Photos Etc.

I’ll get back to the touristy stuff tomorrow. Today, I paid a return trip to Abbey Road for this shot. Thank you, nice couple from Arlington, Mass. You’re good people.

On Tuesday, I tried to shake off the jet lag and hit the ground as hard as I could. I couldn’t help passing out yesterday, but I also didn’t fly 3,200 miles across the ocean and spend a couple grand to sleep. After breakfast, I hoofed it to the London Zoo, where I knew they had a tiger. I’ve always wanted a photo of a tiger, and I’m glad I got one.

After lunch in a quiet pub a flew blocks away, I took the train across the Thames, hoping to get a ticket on the London Eye ferris wheel. Stupid plan. Just wall to wall people. So I bought a ticket to go downriver and then back up. Then it was off the boat at all “the stuff”—Big Ben and so on.

When it was all over, I’d logged 20,000 steps. That plus the smaller portions over here, and maybe I can shed a few pounds by summer.

City of sin …

My new school is about three miles from the ocean, but since it’s the Boston area, the drive takes 20 minutes, 30 with traffic. Yesterday, I was stuck at school for a meeting that would happen later in the evening. Since I couldn’t go anywhere til then, I headed over to the beach to kill some time. The route put me in a town called Lynn. Despite being beachfront real estate, Lynn has a rough reputation. (Locals, feel free to drop your favorite Lynn rhyme and mine in the comments below.) Anyway, I walked around a bit at a park called Red Rock, which wasn’t too bad. It was hot and breezy. The only sense I got that I was in “the real New England“ was that the women sitting here and there in lawn chairs seemed a little grouchy, brandishing lit cigarettes and beer cozies. They were my age or older, swearing at each other, accents on glorious display. I didn’t have a camera other than my phone, so I just wandered around, overdressed, and watched some planes come in toward Logan. Toward the end, I met a nice Turkish man who was fishing from the rocks. We chatted despite a bit of a language barrier, and I found out he had been here three years. He asked where I was from, and figuring he hadn’t heard of Oregon, I said California, which I guess is just as true. I wished him welcome and good luck, and headed back to my meeting.

My Kingdom for a Chair

I didn’t know much about Cuttyhunk, other than it was “undeveloped” as Cape islands go, and tiny. I did learn that the island was one of the first places visited by the English in the 1600s, even before the Pilgrims arrived. After that, Cuttyhunk switched hands back and forth, lost all of its trees, and it experienced other forms of a rich history. (Here: feel free.)

I had the chance to spend the day there one recent Sunday. I got up early, threw a camera, etc. into a backpack, and drove 90 minutes to New Bedford to catch the 9 a.m. boat. A round-trip ticket cost $62, plus $18 for parking. The ferry is small, sturdy, and reasonably comfortable. I was able to buy a cup of coffee, walk around a little on deck, and pet a very sweet dog named Ollie. The trip took an hour over mellow seas, and by the time we pulled in to the harbor, the low overcast had lifted and out came the sun. The day promised to be a winner: 80s and mostly sunny.

The island is dotted with a few hundred houses, most owned by New England’s “established” families who have used the island as the kind of sleepy, summer retreat. I imagine it’s what Nantucket and the Vineyard used to be before they became whatever it is they’ve become. Conversely, Cuttyhunk feels about a hundred years slower. People get around by walking or driving a golf cart. There are no bars. In fact, alcohol isn’t sold anywhere on the island. I’d heard on the boat that the one restaurant does serve a great breakfast, but only until 11 a.m., so I hoofed it over as soon as the ferry let me off.

I arrived at 10:30, and the breakfast place was still packed. The food looked great, but the hostess half-apologetically told me they wouldn’t be able to serve me because “usually we stop seating by 10 on weekends.” I was annoyed, but what’re you going to do? The lady did point across the island to a bunch of buildings on a dock about a half mile away.

I got back to the boat with time to spare. I shared a table with a lovely couple from Brookline, who told me all about their history on the island. As we pulled away from the dock, the man pointed out the window at a crowd of several dozen people, most of them in their 20s or younger, all waving goodbye to the boat. A tradition! And after the boat moved off a safe distance, many of them jumped into the water.

Other than the sunburn on my legs, the trip was pleasant. Confession: I didn’t really enjoy the Cuttyhunk experience until my phone died about halfway through. This once again proves that phones suck. Can you imagine not having a phone for a week and being stuck on an island like that? Just laying around, taking three-hour naps on a threadbare couch under an open window, curtains pushed in by a soft, steady 2 p.m. sea breeze. Airbnb doesn’t appear to be a thing on the island, but actually, you know what? Good. So unless I somehow marry into one of these New England families that I hear so much about wherever I go, Cuttyhunk will have to remain a place where I visit but never rest my head on anything other than a backpack. Even with that, I’ve had worse Sundays.