When Bloggers Meet

This morning I actually found an internet connection, which was nice. Not so this evening. Oh, well.

I got some gas and breakfast at a gas station. The place actually had skim milk available. Amazing. And “yogurt muffins.” I got one that turned out to be almond poppy seed flavor.

Then back on the road for some lovely driving. Trees everywhere. And rock faces where they carved out bits of the mountain to make a nice, smooth ride for me.

Today was the day I visited the writer of a journal I’ve been reading for years, plus his best friend who also writes online. I called at the Massachusetts border for directions. Fortunately, the phone connection was not too horrible, and Patrick has a very clear voice, so I only had to ask him to repeat himself a couple of times. The directions were long, but worked. I did make an extra U-turn both on the way in and on the way out, but I didn’t ever end up anyplace where I had to call and ask for more directions and then they wouldn’t have any idea of how I could get there from where I was. Whew!

First I met Patrick. If people read each other’s online journals and then try to talk to each other, will the journals give them a handle on things to talk about? Or can it make them feel like they have nothing to say because they already said it all? Fortunately, it was the former for us.

It was fun to see things I’ve read about in the journal. The totally cool table his brother made. The fact that he found candle holders in all the colors of the rainbow. And the pumpkin-colored office. His place is only a bit bigger than mine, but it feels spacious. He’s got plenty of seating in the living room.

I also got to see where he updates his journal. In fact, I was sitting in it! Yes, my actual pants have touched the magical space where journal writing happens. Oh, wait, I write, too.

One interesting thing about his house is that his laundry room is in the bathroom. The more I think about that, the more I like it. First, you end up with a bigger bathroom that’s not so claustrophobic. you can get undressed in the shower and just throw things in the washer. You can hang your clothes in there and let the shower steam the wrinkles out. If you have the kind of plumbing where you can’t use water anywhere else without messing with someone’s shower temperature, then at least no one will start a load of laundry while you’re in the shower, if you lock the door behind you.

I like it much better than my setup where the laundry room is in the kitchen. The only advantage there is that if the dish towel gets dirty, it’s convenient to throw it into the washer.

I am also jealous of his back yard which consists of a sidewalk down the side of the house and a sidewalk-sized patch of garden right next to it. And no evil trees or vines growing into cracks in the house or anything like that. Oh, plus with pretty stones and things mixed in.

Then Laurie came over and we went out to eat. I got a nice tour of the area as I witnessed their decision-making process. My favorite thing about the town is that all the big red-brick buildings that used to be textile factories have been turned into riverside condos. Except one which was turned into a museum.

We all got giganto portions of Italian food, which none of us could finish. And later we got large ice cream desserts for supper. Mmm, mm.

In the middle, I ended up in my mute Debbie role. That kind of role where months after people meet me, they come up to me and say things like, “Hey, I never knew you had a sense of humor” and even “Wow, I never knew you could talk.”

So, they didn’t get to learn much about me, but I got to hear all kinds of office gossip and journaller gossip. And I got to hear about jobs from hell. The worst ones are the ones where you quit during the first day. I’ve never done that, although I have given notice the second day.

My favorite story was where one person took a day off from work to try out the new job. Then after a conversation in which he was in the room yet referred to in the third person in mostly non-complimentary ways, he went back to his old job.

Then there’s mixing granola. All alone. In a large warehouse. And there’s orchestrating the wicks in a factory that makes overly aromatic candles. And of course the ever popular working with idiots.

My favorite bizarre work-skill story involved a call center job where you can push a button so that the caller can’t hear what you’re saying but you can still hear them. People achieved varying levels of the ability to carry on conversations with their co-workers during the periods when the customers were explaining their stories.

Before I left, they asked where I was staying. I don’t know. North. Oh, I am so adventurous! I also made it a point to check their thumbs. They both appear to have a full compliment of working thumbs.

And now I’m in York, Maine, as recommended by them, in the Sunrise Motel, recommended as a good budget motel in one of my guidebooks. Yet, even after asking for the lowest-priced room, and accepting a smoking room, and refusing the $5 breakfast voucher, and after he took off an extra $5 (just because I’m so personable?), it was still $69 plus tax. The same price as the EconoLodge I’d checked out on the other end of the Yorks.

There are three Yorks: York Village, York Harbor, and York Beach. I think everyone thinks of their York as just “York.” But they are all different, so the people would not want to be confused with each other.

I am in York Beach, just off the beach, with a beach-facing room (they are all facing the beach), and so if I am awake in time, I will get to see a beautiful sunrise. This time is rumored to be 5:00 a.m. So, that is unlikely to happen. Now I’m remembering that I am further north than usual, so we get more daylight at this time of year. Which doesn’t keep me from driving in the dark. Oh well.

At 11:20, I’ve been writing 50 minutes. Good night.