see this: boston +cambridge in an american car. part one.

I arrived back in Boston after dark. Just enough time to explore a bit of the city.  The hotel that had been booked for me in Cambridge was a giant leap above the horror-story lodgings that I dealt with in Hadley and Lewiston.  I even had my own patio/balcony with a view of the western part of town.  I hailed a cab and crossed the river into Boston proper and got out on Beacon Street.

I walked aimlessly up and down the blocks for a bit – seeing nothing much in particular, I headed toward where I thought Fenway Park would be.  I saw some bright colorful lights in the distance and decided to follow them.

see this: maine in an american car.

After spending almost 700 miles in the Impala, I escaped the smoky chokehold of Worcester, Mass. bound for the purity I expected to find in the quaint vanilla charm of the state of Maine.  The state had always been a mystery to me – I had never been there and had never even met anybody from the land of lobsters and L.L. Bean – but I’d always felt a strange attraction to it.  My feet have spent winters warm inside the iconic Bean boots, and the Pine Tree State and I share the initials: ME.  My exodus from Massachusetts was further common ground, as Maine itself was an exclave of Massachusetts until 1820.  But Maine needed the Missouri Compromise to escape Massachusetts. All I needed was a Chevrolet.

I drove north at dusk while a thick blanket of fog formed over the coast, blocking my view of the rock littered shoreline of the open Atlantic.  I arrived in Lewiston after dark – to a dimly lit motor lodge 30 miles inland.  The woman at the front desk appeared shocked to see an unfamiliar face.  It seemed as though all the “guests” were actually long term tenants – living in a backward utopia of week to week rent payments and dinners warmed in the microwaves that sat atop the mini-fridges in each room.  The light fixtures were just low energy bulbs screwed akimbo into dual light sockets – naked to the open air with no lampshade to soften the glow or keep you from burning yourself.  I decided to spend very little time in the room.

see this: mass in an american car.

The quaint colloquial charm of Vermont chewed me up and spit me out in western Massachusetts. This would have been the perfect time in my trip to get all Hunter S. Thompson and go Gonzo through the state – and the small liberal arts colleges that dot the western Mass landscape would have been the perfect source for the necessary pharmaceuticals. 

In lieu of hallucinogenic drugs, I decided to get all “messed up” on fall foliage and the Berkshires.  I began in Williamstown, home of Williams College, and delighted in the price of a cup of coffee in their campus center.  It costs $50k/yr to attend the school, but coffee will only set you back a dollar per cup. 

By sunset I headed east toward Amherst.  The hotel that had been booked for my stay had an intense No Country for Old Men vibe and a real relic of a TV that operated by turning a dial.  I didn’t linger.  I headed to town and found a bar full of UMass kids singing karaoke.  To keep my “American” theme alive, I chose to sing “American Girl” by Tom Petty.  They were not prepared.   The only friend I made that night was the DJ.  Not a warm and welcoming crowd overall – but I guess solo karaoke isn’t always the best icebreaker.

see this: vermont in an american car.

It had been snowing in Foxboro.  I knew this because I saw the steady snowfall on TV as Tom Brady used his Jesus-like skills to pick apart an embarrassed Titans team on Sunday Night Football.  The snow eventually delayed my arrival in Boston, and
it was already past midnight by the time I stepped off the airport shuttle at the Alamo lot to peruse my rental car choices.  Sticking by my pledge to drive only American cars, I picked out a Chevy Impala from the Full Size Cars section.  My reservation was for an “economy” car – but as I drove through the exit of the lot, the guy at the gate was too disgruntled and disinterested to shove me into a smaller vehicle.  He just checked my receipt and muttered “have a good night”.

I had a four-hour drive up to Vermont ahead of me – so the lack of any kind of hassle at Alamo was energizing.  I stopped at a gas station to load up on Red Bull and review my hotel arrangements.  I was scheduled to arrive at the Middlebury Inn just after 12:30AM. 

The last hour of the drive to Middlebury, VT is a winding mountain road complete with blind curves and Moose Crossing signs.  For the record, at 3:00AM there is no sign of life.

I arrived at the Middlebury Inn in a post-caffeinated daze just before 4:00AM.  I checked in half-asleep and lugged my bag up the stairs. I stepped into the hall and stopped dead in my tracks.  I was too tired to notice in the lobby, but the place looked EXACTLY like the inside of the hotel from The Shining.

see this: blurry minneapolis in an american car.

I drove north from Northfield past the Malt-o-Meal factory – through a cloud thick with the aroma of generic cereals.  The Hold Steady blasted from the speakers of my Focus as the imposing gloom of Minneapolis appeared on the horizon.  The thick haze that covered the city made the pillow-top of the Metrodome indistinguishable among the low flying clouds and industrial patina of steel and wet cement.

I checked in to my hotel beneath the shadow of the University of Minnesota’s imposing TCF Bank Stadium, a building so new it’s not on Google maps yet.  I hadn’t eaten since my complementary continental breakfast in Northfield, and the last time I checked, you can’t last all day on one bowl of Malt-o-Meal Raisin Bran. I decided to fire up the Ford and drive to a dive bar that boasts a Minneapolis original.

Matt’s Bar called out to me in a profound and fateful way.

Significantly divey – and the true definition of a neighborhood bar, Matt’s claims to have originated a burger by the name of the Jucy Lucy – a cheeseburger that features melted cheese stuffed inside the beef patty, rather than sliced on top.  It’s a Minneapolis staple, so I order one done the local way, with onions and pickles.  Delicious and dangerous – the cheese inside is napalm – it will burn you if you bite into it right away.

see this: blurry pink america in an american car.

Part 1: Northfield, MN

Editor’s Note: Pictures blurry on purpose to simulate motion and/or acid trip

When I first stepped off the plane at the Humphrey Terminal at the Minneapolis/St. Paul Airport, I became instantly aware of just how serious Minnesota is about the whole “Twin Cities” thing.  I was at the wrong end of twin terminals.  My rental car was parked over at the Lindberg Terminal – a 15 minute trek, 1 minute wait and 5 minute train ride through damn frigid northern air.

Obviously, I refused to accept anything but an American rental car, and so sped away in a pale blue Ford Focus and headed due south to Northfield.   Don’t ask me why a place called Northfield is in Southern, MN – I don’t know.  All I really know about the place is that Jesse James robbed a bank there once – it’s their claim to fame.  On the way, you can also travel through some really unspectacular scenery.

While in Northfield, I stopped by Carleton College and St. Olaf College – a pair of small private schools who put the Liberal into Liberal Arts.  Carleton seemed to be obsessed with the female orgasm, because there were signs about events and discussions on the topic posted all around their campus, and the main feature in their school newspaper that day read like Consumer Reports for fancy new vibrators.  One that stood out was an electric toothbrush looking one called the “Eroscillator”.

The boys over at Carleton must not be cutting it.