song the house exploded with applause! It was pretty cool that people really responded well to that song, and they requested an encore. I then sang my version of “Margaretaville” which also got raves!

It was great! I felt like I had really whacked it out of the park with the three songs. They gave me more free drinks, and by nearly closing time, I decided I should get back to the motel. I walked the two very LONG blocks back and collapsed, happy, onto the very comfortable bed.

It’s no surprised that I slept in late the next day, as I awoke to a sunny and breezy day. The sun glinting off the bay, and I lazed around the room until nearly noon that day.

5th leg of the Journey… Welcome Back to America!!

Started out 8:30 a.m.
Arrived: 4:20 p.m.
295.7 Miles
32.6 mpg
Gas: 25.00

As I was saying my trip back to America started out on a bad note. It was rainy, it was dark, it was dreary. It was Canada! (haha).

The way out of town from “Mount Royal” (thanks Gail, for that! I laughed about that a lot), was a maze of confusion. Honestly, with all my maps, GPS and guidance, I was still lost. Luck was on my side, however. I somehow just “happened” into the right highway exit…. And ended up on the right highway out of town. What a stroke of luck!!!

I was really laughing at myself how I managed to land like a cat on my intended targer. Whew!

I find it interesting that the closer I got to the US border, the clearer the weather. When I finally reached the Border station at a little town in Vermont, it was finally sunny and cool. The name of the place was appropriately called “Rock Island”.

The Border guard was much more agreeable on the way in, than the frosty lady in Michigan… He asked me for my Passport, and how long I was in Canada. He opened the tailgate to my car, to check for contraband. Then he handed me back my passport and said, “I hope you have a pleasant trip and thank you.” Wow. What a difference a Country makes.

Well, just over the border was a small Midwestern-ish town named “Derby” where I stopped for a good long time at a McD’s for a real US breakfast. I spent a good hour, reading my book and feeling better about finally coming back to my home in America.

Well, I girded myself for the quick race across three states and hoped that my next destination might be a little easier on my nerves. Well, it was a yes. And it was a no. The scenery in Vermont and New Hampshire were amazing. The colors on the trees are just now turning. Reds, yellows and lush, dark greens… along with sloping hillsides made fresh from the days of rain. So many post card pictures in the making!

Well, I decided that I had enough of crowded interstates with people either passing me like I was standing still or the bumper to bumper dance we’ve all become accustomed to on big highways. So I thought I would take a few side roads from Eastern Vermont and through New Hampshire.

Every time I think of New Hampshire, I think of that old black and white move I have called “The Devil and Daniel Webster”… Where only good NEW HAMPshire farm men grow good NEW HAMPshire wheat, Mary! It’s easy to imagine the first farmers and settlers that came here were devout believers in hard work, freedom, church and families. Not much has changed in 250 years, which I can tell by some of the old, old farmlands…

I entered New Hampshire without much fanfare, as I was traveling on a old country road that led me past “The Presidential Mountain Range”. I didn’t even know about it… but steeped in the low hanging clouds you could see Mount Washington, Adams and Eisenhower. It took me a while to recognize where I’ve heard of these mountains recently. This is the mountain range where several people, hiking have been murdered and left for dead. The beauty and the loneliness of the mountains in the distance, only gave me a chill as I remembered this.

I stopped in a tiny little burg just at the base of the mountains called Gorham for some gas and a soda… stopped at the “Faith Gas Station and grocery store” on the main drag. The very pretty young lady behind the counter (you paid for your groceries and gas at the same place), asked me for the “Pre-pay” amount. I told her ten dollars. Perhaps it was just that I was tired, but it seemed to me that she used both her hands to give me my change, and gave me a smile that could like up the mountainside. Wow.

As I headed out, I was opening the door for an elderly man that was carrying some supplies home. He thank me, and notice my car. He said, “oh, that’s a pretty classy looking car you got there. What is that called?”

We struck up a friendly conversation about cars and such… and I noticed he had one bad eye. He was probably 80 if not more so, but he was very friendly. He asked me where I was from. I told him, Wisconsin… land of cows and beer and Packers. He laughed and said, “Have you ever been to a little place up north called Antigo?”

Could have knocked me over with a feather. I said, yes… I had just been there weeks earlier. I told him that my folks used to take me fishing every summer on a little place called “Pickeral Lake”….and I’ll be danged if he didn’t know of the place! Well, we stood and talked for a good half an hour about the old north woods and fishing for “Pike” (the actual name for Pickerals’). Funny thing about angles, sometimes they look like old men.

Well, I headed East, into Maine… and then finally South toward the coast. Now, the stretches of roads in Maine where beautiful… EXCEPT.. it was obvious they were doing some major renovations on the winding highways there. And, they don’t fool around brother. Not like here, where they may close one side of the road.. no no no.. they literally take the road away, blast parts of the hills and you are traveling on dirt, mud, sand, rutted roads….bumper to bumper… at 3mph for stretches of 20 miles or more.

If my suspension is not wrecked before…it certainly is now.

The way into Portland was not as bad as I thought it would be, as I obviously snuck in from the rear, avoiding any of the really busy toll roads.

I found my motel easily and quickly, with little or no troubles at all. I was right downtown in old town Portland, Maine… and I had finally managed to take my car and myself from Coast to Coast.

Here, finally was the Atlantic Ocean! Ahoy!!!

4th Leg Across the Country of Lesser France....

Honestly, How I was to know? I mean, I’ve heard people say it… and even warned me about it…but, now I know how Canada is really French. Hey, I figured…it’s like America…where we accommodate everyone. (yeah, little laugh there)

Other languages can be difficult for anyone, I’m sure. But French is especially difficult. How about 3.4 km Sud - du - Ste-Angelina-monninor / Rue St. Ellen vers Delasuus / Bol. Rue Ashland ??? Go ahead and find THAT animal on the map, I dare you!

I did finally figure out the whole KM thing about 200 miles (er) Kilometers from Niagara Falls… It was a quick lesson in mathematics and equation solving. I couldn’t believe that petrol (gas) was ONLY 68 cents (Canadian) per Gallon….er…liter. Four liters is just a little bit more than 1 gallon. OH…hell!

Well, then I seemed to remember my stupid car was made in Canada….there has to be some digital way of figuring this out. Well, after fooling around on some of those display prompts on my speedometer… I reset my oil usage meter three times… I finally figured out I could use “other” for measurement! Wow.. my speedometer ran up from 60 to over 100 kph!! And suddenly, I could measure distance to go, liters left in the tank, everything. Technology to the Rescue!!! Yeah!!!

It still didn’t help me out with the road signs, though.

I was thinking I was going to find my hotel sometime around 4p.m. It turned cloudy and rainy and dark suddenly. And driving around in dark, rainy weather in Montreal…where I’m sure there is more construction on the roads than there really are roads. After some 20 (and I’m not joking here) detours around my destination.. I finally found the Lord Berri Motel located on Rue Berri Street (there are approx four of those with different spellings by the way) by 8:00 pm.

The only way I could find the place, was to use my (up until now) psychotic GPS unit. However, I must admit…. The thing performed perfectly, leading me deftly around what I would discover was the Montreal University (no wonder it was so confusing here!)… My room actually faced the “Main University Library”. I know this because I’m sure several of the shocked students got to see me in my birthday suit (there were no shades or drapes on the windows), as I got out of the shower.

Well, I asked about parking and the very well-coffered (Is that REALLY a Rolex you’re wearing?) desk manager informed me, “we’re all filled up on parking tonight.” Okay, then Jeeves ol boy, where do you suggest I park? Up your ass? (I didn’t say it…but I kind of wanted to)… He told me there is “additional parking” next to the hotel…however they charge 35 dollars (Canadian) per day… and the day starts at Midnight. So for the princely sum of 70 dollars I can park my car in a questionable part of the city on an above ground lot until check out time the next day at noon?

Wow…what a scam. But, at this point, what else could I do?

I must say that the parking attendant was very cool though. He laughed when I told him the story (Of course, I don’t think he spoke much English, so maybe he was just laughing at the funny way I pronounce stuff), and only charged me 25 dollars (American), for the whole night.

The hotel room? Well, I felt like I was suddenly stuffed into one of those strange Fellini French Films… all in black and white.. and young people… stick figure girls in short short tight black skirts, long black flowing hair, tiny breasts, and wearing a beret… the men all tall, tanned French men with zero abs, curly black hair and not a clue how to treat another human beings…aka: The woman they were romancing…. inhabiting the whole place… I was very tired, but I was determined to see a little of the city before I conked out.

I walked down the street, and I did find a small jazz club that a lot of people were walking towards. Up some questionable wooden stairs to a small, dingy and badly lit club… the music was really something… drums.. (just a snare, bass drum, one tom, and a lot of high hat)… stand up bass and piano… It was a little richy for my taste. Music a little over my head (beret?)… but again.. it was like watching some 1960’s film.. I nearly expected to see Maynard Krebs (if you were born before Gilligan’s Island, you’ll know who he is) in the corner with his bongos.

I found out that as long as I didn’t speak much, mumbled a lot to myself (I do that anyway), and paid for everything in Canadian money, no one would take a second look at me… I stayed for the better part of an hour… drank some very foul (yet, somehow tasty) French wine… and headed back to the motel room.

And what the heck is the idea that you eat your room service food, and then leave the remainders outside the door on the floor? Is that a French thing… or is that just a human pig thing? Doesn’t anyone think about rats or bugs?

Well, I got very little sleep that night. The noise from the air conditioner (if you could call it that… I would call it the out of tune, not-quite calliope), was not good.. if you shut it off the dingy room smelled of sweat and urine, and the next door neighbors were either having sex…or watching tv… couldn’t tell which, and the French wine was now burbling in my stomach.

I was up and out of there by eight the next morning.. the day started out as rainy and cool…and overcast skies.

I think that Montreal was way outside of my comfort zone. It’s one thing with the Canadian money, and the way the people absolutely HATED us American’s.. but, the language barrier, the non-accommodating traffic signs and the absolute foreign-nation of the place made me VERY happy when I finally crossed over the next day into America.

All this got me thinking of something though: Perhaps there’s a reason we are hated in other countries. You know, it’s not just the eight years of G.W. pushing everyone around like some yehaw cowboy. It’s the way we Americans perceive things too.

I saw a very funny commercial the other day on television with Wanda Sykes. She was playing like she was “the President” in a press conference. One of the reporters asked her is she could prove that she was of “Authentic American Heritage”, she replies; “Of course I’m American! I only speak one language and I REFUSE to learn the metric system!”

I saw plenty of evidence in only my two short days in another country of what has been termed “the ugly American”.. Maybe like everything else we seem to do lately, we’ve gone to extremes on how we treat others in other Countries.

I think I’m going to try and learn another language, or maybe more. It’s really a global world we live in, and by moaning and bitching that we…oh…have to push “English” on the ATM… we belittle ourselves. I’m willing to bet our ancestors did not have a great idea how to speak the native tongue either.

Well.. onward to the Coast!!!