Hampton Beach, New Hampshire
After we dock the RV at a park in Salisbury, Mass., I suggest to Steve that we go to Hampton Beach and walk around. We drive the 4 miles and pull into the beach parking lot. There are parking meters, but Steve says, “They won’t charge for parking now; it’s after 5 o’clock.” “Parking metered 8 a.m. to midnight 7 days a week,” I read aloud on the parking meter. Steve’s all for adding to our collection of parking tickets by ignoring the meter, but I don’t want another parking ticket – we’ve already gotten them in California and Colorado (and ignored both). I dig in my purse, find a quarter and drop it in the meter. It gives us a whopping 10 minutes. “F**k it,” I say. I don’t have any more change, and I’m annoyed at having to feed these very expensive meters. We walk on, and I discover a vacant meter with 46 minutes left on it, then a few yards further, another meter with an hour and 16 minutes. “Quick, go get the car and move it here,” I tell Steve, while I lean against the meter shielding it from view by any other cars. After he parks thye Jeep, Steve tells me, “You know, when we’re retired, we won’t have any trouble finding the deals and getting bargains – you’ve already got plenty of practice. He’s probably referring to the deal I found today at L.L. Bean’s factory store. Steve needed a heavier winter jacket but wasn’t willing to spend even the reduced price of $59 (marked down from $109) for the one he wanted. When I found the same jacket in a size Small, sale priced at $39, I took the Medium and the Small jackets to the checkout counter, pointed out they were the same style, just different sizes, and could we have the medium at the sale price? No problem, the checkout clerk said, there’s no rhyme or reason to our pricing system anyway. Steve admitted to the clerk he never would have asked or tried to bargain a better price, but was glad that I did. “Why not?” she said. “If you ask, the worst that can happen is we’ll say no.”
*****
Walking on the beach in New Hampshire, looking for rocks and sea glass. No glass, but I find several interesting rocks, fingering them, studying them, then making the ultimate decision – keep or toss it back into the sea? After I fill my purse with about a dozen smallish rocks, I start looking for heart-shaped rocks, which I also collect. Can’t find any. There are thousands of rocks on the beach, but none meets my requirements. Finally I tell Steve, who is following me patiently, “Heart-shaped rocks are like gas stations. If you’re looking for one, you’ll never find one. So I’m not looking for anymore.” I take a few steps after this pronouncement and there in the sand is a perfect heart-shaped rock. What’d I tell you?? And in the next 10 yards of surf and sand I find three more! I’m happy.
Hampton Beach on a Thursday evening is in pre-summer. . . the air is cool, the ocean is cold, but there are plenty of adolescents and teens on the beach, hanging out at the pizza joints and in the parking lot, showing off their tattoos and piercings in tanks tops, bare bellies and shorts. Me, I’m wearing a denim jacket and khakis and I’m still chilly.
June 8
We’ve been in Abington, Mass. since Friday, June 3, at my sister, Christie’s and visiting with our son, Christopher and his fiancée, Sarah. Getting here was an incredibly exasperating experience. We drove from Salisbury, MA north of Boston, and relied on our GPS to get us to Abington, which is southwest of Boston. Unfortunately, the GPS didn’t know (nor did we) that our 38 foot diesel RV, carrying propane tanks and with Jeep in tow, is not permitted in the Sumner Tunnel, to which the GPS directed us in the heart of Boston. We reached the toll booth at the entrance to the tunnel and were frantically waved away by the toll booth operator, who came out of her booth to tell us sternly, “You can’t come in here!” She tells us to take Route 1 and gives us directions in her Boston accent. Then, because we need to turn around in a one-way lane, she calls the Mass. State Police. The trooper arrives as we finish unhooking the Jeep from the tow bar and directs traffic away as Steve backs up the motorhome. I head down the narrow Boston streets with Steve following. Bad news – the first left turn takes us to a detour and immediately we’re in trouble. I pull over as soon as I find a place where Steve can pull the RV out of traffic and tell him I have no idea what to do now. So he takes over in the lead, and for the next 2 hours we lumber through the narrow streets of Boston – many of them one-way – trying to find a route that will take us south without requiring travel through a tunnel (which we are restricted from because of our propane tanks, which are hazardous cargo and banned from the tunnels). Wrong turns that lead us north out of town don’t help. Finally, with the help of multiple phone calls to my sister Christie and our son, Chris, we find our way to 95 South, which will take us across the Tobin Bridge and on our way out of downtown.
But we discover as we near the bridge that evil awaits on the other side of the bridge – the Big Dig - another tunnel to which we’re not allowed entrance. We call the State Highway Patrol and after being transferred four times, they confirm that yes, there’s a tunnel, and no, we can’t go in. The trooper gives us directions which, of course, don’t make any sense and lead us back to the entrance of the banned Big Dig. Frustrated, Steve pounds the steering wheel and is ready to exit 95. “Fuck it, let’s go through the tunnel. We’re never going to get out of downtown otherwise,” I say. So we do, and we emerge safely at the other end, heading for the Boston suburbs!
We don’t do much sightseeing while in the Boston area, spending most of our time at Christie’s house visiting with her and her 3 kids or with Christopher and Sarah. We drive to Chatham on the Cape one day and walk around in town then drive down to the beautiful Chatham beach with its white sand and crystal clear water strewn with stones polished smooth by wind, water, weather and time. I could spend hours here collecting rocks on the beach and in the water – but we don’t have hours; we promised to stop by Christie’s brother-in-laws for a graduation party for their son.
Tuesday morning, Steve spends an hour on the phone trying to find a dealer in the area where we can get 2 replacement tires for the RV. Both are worn; one has to be replaced immediately – it has a deep gash in the outer wall. That happened when Steve turned into the driveway and bumped the tire against the high curb. We also need to get an oil change for the RV. It sounds simple. It’s not – most of the RV service centers tells him they don’t do oil changes. (What’s up with that??) . After about 15 phone calls, Steve finds a shop in New Hampshire, 70 miles due northwest, that has the Michelin tires we need. From there, we’ll drive to Bellingham, Mass., about 10 miles south of Abington – but 70 miles from the tire place – to get the oil changed on Thursday. We’re backtracking, but it’s the only route and schedule that makes sense – and keeps us out of downtown Boston and its cappelini streets.
We leave Abington on Wednesday. It’s 69 miles to the tire dealer in New Hampshire, but the drive takes us almost 3 hours. I follow Steve in the Jeep, to keep an eye on the bad tire and report any problems to Steve so he can pull over before it blows out. Fortunately, we get there safely and the tire change is quick so we’re on the road again in 90 minutes But the oil change is another story – it’s an all-day job, so we have drop off the RV at this grungy place in the middle of a residential neighborhood and take off to explore Bellingham and environs. Turns out there’s not much to explore; in 30 minutes we’ve seen everything. We drive around for awhile, killing time; we take the Jeep to a tire dealer and get the tires rotated, we find a state park on the map and decide to drive to the park, which we hope will have trees and shade – it’s a hot day, our Jeep has no AC, and we’re worried about Princess, who’s in the back seat looking wilted. After driving for an hour we find the park, and discover why no one we asked knew anything about it, including where it was. The park has a canal that’s covered in scum and filled with leaves and probably a breeding ground for mosquitos and a who knows what kind of diseases. And there aren’t many trees – or anything else to make the park appealing, for that matter. After walking around for 10 minutes or so – giving Princess a chance to pee and stretch her ailing legs – we get back in the Jeep and head back to town.
On the way, we pass a soft serve ice cream stand, and I tell Steve, “Let’s stop and get some.” I order a cone and a small dish of vanilla for Princess. The teenage girl behind the counter, on hearing the dish is for our dog, tells us there’s a Doggy Sundae, made with dog biscuits. She’s eager for us to order it; “I love making them!” she tells us. But Princess is picky about the dog biscuits she’ll eat, so we tell her Sorry, just make it plain. But then I see Chili Cheese Dog on the menu, and for some reason – even though I haven’t eaten a hot dog in 15 years – it looks good, and I order one. But when I take a bite, I realize why I don’t eat hot dogs anymore. I toss the hot dog in the trash and eat the chili and cheese on a bun – it’s good. And Princess laps up every bit of her biscuit-less ice cream and would eat more if she could.
Finally, at 3 p.m. we return to J&P’s Truck Service. Our motorhome is sitting in the parking lot, ready for us. RV oil changes, like RV tires, are not cheap – the oil change (with a few other minor services Steve has requested) is $350; the 2 tires were more than $600.
*****
Walking on the beach in New Hampshire, looking for rocks and sea glass. No glass, but I find several interesting rocks, fingering them, studying them, then making the ultimate decision – keep or toss it back into the sea? After I fill my purse with about a dozen smallish rocks, I start looking for heart-shaped rocks, which I also collect. Can’t find any. There are thousands of rocks on the beach, but none meets my requirements. Finally I tell Steve, who is following me patiently, “Heart-shaped rocks are like gas stations. If you’re looking for one, you’ll never find one. So I’m not looking for anymore.” I take a few steps after this pronouncement and there in the sand is a perfect heart-shaped rock. What’d I tell you?? And in the next 10 yards of surf and sand I find three more! I’m happy.
Hampton Beach on a Thursday evening is in pre-summer. . . the air is cool, the ocean is cold, but there are plenty of adolescents and teens on the beach, hanging out at the pizza joints and in the parking lot, showing off their tattoos and piercings in tanks tops, bare bellies and shorts. Me, I’m wearing a denim jacket and khakis and I’m still chilly.
June 8
We’ve been in Abington, Mass. since Friday, June 3, at my sister, Christie’s and visiting with our son, Christopher and his fiancée, Sarah. Getting here was an incredibly exasperating experience. We drove from Salisbury, MA north of Boston, and relied on our GPS to get us to Abington, which is southwest of Boston. Unfortunately, the GPS didn’t know (nor did we) that our 38 foot diesel RV, carrying propane tanks and with Jeep in tow, is not permitted in the Sumner Tunnel, to which the GPS directed us in the heart of Boston. We reached the toll booth at the entrance to the tunnel and were frantically waved away by the toll booth operator, who came out of her booth to tell us sternly, “You can’t come in here!” She tells us to take Route 1 and gives us directions in her Boston accent. Then, because we need to turn around in a one-way lane, she calls the Mass. State Police. The trooper arrives as we finish unhooking the Jeep from the tow bar and directs traffic away as Steve backs up the motorhome. I head down the narrow Boston streets with Steve following. Bad news – the first left turn takes us to a detour and immediately we’re in trouble. I pull over as soon as I find a place where Steve can pull the RV out of traffic and tell him I have no idea what to do now. So he takes over in the lead, and for the next 2 hours we lumber through the narrow streets of Boston – many of them one-way – trying to find a route that will take us south without requiring travel through a tunnel (which we are restricted from because of our propane tanks, which are hazardous cargo and banned from the tunnels). Wrong turns that lead us north out of town don’t help. Finally, with the help of multiple phone calls to my sister Christie and our son, Chris, we find our way to 95 South, which will take us across the Tobin Bridge and on our way out of downtown.
But we discover as we near the bridge that evil awaits on the other side of the bridge – the Big Dig - another tunnel to which we’re not allowed entrance. We call the State Highway Patrol and after being transferred four times, they confirm that yes, there’s a tunnel, and no, we can’t go in. The trooper gives us directions which, of course, don’t make any sense and lead us back to the entrance of the banned Big Dig. Frustrated, Steve pounds the steering wheel and is ready to exit 95. “Fuck it, let’s go through the tunnel. We’re never going to get out of downtown otherwise,” I say. So we do, and we emerge safely at the other end, heading for the Boston suburbs!
We don’t do much sightseeing while in the Boston area, spending most of our time at Christie’s house visiting with her and her 3 kids or with Christopher and Sarah. We drive to Chatham on the Cape one day and walk around in town then drive down to the beautiful Chatham beach with its white sand and crystal clear water strewn with stones polished smooth by wind, water, weather and time. I could spend hours here collecting rocks on the beach and in the water – but we don’t have hours; we promised to stop by Christie’s brother-in-laws for a graduation party for their son.
Tuesday morning, Steve spends an hour on the phone trying to find a dealer in the area where we can get 2 replacement tires for the RV. Both are worn; one has to be replaced immediately – it has a deep gash in the outer wall. That happened when Steve turned into the driveway and bumped the tire against the high curb. We also need to get an oil change for the RV. It sounds simple. It’s not – most of the RV service centers tells him they don’t do oil changes. (What’s up with that??) . After about 15 phone calls, Steve finds a shop in New Hampshire, 70 miles due northwest, that has the Michelin tires we need. From there, we’ll drive to Bellingham, Mass., about 10 miles south of Abington – but 70 miles from the tire place – to get the oil changed on Thursday. We’re backtracking, but it’s the only route and schedule that makes sense – and keeps us out of downtown Boston and its cappelini streets.
We leave Abington on Wednesday. It’s 69 miles to the tire dealer in New Hampshire, but the drive takes us almost 3 hours. I follow Steve in the Jeep, to keep an eye on the bad tire and report any problems to Steve so he can pull over before it blows out. Fortunately, we get there safely and the tire change is quick so we’re on the road again in 90 minutes But the oil change is another story – it’s an all-day job, so we have drop off the RV at this grungy place in the middle of a residential neighborhood and take off to explore Bellingham and environs. Turns out there’s not much to explore; in 30 minutes we’ve seen everything. We drive around for awhile, killing time; we take the Jeep to a tire dealer and get the tires rotated, we find a state park on the map and decide to drive to the park, which we hope will have trees and shade – it’s a hot day, our Jeep has no AC, and we’re worried about Princess, who’s in the back seat looking wilted. After driving for an hour we find the park, and discover why no one we asked knew anything about it, including where it was. The park has a canal that’s covered in scum and filled with leaves and probably a breeding ground for mosquitos and a who knows what kind of diseases. And there aren’t many trees – or anything else to make the park appealing, for that matter. After walking around for 10 minutes or so – giving Princess a chance to pee and stretch her ailing legs – we get back in the Jeep and head back to town.
On the way, we pass a soft serve ice cream stand, and I tell Steve, “Let’s stop and get some.” I order a cone and a small dish of vanilla for Princess. The teenage girl behind the counter, on hearing the dish is for our dog, tells us there’s a Doggy Sundae, made with dog biscuits. She’s eager for us to order it; “I love making them!” she tells us. But Princess is picky about the dog biscuits she’ll eat, so we tell her Sorry, just make it plain. But then I see Chili Cheese Dog on the menu, and for some reason – even though I haven’t eaten a hot dog in 15 years – it looks good, and I order one. But when I take a bite, I realize why I don’t eat hot dogs anymore. I toss the hot dog in the trash and eat the chili and cheese on a bun – it’s good. And Princess laps up every bit of her biscuit-less ice cream and would eat more if she could.
Finally, at 3 p.m. we return to J&P’s Truck Service. Our motorhome is sitting in the parking lot, ready for us. RV oil changes, like RV tires, are not cheap – the oil change (with a few other minor services Steve has requested) is $350; the 2 tires were more than $600.
posted by Anne-Marie | 9:28 AM
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