The Traveling Life

Just returned from a working vacation in Maine. I profiled an ATV club in Central Maine, photographed an old farm tractor, and spent a couple days camping in Acadia National Park with my 11-year-old niece, Hannah. Hannah and I have been going camping each year since she was five, and she came with this year to help out on the assignments and see a new part of the world. She’s a great kid, and a good little traveler.

One of the best experiences came at Hannaford, a little grocery store chain out there. We had a nice time chatting with the woman at the deli counter, who told us about her grandkids and sailing and how much she loved Bar Harbor. I was trying to get Hannah to touch one of the live lobsters in the store, and she said, “I’m not touching that!” A woman walked by, smiled, and said, “I'm with her—I wouldn’t touch them, either!” At the meat counter, I was buying some salmon to cook over the fire, and another woman walked up to pick up some pork shoulder. She saw Hannah eyeing the lobsters, and took one out for her to touch. Bar Harbor, at least, is a friendly place.

A little coffee shop in Bar Harbor was also a nice little home-away-from-home. They had wireless, so I went there to work for a few hours and Hannah shopped the block. I had her come back every ten minutes, and she’d come in with a bag of stuff and show me her treasures. She bought a sweatshirt for her dad, a bracelet for Amy, a stuffed lobster for Heather, and a bright green stuffed moose for Allie. She also bought a snow globe for Mom (grandma), but that broke while it was in her backpack.

The tidepools were a nice experience, and rummaging through them is a great thing to do with a kid. We found a little tiny crab, shells, a sea anomene, and tons of snails on Wonderland. We also hung out at Seal Beach a couple of nights, and Hannah found lots of shells there and a little stream to play in.

During the trip, Hannah asked me how much fun I had over the past few years, and I said I have so much fun doing what I do that it ought to be illegal. That stuck with me, and I was thinking about it last night. Right now, nearly everything I do in my life, I enjoy. I’m lucky and proud of what I’ve done during the past six months of trying to make this business work. I focus so much on where I want to be that I sometimes forget to appreciate where I’m at.

Serendipity

While flying back from the Crooked Road tour in Virginia, I sat next to Brian, who is from Ohio. We talked for a while, and I found out that he used to work for the Ohio Tourism Office. He also told me that Hocking Hills was a great place for motorcycling, and I should visit.


A month later, a hand-carved bird shows up in the mail along with an invitation from Amy Weirick of the local tourism office to come down and see Hocking Hills. So I agree to go, figuring I can profile an ATV club, do a motorcycle tour story, and see the area.

The day comes closer and I'm starting to think, what the hell? I have a plate full of deadlines and I'm headed down on a press trip? Why am I doing this?

As it turns out, I had a productive and vastly entertaining trip. The Hocking Hills remind of the Ozarks, with rolling hills, great motorcycle roads, and gorgeous caves and valleys. Plus the people down there are grounded Midwestern sorts with a little southern twang. And the little bit of the Short North and Germantown neighborhoods I saw in Columbus were really nice--that's a cool, livable town that reminds me a bit of MSP.

So here's a few photos--I'm running short on writing time--but let's leave it that I found another place I want to visit again.

The valley leading to Cedar Falls in Hocking Hills. I missed a wine tasting to get this shot . . .

















Trenner Wile is 8 years old and likes shooting BB guns and racing his DRR quad. He’s been at it since he was 5 years old, and is leading his class in SOCC.
















Katherine Page is 10 years old. She told me she likes beating the boys. She’s leading the Mini ATV (9-10) class, and had four wins as of mid-July.

Bahamamania

I spent the past week working in the Bahamas with Michael Kranefuss. We are working on a book about his life in racing, and weren't happy with the results of collaborating via e-mail. We needed to be face to face, and he and his wife, Immy, are at their place on Eleuthera Island until mid-July, so down I went.

Although most of the trip was spent interviewing Michael, I did get a little taste of the Bahamas through my travels. The time with Michael and Immy was a real treat, as they are fun people and gracious hosts, and swimming on the pink sand beach in front of their home was also a lovely way to break up the day. I was struck the most, however, by the way that time operates in the Bahamas . . .


Schedules in the Bahamas are like stop signs in Brazil; both are mere suggestions, a nice idea when convenient and a non-factor when not. Airline flights through Nassau do have scheduled times. It said so on my ticket, and it even said so on the battered TV monitor in the terminal.

But those times, clearly, are not something anyone takes terribly seriously.

I discovered this by arriving nearly three hours early for my flight from Nassau to Eletheura Island Monday morning. I was early only because my cab driver was coming by the hotel at 5 a.m., and that was the only time she could pick me up. Rather than risk calling another cab company and hoping someone would show up, I rode with this one. She was there when I blearily came down from my room at 5, so off I went to the airport.

At the Nassau Airport at 5:45 a.m., I anticipated finding a ghost town. What I walked into was complete chaos. The line at the Bahamas Air counter was only about 40 people deep, but that was enough to fill the stanchions and spill out into the walkway. People waited with duct-taped cardboard boxes and heaped piles of battered luggage. Everyone seemed to know each other, and people were constantly swapping places to talk with someone they knew. Many of these conversations ended with the person who moved up just happening to hang around with their "friend," so the line was a shifting sea of changing positions.

The lined moved at a snail's pace, with each customer's arrival at the Bahamasair counter prompting lots of discussion and hand-waving. And after about fifteen minutes (with maybe two passengers processed), one of the women from behind the counter came out and suggested everyone in Line A who was on Flight X move to Line B. She did this with great authority and precision.

Once we all shifted properly, she returned to patrolling the back of the counter. Then another woman came out and sternly admonished all the people in Line B on Flight X, as they were supposed to be in Line A. So everyone shifted back.

In the meantime, people were streaming in for the flight that was nearly late, and moving right to the front of the line. They simply ambled in, stepped in front of everyone, and blithely ignored all the dirty looks shot their way. In fact, the second stern woman came over to move one man in a bright yellow jumpsuit who had strolled to the front of the line, and he completely ignored her, as well.

"Sir, you need to go to the back of the line," she said. He didn't even look at her, just stood in his spot. She finally resorted to asking him to at least clear the aisle. The expression on his face gave no indication he was aware she even existed, but he did move about 12 inches back. That was enough for the stern woman, who went back to her job rearranging lines.

In the end, I made my plane, but spent two hours in that line and the flight door was closed shortly after I boarded. We were assured that the planes would be kept waiting until all ticketed passengers were onboard, but the plane left with empty seats and several people behind me were left behind.

And this of course begs the question, if the lines continue to move slowly and flights are held until everyone is on board, delays would backlog until even the day of departure would be dubious.

Another example of time came when I made arrangements to get a ride to the airport back home on Sunday morning. I asked Stanton, who operates the local car rental service and is also the town's taxi driver, to pick me up at 6:00 a.m.

"That's much too early," Stanton said. "I'll be there at 6:30."

He showed up at 6:15, surprising me. Maybe he couldn't sleep that night?

I asked him about flight times on the ride in. The flight was scheduled to leave at 8:10 a.m.

"Oh, you'll have plenty of time," he said. "The flight won't leave until 8:30. Unless it lands early. Then they leave at 7:30. But sometimes it doesn't land until 7:45, and then it leaves at 8:10."

I nodded obliquely, and he gave me that bouyant, hearty tone I believe locals reserve for tourists.

"No worries, mon," he boomed, "You will be there in plenty of time."

He was right, and I even had time to drink some terrible instant coffee before boarding my flight to Nassau. In the Nassau airport, things were again completely messed up, and I spent another two and a half hours standing in lines which were constantly juggled to make sure the people whose flight was supposed to have left 10 minutes ago were in line for the flight to leave when it left, which was about 30 minutes after the scheduled time, which was "on time" or possibly early in the Bahamas.

As a footnote, this concept of time is incredibly liberating. Maddening for those of us married to schedules--which is, sadly, most of us who live in this land of Blackberry, Twitter, and Download Now!--but the idea of time as a relative rather than absolute master frees you of a lot of baggage. Speaking of which, baggage is something else that didn't show up on time on my trip, but that's another story entirely . . .