The Eastern Sun: Part 3

If you hit every big eastern city on your way out to the Atlantic coast, you run along a section of the country referred to as BosWash. This is really just the Northeastern Corridor – a collection of cities upon which the fortunes, politics and culture of the United States turns. Some call it the Main Street of America.
For the past month, we’ve been walking up Main Street. Every door here has been opened to us, every light left on. Like a runway, each city represented a light, and all lights led to Boston.
But now, it’s time to go. All lights lead to Phoenix.

Leading up to our departure, we’ve done a bunch of crazy things…

We met Marco in Philadelphia. I think I will remember that moment for the rest of my life – we were sitting in the lobby of an Embassy Suites. The room was amber and filling up with soft-spoken men in business casual. These bastards didn’t mind stealing a few threatening glances our way. And then, the elevator doors opened: there he was. Smiling. The Italian Stallion, the Rooster, by way of Philadelphia.
As Marco slung taunts my way (as he usually does), we barreled down the narrow pathways of the city, eyes searching the misty streets, hoping to find a spot for parking. By the way, driving in Philly is horrible. You have to turn right, stay straight, go back, turn left, pay toll, gas to pedal, approach a barrier, cars whizzing by, lights red, your dash vibrating with an anxious idle. It’s like being on coke and tied down. And the people of the city? They want your blood, man. There is something defiant and snide in their gait. They prowl the street like they own the city, as opposed to other places along the Corridor where the city owned them. It was just big enough to be impressive, just small enough to be manageable. It was a boxer, aglow with gaslight and electric.
We had fantastic Jamaican food while we were there. I had jerked chicken that made my nose run like a decathlon athlete. After sending Josh and Angie to bed that first night, Marco and I toured the city, finally ending up at the Hard Rock café where he bought a shirt for a friend. Apparently, this friend was collecting a Hard Rock shirt from every city. Cross Philly off that list buddy, cause Marco’s got you covered. And we had a drink. And we chatted…about cool things I’ve seen, cool things he has seen. I would never pretend to be an equal to Marco on the world traveler scene, but for once I could sit down with him and have notches on my belt. It was a damned fine drink, that drink.
Following our trip to Philly, we went to New York and saw Times Square and Grand Central Station. Times Square looks like a web site with all the flashing, colored pop-up adds. Grand Central Station looks like an ancient Greek palace submerged beneath the ground, and submerged even further below that palace was the shambled, clattering blood of the city. To say these places teemed with energy would be a cliché, but a well-spoken one. They do teem with energy, but they also teem with a plethora of other things. You fill in the gap with that one.

After getting back to Massachusetts we toured some museums, hit the Cape and prepared for the visit of John Anthony and his friend Aaron. It was as if my time on the East was bleeding like a hemophiliac’s wound. We toured Boston, hit the Green Dragon Tavern (of Paul Revere fame) and spent a day up in New Hampshire at the Highland Scottish Games. That was quite enjoyable. I had never been to a ski resort before, and the games were held on just such a resort, named the Loon. The snow had all melted, but the air was bursting with Scottish geeks. Scottish geeks dress and prance about to bagpipe music much like Lord of the Rings geeks by the way. These two cultures should seriously consider pooling their efforts.
We all went our separate ways at this event, crossing every now and then like fish in a tank. I spent the majority of my time split between the competitions themselves and the bar nestled up in the top of the Loon’s lodge. While enjoying a brew, I heard a tremendous precession thundering below the bar. People started to flock to the stairs to take a quick look. Gleeful cries went up and the sounds grew louder. And then, the bar was being overrun with a full Scottish band. Right there, in the middle of our amber hops, they touched the ceiling for a brief moment. And then everyone bought them drinks. Nice trick…I guess the bagpipes works just as well as the guitar if you’re in the right place.

Some other things happened. Some of it was of interest, some of it wasn’t. At one point or another, I may get around to sharing it. But don’t hate me if I don’t. All that matters is that I am in the 11th hour. All my bags are packed and my seat is reserved. This time tomorrow, I will be atop four wheels that are spinning across the country. In the past 24 hours, I’ve heard that Dave Matthew’s song “Where Are You Going” twice. It plays wherever I am. I have been cut to the quick by the East Coast and I have arrived at some conclusions about where I am going…so to say it was more then a trip would be appropriate. Clearly, it was more then a trip. Why? I got slightly melancholy today as I packed my bags and realized my footsteps wouldn’t clack against the Franklin streets again. But I also feel a new drive. I have to return home. I must melt back into the desert, dented by my dip into the Atlantic.
Did I dent the people here? Am I like a Sanjuro or Blondie, striding into town, making his mark and then taking leave? It’d be arrogant to say yes.

So, yes.

I'll see you in Phoenix