Here we come, you great big Apple

Correctional Facility. Do Not Stop.

We don’t.

This is not the first time we’ve seen this message on Interstate highways - along which the traffic rushes at 110kph. It is hardly likely to be stopping for a hitchhiker. And no one hitches on the Interstates, those multilane monster roads which thunder with long-distance trucks and rushing vans and cars.

Why do they post this message?

We ponder it again as we drive towards New York City. Breakouts are so common?

Here’s Old Lyme. We don’t stop here, either. It is the place where Lyme disease, that serious illness conveyed by ticks, was first reported. Ugh.

We hum over a huge bridge across the Connecticut River and power forth between the endless stands of trees. These are softer than the towering monsters of New Hampshire. These are more of a cuddle of trees. Their form is rounder and they reach out softly from the roadsides.

Oh, look. An exit to Clinton.

We know the famous Bill and Hillary Clinton but who knew that there are zillions of American towns called Clinton? They are all over the place.

Now we see Guilford. Hmm. Someone left the “d” out of the name?

And we’re in East Haven where the traffic becomes positively manic. Foolish, impatient, aggressive drivers suddenly abound. It is scary.

We’re passing huge strips of commerce. There is so much commerce in this country, the scale sometimes boggles the comprehension.

New Haven hoves into view with its handsome old buildings, its glamorous cable-stayed bridge. Bruce spent his college time here. It is home to Yale University. He points out buildings where he studied. There’s the Kline Biology Tower on Science Hill.

And there’s the ocean, sparkling out to the left. Long Island Sound.

And here’s a traffic jam. Roadworks. Bruce swears.

I break out the Chex Mix, the snack food which sustains us on our long drives.

It’s a tough old multi-lane highway now. Worn.

The traffic is fast-moving again. Determined drivers.

A road-weathered white truck with "Puta" hand-scrawled in the dirt on the back passes us. We pass it. It passes us. We tuck in behind it. We grow oddly fond of it.

Billboards clamour for attention.

Pay less, buy local; Your Road to Success - education; Delivering Happiness - mattress trucks; Never Give Up Until They Buckle Up - kids: Paying More is Ridunkulous…

We pass on old truck with its own message: Real Trucks Rattle.

Big industrial complexes. Giant fretwork frames of power poles. Railway lines.

Factory buildings in disrepair, ruin. That was Bridgeport.

Now it is Westport.

Norwalk? Is that where that horrid virus came from?

It is hard going for Bruce, this relentlessly furious traffic. He calls for a sugar hit. I break out the lolly stash.

Solid old Stamford is ahead of us. We are fond of this sensible old town.

Its clever motto is: The City That Works.

We exit from the motor madness and drive in for lunch. The car parking is terribly clever and modern. We have to learn how to use it. We find we are at a numbered spot.

We have to put that number into a parking machine along with money for the time we want to stay and also pin in our phone number. Thereafter, somehow a computer knows how long we are parked and it will ring us up if we have overstayed and it wants more money.

We step into Stamford Mall which is gob-smackingly tall and modern. Seven or more floors around a gigantic atrium. It might be sleek and classy but It is very confusing. We have trouble finding our way. We

have to ask security guards. The food court is on the 7th level? OK. We find it and eat some pretty average Panda Chinese. We find Starbucks for macchiatos, find the nice clean conveniences and then get back on interstate 95 where we find ourselves back in a traffic jam. Goddammit.

Welcome to New York says a huge sign.

The road is shocking. Very rough, bumpy, rutted and worn,

Mamoroneck. An odd name. Massive expanses of depressing-looking identical apartment buildings.

Co-Op City. More of the same. They are huge. Apartments for thousands.

Throgs Neck. NO. We got lost there once upon a time. Took a wrong exit and could not find the way back. We finally asked a policewoman and she told us “you can’t get there from here”.

We had images of never getting out of Throgs Neck. Of just giving up, buying a house and staying.

We can’t get past fast enough.

More monolithic buildings. More roadworks.

Now we’re in the Bronx. Huge red brick apartment buildings with little air conditioner bums poking out the windows.

The road condition is dire.

But there it is, the New York skyline, all soft and blue.

Bruce zeroes in on 2nd Avenue, Manhattan, and we drive towards the canyon of buildings.

Fire escapes lattice down red brick the buildings. We’re in Harlem.

Greengrocer stands sprawl across the sidewalks.

Traffic lights are co-ordinated. The road is one-way.

It’s a busy world.

Schoolchildren in a crocodile on the pavement. A trio of Orthodox Jews. A doctor in a white coat. Cops on corners. 56 blocks to go, says Bruce.

Discount shops. Kosher shops. Pizza, smoke, Indian, crepe, Japanese…

Balconies stand out on the sides of high-rise apartment buildings like teeth. Fire escapes hang like lace.

Bikes are chained in clusters to pavement poles.

There’s a Chinese woman in a huge coolie’s hat. An Indian in sari.

40 blocks to go, says Bruce.

White buildings made of bathroom tiles. Flower shops create a riot of beauty on street corners.

A loose-limbed postman lopes along with his post cart.

Ladies waddle with shopping bags. There’s a street cart selling handbags. A jaunty black man in a pink jacket and hat. Nuns dressed in white. A scrawny blonde with junkie written all over her chews gum and pushes a trolly of empty bottles. Men in suits wait at traffic lights.

Rap music blasts from the car beside us.

37 blocks, says Bruce.

The traffic is creeping along. Tall buildings. Yellow cabs. A man walking poodles. Policemen cross in front of us unbelievably overloaded with guns and and belts and two-way radios.

Cafe sidewalk tables laid out with linen napkins. The Euphoria nail parlor.

More balconies serrating the sides of tall buildings.

13 blocks to go, says Bruce.

It’s getting classier. Planter boxes. Pin lights on the trees. Taxis tooting each other.

Suddenly we’re at Park Avenue and 29th - our New York City destination, the Gansevoort on Park Avenue.

Oh sweet relief.

Touristic Mystic

It’s a glorious blue sky day.

Wisps and puffs of bright cloud loll aloft. I’m stealing a last swim at Homewood Suites before we leave dear old Nashua. I’m gazing through the glass walls of the pool room, counting my exercises and enjoying the rustic view when a squirrel appears on the trunk of the tree out there and does its squirrel things - characteristically, skimming around the circumference and pausing upside down just because it can.

It’s a nourishing moment. It is classic New Hampshire. It is one of things I am sad to leave. But, the road is calling. We are back on the move.

Well, we would be were it not for the traffic jams which impede our progress as we head through Massachusetts.

Stop, start. Creep. Stop.

Fuel wasting. Time wasting.

Traffic jams have become a very serious problem, not just in the big cities but all around them.

We are listening to the radio, wondering about the people in the other cars, where they are going and why, how they must be feeling, what are they late for, work? How much productivity must be lost in traffic jams? Has anyone done the stats? Donald Trump could win the election if his motto was “Make America Move Again”.

Oh, here we go, some movement.

Not great, but we are progressing.

Look, that huge, beautiful building. It is Trip Advisor! Who knew?

We’re off the clogged highways now, skimming along through walls of trees.

Colours of the road - green trees, green road signs, blue attraction signs, yellow lines, red brake lights…

Trees, trees, trees.

I miss the cornfields.

We stop at a McDonalds on the outskirts of Providence for lunch. It is the most immaculate Maccers. And it is featuring lobster rolls. That's why chose it. We order lobster rolls, side salads and coffee. The lobster is good and generous. The dressing is not overwhelming. It is good, dammit. Good.

Providence is pretty in its historic old parts. Grand, really. Some dignified major buildings. Some sad old mill buildings.

It’s heavily industrial on the outskirts. Rail lines and more rail lines. Lots of oil storage.

The Rhode Island roads are not as good as the Massachusetts roads.

Hah. You know you are in Rhode Island when the wide load on the road is not a moveable home but a massive, sleek black yacht.

We’re on the Jewish War Veterans’ Memorial Highway now.

The sky is closing in. Those bright little clouds have been replaced by big flat-bottomed beasts which herald weather.

We are still surrounded by trees, but they are different. They are broader, softer, lower.The land is rockier.

And suddenly, here comes Mystic sea port.

Around a bend and through some straggly commerce, we see a body of water upon which a vivid scatter of trainer yachts is scudding about.

There’s a plein-air artist on the shore line painting the scene. I can see the coloured sails on her canvas.

I wonder where the painting will end up. In some mediocre local artists’ show?

The first thing we encounter in Mystic is, wait for it, a traffic jam. Bruce is incredulous.

But it’s not so bad. It’s another drawbridge.

I enjoy looking at the shops and buildings in the wait. Mystic is a pretty little town nestled beside the water.

It is a very popular tourist destination. American tourists more than foreigners.

We are booked into Inn at Mystic which is away from the town centre and perched on a hillside. The view is fantastic and I am thrilled that my booking request for a river view room results in one of the best rooms in the Inn. We have a view of river to the side and river/sea to the

front from our darling little balcony. The room itself is charming in an olde-worlde way. Floral and wood. The bed is a bit spongy but the room is large with sofa and tables and, oh, that lovely balcony.

I unpack and spend some balcony time. I pull out a book to read on the balcony but, dammit, the view is alluring. There are boats out on the big river and beside us in the river inlet, there are interesting houses with little pontoons and there are even fellows in dinghies pulling up laden crab pots right in front of us.

We also have view of the train line and a couple of serious commuter trains whoosh through to and from New York.

There’s a restaurant right here in front of us,beside an outdoor pool surrounded by a white picket fence.

The scent of grilled seafood keeps wafting and stirring the appetite. I go over and ask to reserve a table for two for dinner - at a table with a good view, please. I note the restaurant features a large deck at the front.

Then Bruce and I walk into Mystic town both for exercise and for the ritual of visiting the little town properly.

We have been here before. Three times, two of which were overnighters. We point out the places where we have stayed. The little town has not changed much. Mystic Pizza is still there on the hill heading out the other side of the town. Bruce was sure it had moved. We went in to check. No, it has been there since 1998. There’s a picture of Julia Roberts on the wall. The movie was her big break to stardom.

Dear little movie. The girls running the hostess table seem very much in its perky, country character.

They say the pizzas are good.

We don’t try them. We meander off to check out the rest of the town. Not a lot to it, really.

A sign advertises the Mystic Psychic.

I think I should buy some postcards and perhaps a cap or tote bag or something of a Mystic souvenir nature. Odd. There is no dedicated souvenir shop in this little tourist mecca. There are some nice-looking Mystic caps on sale, some just saying MYS. But the price! What are they thinking? $28 for a baseball cap?

Not for this little black duck. No way.

I am shocked, disappointed, and alienated by

this arrogant rookery.

The only thing I buy in Mystic is a square of butter pecan fudge.

The bells are ringing for the drawbridge to be opened. Let’s sit on the riverside and watch. Look, it is a tall yacht loaded with sightseers waiting to come through. We find a bench and enjoy the spectacle. It’s a unusual drawbridge with massive concrete counterweights, It is not a

quick thing. But we are not in a hurry. The weather has lifted. It is pleasant sitting on the wharf.

We walk back to the hotel, noting the wonderful Civil War memorial at the crossroads.

The Harbour Inn and Grill at the Mystic Inn does not look at all busy until we go inside - to find that it is humming away with local business. My requested good view table turns out to be a table not only inside but

in the middle of the room.

I ask the waitress why it could not have been outside. Oh, we don’t reserve outside tables, she says and leads us to a plum table right at the front of the deck with a rock star view.

It’s a bit breezy but, oh, look at the view.

A very tall, bearded young waiter takes our order. Local scallops are the special and they also are a la carte. I order them grilled. I also order sizzled brussel sprouts. Bruce orders

a clam chowder and salad.

So, we sit and enjoy the view. We watch the other people. We enjoy the view.

Forty-five minutes later, we are still enjoying the view.

The waiter assures us that the kitchen is working on our dinner. It won’t be long.

Eventually five scallops appear accompanied by a blob of mashed potato and some warm raw green beans.

The original waiter does not deliver

them. He has vanished.

Bruce’s clam chowder is tiny. Maybe two tablespoons. He immediately comments to the delivery waiter that it looks like a pretty mean little serving. The waiter looks embarrassed and leaves quickly.

The chowder is nice, albeit too small. The scallops are nice, albeit mean and the veggies not too good. The sprouts never appear and nor does the original waiter who took the order. Bruce goes in search of him. Oh, he’ll get the sprouts now. He disappears again. We wonder if it may be another 45 minutes before he reappears. Ah, got him on a cameo appearance across the deck. Wave. Call. He comes. The kitchen is onto it. The printer didn’t print. There was a problem with the order. They are going to do it…..

Don’t worry, we say. We’ve been here so long we just want to go.

We don’t want Brussel sprouts as a dessert. We’ll take the check.

Oh, no. This is another slow process. We wait. Bruce is reducing the waiter’s tip by the minute at this stage. He brings the bill. Bruce puts his credit card on it and turns around. The waiter has gone.

He never does return to process our payment. We finally take it to the desk where the waiter runs up and intercepts us. Bruce, by then, has reduced his tip to $2. Unheard of.

We’ve been watching a clam shack down the hill. It has been doing a roaring trade all night.

Let’s go down and check it out. We may even buy some real food. We’re hungry.

The clam shack serves everything from oysters to lobster and has a steady queue. It also has very high prices for a roadside shack with a few picnic tables. Do we want to queue?

There’s a Dunkin’ Donuts next door.

Let’s have a cruller. We’ll share it.

But the crullers are gone. Of what is left at the end of the day, we choose

a lemon croissant donut - because I have never heard of a croissant donut.

We amble back up the hill. The world is utterly beautiful in the late dusk light.

We turn on the telly, split the croissant donut and discover a fantastic new treat.

We return to the restaurant in the morning for the Inn’s complimentary continental breakfast.

It is explained to us that a continental breakfast is pastries and breads with tea or coffee.

We knew this. Others, to whom this is being explained, head off to find somewhere with eggs.

We think we’ll manage. We do. I have a piece of toast on which I put my trusty travelling Vegemite. Bruce has toast and pastry. A drab breakfast of carbs. Too bad.

The pool opens at 9am and I am right there. It is a fabulous pool with a proper 6ft deep end. I am in heaven.

There are just a couple of other mature travellers there at first and we enjoy some peace and some sun. When the young people turn up, they, too, are thoughtful.

Thus refreshed and exercised, we pack the car and hit the road again. This is the big road, the difficult road. This is the road into New York. The biggest big smoke of them all.

Off we go. But, oh no. Another traffic jam? So soon?

Yep. The drawbridge is up again.

Ode to Nashua

The first time I heard the name Nashua,

it seemed strange and alien. I could never have imagined how much a part of my life it would become or how deeply I would come to love it.

Nashua is not exactly the pride of New England.

Like many old New England towns, it grew on the back of the cotton textile industry. Old red brick cotton mills line its Nashua River. They were abandoned when the textile industry first moved south before being undermined entirely by cheaper labour in Asia. They were and are a decaying sight in some places with sadly broken windows. But now many are being reborn, “repurposed” as they like to say these days, and turning into apartments and studios.

Nashua’s great claim to fame is that John F.

Kennedy declared his intention to run for president in his first campaign speech right there in the main street. A bust of JFK marks the spot.

This is the state which conducts the first primary election in the electoral process which leads to the selection of Presidential candidates. NH is proud of this status. A lot of political action takes place here. Presidential aspirants return over and over to address the people. They speak in local diners, town halls, back yards, living rooms…

The other claim to fame is that Jack Kerouac’s parents lived here before moving to nearby Lowell where the famous beat poet was born.

So here we are again. Recherche du temps perdu.

We are booked into the Homewood Suites by Hilton, a new hotel up on the hill behind the old Radisson Tara. I don’t like the aspect of the first room they offer us but, once

removed to the top floor and the back of the hotel with a view on trees, sky and scruffy wilderness, I am utterly happy. We are to spend a week in this little service apartment with its micro kitchen, desk, chair, couch etc. Of course, Bruce is raring to cook again.

But on our first night, it is about reconnection so we swan out to the shops to buy favourite provisions. Dear old Market Basket, Bruce’s favourite supermarket because it is cheapest. Shaws is mine, because it is classiest.

We drive into town for dinner at Vietnam Noodle House, a favourite haunt of yore.

It has a new doorway and a new paint job plus the addition of booth seating and a new menu, yet it feels much as it ever did. Bruce has a pho. I order a a new item, a Vietnamese casserole on crispy rice. It comes in a pottery pot steaming with heat. And, oh, what a treat.

It’s a good start to our Nashua return.

The hotel swimming pool is brilliant.

By being the first one there when it opens at 9am, I manage to get it to myself every morning for a bit of aquarobics. And a bit of sunshine with a book on the serviceable little patio outside.

Bruce comes down and joins me and we read

quietly together in the morning sunshine doing our Vitamin D thing - until the day we meet Thomas, a handsome Swiss guest who is helping his partner settle into her new 2-year-contract working in NH. Thereafter mornings involve agreeable chats with Thomas who turns out to run VIP transport for the World Economic Forum and when he's not doing that, he coaches tennis and skiing.

The people you meet on the road, eh.

The week passes quickly.

Bruce cooks his famous spag bol, using that stunning new green vegetable pasta. Contentment.

When he reveals that he is back in town, he is invited over to Oracle to meet his old workmates. He has a jolly visit and catches up on their news.

My Democratic Party friend, Debora Pignatelli, invites us over for a reunion over morning coffee at her place - where the autograph of Hillary Clinton features upon the wall. Hillary visited Debora’s house and made a stump speech in the living room on her 2008 campaign. She has returned since, on this campaign, but as a friend and not to make a speech. Debora, who has had a distinguished career in local politics, is keenly involved in her re-election campaign and was at the Democratic Convention in Philadelphia. We speak of these things and of families and life as we sip cups of tea and nibble on corn cakes.

We do other catch-up things while in our “home turf” and tend to return again and again to Pheasant Lane Mall for quick, healthy lunches from the very good Chinese stall in the food hall. Retail therapy.

Yes! Hello Macy's! Here I am again!

We do most of our shopping, I get my hair cut by a French Canadian girl at Penney’s Hair Salon, and I get my toenails done (badly) in a zany nail and beauty salon where men seem to be getting as many pedicures as women.

We also return to Mine Falls Park. This was

a very favourite walking place. We went there in all weathers. We saw lots of wildlife there.

Mine Falls is large. There are two loop walks, so we take them on different days, since the weather is hot, enervating and threatening storms.

Maybe it is our age or maybe it is the weather which makes the first walk seem longer than it used to. We head through the woods, under the highway bridge, through more

glorious woods beside the Nashua River and up to the waterfall. The drought is evident. Undergrowth is wilting. Water is low. The waterfall is thin. But fecundity still rules in the understorey - ferns and saplings and, oh, watch out, says Bruce, lots of poison ivy. He makes sure I know how to identify it.

The walk curls back to skirt the glorious big millpond and then follow the path beside the canal. It is all leafy and

lovely, the world mirrored in the waters. Little fish are prolific in the canal, hovering here and there and hanging around in groups under the footbridge. I forgot to bring bread for them. Fie upon me. The slider turtles look disappointed too. They have lovely orange markings.

Bruce decides he should pose again to reiterate the photo we took in 1999 of him out on the trunk of an old leaning tree. Slither. Oh, my. He was so nearly right there in the millpond. A passing local stops ready to do a rescue job if needed.

Laughter and relief when he secures his footing and finds a comfortable, albeit less extreme pose for the photo. Ah, we’re not as young as we were then.

The second walk we take is from the old mill buildings end of Mine Falls, following the river and going past the gorgeous oxbow lake where we used to see swans nesting and cormorants diving. Now, in drought conditions, it is covered in waterlilies and it is very low. There are a couple of ducks. But it is still lush and lovely. We admire it from beside it and later, as we come on the return

along the towpath, we stand at the viewing platforms and enjoy it some more.

We see agile young squirrels and high-chirping chipmunks on the walk. We hear the industrious rat-a-tat-tat of lofty woodpeckers and the disgruntled yowl of little cat birds. Somewhere far above, a red-shouldered hawk whines territorial warnings.

We can’t be in New England without popping down to Maine for lunch.

Rule: Maine lobsters must be consumed in Maine.

It was a favourite outing when we lived here. So off we go, driving down the familiar highway, Bruce snarling a little when he realises there is more traffic now than there used to be. Isn’t that the case everywhere?

In gorgeous Portsmouth, NH, we have to wait while the drawbridge allows water traffic along the Piscataqua River. This river’s name has always fascinated Bruce who is

expert in rivers in the US and everywhere - and there are some pretty weird names. This one has a ring to it. We queue with the cars in the gorgeous, narrow, pioneer roadways of Portsmouth and say it carefully…PISSSScataqua say I. PisCATaqua says Bruce, correctly.

The other side of the bridge is Maine and the

wee township of Kittery which is where Warren’s Lobster House sits on the edge of the water.

For the very first time and to my immense chagrin, we cop an inhospitable hostess who greets my request for a window table with a snapped “they’re kept for reservations” and has us shown to the most far-distant table from the waterside. We’re here for the

lobster, not the view, Bruce comforts. Such an unpleasant reception in this place we long have loved, frequented, and shown off to visiting friends has thrown me. I am not really mollified but the pile of lobster claws is good.

We cross back to lovely Portsmouth for coffee in the town’s Market Square, sitting and watching the locals

amid the masses of tourists.

The first English colonists settled here in 1630, calling the place Strawberry Bank. There’s a re-creation of a period village staffed by actors in costume to prove it. It’s really very good. The Americans do these things very well. Not that we are going there today.

We are off down the coast.

Hampton Beach could not be more of a contrast to elegant, historic Portsmouth with its stately red brick buildings and winding cobbled roads.

Hampton Beach is a great big, cheerfully crass celebration of beach. We find a friendly pay-lot and take ourselves for a nostalgic seaside stroll. The beach, with its

coarse sand and chilly water, is packed with people and umbrellas. It is a wild, colourful scene of people heedlessly burning their skin in the name of seaside fun. They pack the foreshore with push chairs and masses of beach furniture which they cart around on their backs or

under their arms. Oh, and chiller boxes and towels and inflatables. They don’t travel light for a day at the beach.

Nor do they snack light. The pavement is a row of unbelievably naughty, fatty, unhealthy food outlets - starting with fried dough and fried chocolate bars and going on to amazingly thick pizzas, toffee apples, icecream, fudge and, my

favourite, salt water taffy. I buy some and do a spot of shameless swooning as the salty, sweet, chewy cherry confection commands my senses .

We wander about the kitsch souvenir shops and games arcades and past the guest houses tiered on the esplanade and rocking with large, summery, sunburned people.

The contrast as we drive along the coast road is in the rich Bostonians who have their summer houses here.

They are not slumming it at Hampton Beach. They are not really visible at all. But their beach houses are palatial and maintained

year round by staff, one hears. They have vast rolling lawns, flagpoles, fancy verandahs and balconies, turrets and widow’s walks…

They are over the top as displays of wealth and exclusivity. But isn’t it just so much a part of the disparities of this great big country!

Our next stop is Salisbury Beach, the slightly run-down older sibling to Hampton Beach.

It is rather nicer, we think. A

miniature version. Few people. The beach today is really lovely. The tide is out further than we have ever seen it. There is a waterline of firm, walkable sand. You don’t have to tell us twice to have a walk on a wonderful beach.

We whizz back to dear Nashua, along the roads we know. Oh, damn. Road works. Delays. This country is one big roadwork. Bruce slips off an

exit and we detour home via Lowell. Another familiar town. This has Kerouac Park, which is a brilliant shrine, tall polished granite pillars bearing quotes from Jack Kerouac’s writings. It is the best literary memorial in the world, in my opinion. We don’t stop. We follow the gorgeous Merrimack River down to Tyngsboro and then into Nashua.

There is one summer ritual we have

yet to perform. Time is running out. So it is down to Max's Ice Cream Parlor where Bruce is served a black raspberry ice cream big enough for an entire Vietnamese village and I have a proper American root beer float. We sit and listen to the sound of young men whacking baseballs at the adjoining practice range and immerse ourselves in the sheer, unadulterated Americana of it all.

Our week has been well spent. We have sent parcels back to Australia. We have repacked the baggage. We have done the washing. We have cleaned the car. And we have taken out and polished old memories and formed shiny new ones. We wonder if we will ever come back to this comfortable haunt.

Who knows?