Is that cat missing something?

Looks a little weird, maybe. A shaved spot on her front leg for an IV...

I'm up in Maine again (my first time was in winter, now I'm back to experience the summer, six months later). I'm pet-sitting the menagerie for my trainer during her honeymoon.

I flew into Philadelphia from San Francisco last Tuesday to pick up my car and trunk-full of stuff that will get me through a summer in Chicago (so, not too many sweaters). Then I hit the road, driving up to my trainer's house outside of Portland, ME. Although the drive was only around 8 hours, I split it up overnight, stopping somewhere in Massachusetts around midnight to sleep. I pulled into the parking lot of a highway-side hotel, read for a bit, and tried to get back on Eastern Time. Well, trying to sleep when not extremely tired in cramped, uncomfortable car while parked underneath a streetlight and trying to be semi-attentive to crazies who might want to murder you is not an easy task. I did sleep for several hours, though, and woke up nice and early and nice and tired. One day back on the East Coast, and I'm already back on Eastern time. Perfect.

I got to my trainer's house very smoothly, packed the car and helped with some last-minute preparations. Then in the morning, it was off to Bar Harbor and Acadia National Park, a three hour drive. The trip was smooth and scenic, with some fierce downpours along the way.

I was at the wedding to be the photographer, so I spent the weekend behind the camera lens, attempted to document the goings-on. The ceremony was outdoors, and the forecast was not so great. We had the rehearsal in driving rain (with only 6 people there, due to weather), and hoped for better weather on Saturday. Well, the weather for the ceremony was not better. It held itself to a drizzle for most of it, but let loose with a few downpours just to make sure everyone was thoroughly soaked.

Many tourists and visitors to the park stopped to take a picture of the ceremony. It was an unexpected sight, I imagine: 30 people in nice clothes gathered in a circle on the rocks by the crashing sea, the bride and groom inside the circle without any weather gear, rain pelting down incessantly... Some of the small children started to cry. But it was a hugely successful ceremony, short and memorable, and it was a marriage, which is what counts.

After a fun reception and a late night in the hot-tub, the wedding part disbanded the next day, and I was left to explore Acadia National Park, then find my way home to the animals. I ended up taking the long route home (local roads the whole 170 miles... Oops).

The animals are much the same as over winter break, only Baxter, the little fourth dog, was given to a friend of the family. And Truvie, the cat. She was tragically hit by a car earlier this year, broke her pelvis and shattered her right foreleg. Luckily, she survived, and is as mobile and weird as ever. The only big change is that she no longer has two front legs...


So tomorrow it's off to Chicago, via Canada, with another two-day car journey.

Urban Hiking

I'm out visiting my brother in the lovely, urban San Mateo, which is a city-suburb of the lovely, urban San Francisco. I've been wandering around the city, seeing the sights. I've been taking the metro into the city and walking around in whatever direction I felt like going at the time. I enjoy touring cities by feel, relying on my sense of direction. I throw a city map in my bag, glance at the subway layout, and off I go.

San Francisco is a great city for walking around to see the sights. True there are wicked hills, but down by the water the land is pretty flat, making for good all-day walking.

One of my favorite ways to see a city after a full day of walking is to jump on the subway. I rode the subway out to the end of the line into the suburbs, walked across the platform and rode back into the city. No charge, no hassle, a free tour of the countryside surrounding the city. San Francisco has an excellent surrounding landscape, with striking scenery and great views across the bay.

An Ad-Hoc Spring Break... In Canada

Girls Gone Wild not being the first thing that comes to mind when I think of the ideal spring break, I decided to look North. I had a week off between striking the set from one show in Washington, D.C. and one show going into tech rehearsals in the Philly area, so I decided to head somewhere close, interesting, accessible, and where I had never been. Being in the Philadelphia area, possessing a car, and never having been to Canada, I settled on Niagara Falls.

Niagara Falls is less than 7 hours away by car from Philadelphia, with an easy drive over multi-lane highways and Appalachian scenery. I looked up State Parks in that part of New York (on their lovely website), found several that were interesting and semi-en-route, and planned an itinerary. First stop: Chimney Bluffs State Park.

These clay cliffs were originally part of a glacial formation called a drumlin. A drumlin is a long hill with a blunted end (formed in parallel to the ice moment, with the blunt end facing 'upriver'). These bluffs are what remains from the blunted end, with erosion causing the dramatic craters, leaving behind large chimneys of land.

I drove up to the park in one day, quicker than I anticipated, and took a walk in the moonlight. I walked down to Lake Ontario, which had some ice chunks in the waves lapping the shore.The Great Lakes don't freeze, but it was cold enough for ice in their waters. The moon was pretty full, so I ended up following a trail. I intended to just walk around, but found myself hiking the whole trail up to the bluffs. I emerged from the forest I had been hiking through to find myself on top of a hundred-foot-high cave-out. A trickle of melted snow ran down the center of the formation, and pillars of un-eroded ground stood around the perimeter of the dug-out. Walking back towards the car, there was formation after formation, with more chimney-like projections of earth, until the trail descended to lake level.

I slept in my car that night, greatful for my 0-degree sleeping bag. The next day dawned grey and overcast, so I sat in my car (with windows fogged), reading, until my morning was interupted by a flurry of activity from police, firetrucks and SUVs. Then a helicopter landed not 30 feet from my car. An ambulance drove up and a patient was transfered to the helicopter. Apparently medivacs are everyday activites up on the shores of Lake Ontario.

After hiking the Bluffs again in daylight, I drove to the next state park, then the next, stopping to read for hours on end, enjoying the quiet and the sound of the surf. It was drizzly and deserted. March is definitely the off-season at this lattitude.

I made dinner in my camp stove (rice and lentils in bullion broth, with tea) at Wilson-Tuscarora State Park, with a quiet moment pondering the vast stretches of Lake Ontario. With a full pot of dinner and some jam on slices of wheat bread for dessert, I curled up in my back seat to read. At dusk, the park closed (a ranger knocked on my window and told me to move along), so I packed up and headed to Fort Niagara. A police officer woke me up at midnight to tell me the park was closed, so I headed into Niagara Falls proper. I was hoping to save the entry into that city for daylight the next day, but I made the half-hour drive over in a very disoriented state (luckily there was no traffic) and slept in my car in a hotel parking lot. No one bothered me.

In the morning, I followed my ears to the rushing river, onto Goat Island, and to an up-close look at Niagara Falls. It's not every day that one wakes up, shuffles over a foot bridge and comes face-to-face with the most powerful waterfall in North America. I turned my attention to Niagara Falls, New York-a tourist town in its off-season. I drove around, looking for a diner for some nice breakfast options. Everything seemed closed, and most certainly deserted, and (when I got away from the tourist district) run-down. The casino's rainbow display dominated the skyline, and the roaring of the falls dominated the silence. I eventually settled on a Dennys. How quaint. I took some pictures from Goat Island, enjoyed the sun that peaked out (although the wind whipped away all that warmth), then headed over into our Neighbor to the North. I had booked a room in a hostel, and had no problem finding them.

Lyons House Hostel was very personable, very friendly, and very alive. The rest of the town was empty, shuttered and completely touristy. Kitsch and camp reigned supreme. This was a place for tourists. There were cheap souvenirs, thrill rides and haunted houses, bright colors and momento T-shirts. Luckily, the hostel owners were very knowledgable about the area, its natural and political history, and the interesting sights of the area. The other people staying the hostel were all both interesting and interested, so the whole experience was positive. It was a reality check among the commercial way of life of the two cities.

I ended up going with 3 other hostel-stayers to Niagara On The Lake, and the wine country. We drove along the Niagara River to the lowlands where Ice Wine is grown. We went from vineyard to vineyard, tasting the wines they provided (anything for free, we were all poor travelers). It made for a wonderful day trip, combined with a stop for lunch in the quaint one-street town of Niagara On The Lake. The German couple with us hadn't comprehended the vastness of the Great Lakes, so their reaction was unexpected when we stopped for a look across Lake Ontario. You could just see Toronto's skyline in the distance. After the day trip, we made pasta, had a wonderful dinner, and I headed home.

With one more night in my car, at a rest stop along the route home, I made it back, a little tired, very relaxed, and satisfied with my sojourn to another country. I had read two books, recharged my drained batteries, and still had the weekend to rest (apparently, sleeping in one's car does not give one deep, restful sleep) before work started on Monday. This was a perfect four-and-a-half-day (could probably get squeezed into a three-day) adventure, cheap and not too far from home.

The Frozen North

I'm dog sitting in Maine, alone in my trainer's new house with 4 dogs, a cat and a tank full of fish (by my trainer, I mean the person who I was a working student for, on a horse farm in Virginia, who I spent two summers training under). After a Christmas appearance at my parents' house, I spent the next day traveling to get up to Maine. It's only a 7 hour drive in a private car, but cobbling together buses and trains makes it a full 13 hours.

I got to the frozen north well after dark, found my trainer's truck that she left in the parking lot, got the keys from the wheel well, and proceeded to poke my way through the dark Maine suburban streets. I fought with her huge dually pickup truck the whole way. It was a stick shift, and I'm not completely proficient at standard. It was a nerve wracking experience, but I forced myself to keep at it. I finally found the right house, and happily left the truck parked (haphazardly) in the driveway. I was about as happy to stop driving as the 4 dogs were to finally get their dinner.


The next day I fell into a pattern of vacation: wake up at 7:30am (impossible to sleep later, with the doggies breaking down the door, asking for breakfast), read a bit, watch some TV, take the dogs for a hike through the snow (with my new snowshoes) for the rest of the morning, come back, eat lunch and relax, and do some mild excursion in the afternoon.


Over the course of the week, I went hiking at state parks, saw a movie by myself (literally: there was no one else in the theater), read two books, watched an entire season of a new TV show, noted it was New Years Eve, made cookies and went to the LL Bean outlet. That's my idea of a vacation.


The dogs were great, the weather was decent (only snowed a couple times, it got into the high 20s on multiple occasions), and I finally got the hang of the truck.

84 hours of travel, continuous.

It took me from Tuesday afternoon to Friday night to get home from Europe.

So, in brief, the backstory:
I pushed my flight back to a month after the semester ended, since I was in Europe and had no where to be in the US (no summer job planned, but I got that figured out while traveling, so now I have my dream job to look forward to). So I visited Pompei, flew to England, walked the coast-to-coast by myself, camping (a story in and of itself), of which I am very proud. Then I saw York and London, then flew to Porto in Portugal, then to Lisbon, where I worked in a hostel for a week, then over to Sevilla where I worked in its sister hostel for a couple days. So, month of travel, 9 nights in actual beds (the rest on trains, in train stations, tents, etc). Sevilla.

I take the bus to Malaga, where I am going to fly from. This is the 3:00pm bus. Travel starts. I look around Malaga, have a subway sandwich, it being the only thing I can afford, read a bit, take the bus to the airport, scout out a location, and spend the night on the floor there. I wake up to the morning rush, pack my things, check in, and head to the gate. I look in shops, everything goes smoothly. I completely crash on the plane, getting my sleep where I can. I land in Milan around noon or 1 or something, and get the hour-long bus to the train station. Everything's going according to plan; it's a lot of waiting, sitting and sleeping in uncomfortable positions. I get the 2:30 cheap train to Florence, so I can grab my bags and overnight somewhere relatively secure, then in the early morning get to the airport. It's Wednesday afternoon and my flight is tomorrow morning. Then it's home free to the USA.

But no. Of course not. My month of wonderful travel fortune comes to a screeching and shuddering halt. Just like the train. After 3 hours of random stops, we finally reach Bologna. This is an hour journey, usually. Well, it's an hour and fifteen or so to Florence from Bologna, so we blunder onwards. Two stops later, we stop for an excessively long time. All the passengers get off, and after an hour, with no explanation, we back up 2 train lengths, into a tunnel, and start off again, on a different track. We make it to the next stop. That's all. It is 7:45pm when we roll into that stop. News trickles back that we need a new locamotive, and they're sending one from... East Gibip? Timbuktu? Kalamazoo? No one knows. So I jump train and head to the other platform, where trains march right past without stopping. Of course. We're in backwater Italy where the culture is still reminiscent of Mussolini. Why would a train stop there? After an hour the conductor gets the grand idea of calling into the main train communication center and asking for the next train to stop at our station and take some passengers along, just to Florence. Hey, brilliant. So the next train is a swank Eurostar, the priciest of travel options. And we all jump on for a free ride wisking us off to Florence for a 9:45 pm arrival.

Hey, not so bad. It all sounds like an ordeal, but whatever, it's just waiting. Except it was nearly 100 degrees outside, and humid. A measure: I had bought a huge bar of chocolate to share with the family when I got home. It completely melted. So, being frustrated and hot and miserable, I got out a spoon. That was the highlight of the wretched day: sitting in a lonely train compartment, looking out on the Tuscan countryside in blistering heat, eating chocolate with a spoon.

But then I got to Florence, where I run to my former study abroad school (which closes at 10pm) to jump on the internet and get my flight info (10:15 the next morning, 9:45 check in deadline). Great, except I can't get my luggage until 9:30, when the Mailboxes, etc. I stored my baggage at opens. It closed at 6:30pm, so no chance of getting it that night. This is bad. Doesn't look like I can make it. Hey, it's worth a try. So I get the number of a couple taxi companies, head to the train station, find a corner, and sleep there. I get woken up by the morning rush again, and head to Mailboxes, etc. Which doesn't actually open until 9:40, which puts me in a stressed-out frazzle, when I grab my bags, pay my left arm and half my right foot for their services, and run to a taxi stand (fortunately located nearby; there are only 2 in the entire city, and everywhere else it is illegal for taxis to stop). I jump in and ask for the airport, very quickly. And traffic is horrible. How torturous, to sit there, watching the seconds tick by, as it's 10am, 10:05, and we finally get to the airport. The taxi nearly runs me over getting out of there in a rush, and I run in to see my flight closed and taxi-ing down the runway. Classic.

So I go to the ticket counter and see what they can do. No flights out of Paris to Boston until tomorrow. No way to change my ticket to Philadelphia, which would be very good. I don't want to go to Boston anyway, it was just where the group flight left from. No, no logic, no reason, no changes. So I get to spend the night either in Florence or Paris. Uhhh, Paris, of course. But it's a $150 change fee. Now, I spent a very budgeted month in Europe, doing extraordinary travel and activities, and I came out of that with 15 Euros in my pocket, and $9.38 in my bank account. Good, huh? Yeah, except for the travel nightmare that is the Italian train system (they wouldn't even give me my money back for the ticket, which they had promised to do in that hour on the platform).

So, on the bright side, I get to go to Paris. On the down side, I don't have the money to change my flight or to change my later flight from Boston to Philly. So, I have to make that horrible call that I would never make in a million years, given any other options. If you know me, you know how independent I am from my parents. I don't like to rely on them for anything, and feel like I'm cheating, or being childish, whenever I do have to ask for something. At 5:30 Delaware time, I call them up and tell them that I missed my flight, it's not my fault, I had it all planned out, it all would have worked, I could have done it, but something messed up. The flight move didn't mess me up on the other end, so the only thing that screwed up was the money. Not a big deal, my sweet summer job will take care of that. Plus, it's not like I don't work 2,000 hours in overhire or anything.

But I got a day in Paris. So I run around and see all the sights, doing Paris in a day. Then the exciting part comes when it's midnight and I get to find a place to sleep. I head to the nearest train station, which closes at 1am. No. It closes at midnight. Or at least that's what the big night guard with the German Shepard on a very tight leash said. I wasn't going to argue. So I trundle down the street, looking for good door steps or benches. And I find a little island of greenery. So I crawl under a bush on a Parisian street and sleep a few hours. It was definitely not good sleeping, since I didn't have my camping sleeping pad (which is great for sleeping in airports and train stations). It was also very hot (not a thousand degrees like Florence, but still warm when I had to put on my jacket to guard against critters, etc). So at 4:30am I trundle back up the street to the train station, where it's open for the morning. I sleep for an hour on the benches there, with their stupid unmovable arm rests and hard seats, and give up. I head to the nearest train and sleep on a seat. After a couple hours, guess what? The morning rush woke me up. And at 6:30 that morning, I was up. So I wander around Paris a bit, seeing the last few things before heading to the airport, and finally get to my gate.

On board the huge aircraft, we sit for an entire hour. Why? Well, the captain comes on and babbles something about there was a car crash and we were waiting for one passenger. Then a while later, the airport lost some luggage and they think they've narrowed it down to our forward hold. When they finally captured the escaped luggage (armed and dangerous? Who knows), we finally depart, and get there nearly on schedule due to favorable headwinds. I, of course, sleep. So, not so bad. Until we hit customs, which is a 2 hour line. I finally jump it, since I have a connection. When I finally get out, I see the bus to my terminal for my next flight (now in 45 min) pull away. That drives me crazy, since I have a coming-home party in 2 hours. When I work with a deadline I get frustrated at being late or pressed for time. It had been a month since I needed to be anywhere on time. So I wait for the next bus, which takes forever (EVERY other bus literally comes twice), then we just SIT there at the stop for a while, with me grinding my teeth and alternatively hyperventilating and calming myself with thoughts on how I can't change the situation.

So I miss my flight to Philly. The ticket lady puts me on the 5:30, free of charge, sees me frazzled and is very nice to me. I was short with her, and I feel very bad about it, because she could have thrown it back in my face, but she was lovely. Thank you, good people in the world. Who knew they would be found behind a Boston ticket counter in the good ole' USA?

So I get to the 5:30, which is uneventful, and get to baggage claim no problem, find the parents and finally reveal to them that I hiked across England. Alone. And they loved every word. Which was the most pleasant surprise of all.