A Walker in the Suburbs

When we first talked about taking this trip I looked up the “leaf schedule” and thought we would probably miss peak fall color, be here just a tad too early.

That was no problem. We didn’t plan the trip for that purpose — it was worked around Ellen’s schedule and a rare opportunity for us to travel together. That was so good in itself that it seemed greedy to ask for anything more.

But somehow, in a miracle of perfect timing, we hit it just right. Since that seldom happens in life I want to take a minute to celebrate it here.

Peak fall foliage plus splendid autumn weather equals a time to remember in the White Mountains.

The sun peeked out just as we reached Pemaquid Point Lighthouse yesterday, making an already picturesque spot even more exquisite. Ellen and I strolled the grounds, snapping photos and learning about the lighthouse. It’s been active since 1835, and is one of 65 in the state. The light it produces reaches 14 miles out to sea.

Before we climbed the tower we learned about its Fresnel lens, how it’s only one of six still in service in Maine and we absolutely could not touch it. We obeyed!

It was only later I read that Edward Hopper painted this lighthouse and it’s featured on the Maine quarter. Was that why it seemed strangely familiar? Or was it from some long-ago road atlas photo?

Ellen and I laughed about how Dad always said he wanted to visit the “rockbound coast of Maine” but drove us west to California instead. We wished he could have been there with us. And, in a way, he was.

Many years ago, we lived in Groton, Massachusetts. I loved the small-town life — village meetings, friendly neighbors, big white churches on a hill. The past was all around us in New England.

Today I remembered all over again why I hated to leave this area: the beauty and charm, the sense of place that’s in short supply elsewhere in the country.

Boothbay Harbor, Maine, looks like a picture postcard: boats in the harbor, a mist rolling in. Today we may see a lighthouse, too.

New England: bring it on!

I live 20 minutes away from an international airport. In fact, I hear a plane right now, a long, low sound as a jet takes off in the leaden skies we have today.

Despite the proximity, Dulles is mostly out of mind. That is, of course, until I enter it. Then I step into its impressive lobby with my heart in my throat. I’m anxious because I’m rushing to make a flight, wondering how long the security line will be. But mixed in with the nervousness is always excitement. No matter how short the trip I almost always love making it. I am, you might say, enamored of travel.

I was even on Sunday, with several hours to kill at O’Hare, the busiest airport in the world. (Did I know this? I do now. Banners and promos proclaim it.)

Yesterday, I found someone else who feels the same way:

“How many times I’ve relished the private thrill of a foreign place where you know no one, speak a handful of words, where even the street signs throw you off balance,” writes Frances Mayes in A Place in the World. “How you feel your mind open to the new. How you set forth, all synapses crackling with curiosity. … Travel is a privilege because it gives you the world you were not given.”

The world not given. That’s it, exactly.

A Wall Street Journal headline caught my eye: “The Surprising Mental Health Benefits of Getting Away.” This time last year I was away — with a week of travel left before our return. This year, a different to-do list for late summer.

But the research must be right, because it matches my lived experience. Of course travel improves mental health. How could it not? It keeps us on our toes. It provides opportunities for awe. It allows us to be ourselves in a way few other activities can.

Traveling can be as simple as driving somewhere without GPS assistance … or as complicated as a monthlong foray overseas.

What matters most, I think, is being in uncharted territory. You are on a subway that may or may not take you to Heathrow Airport. Your garret room is up four flights of rickety Alsatian stairs. It seems as if there is nothing you want to eat in all of Portugal.

So what? Life happens. And travel reminds us that it does. It’s not just good for the mind. It’s good for the soul.

Yesterday it was my turn to go out in the kayak, to paddle across the lake and explore the creek we heard about from longtime residents.

Many streams feed the lake, but this is the first time we had a chance to explore one of them. The creek was a world apart, a ferny, reedy paradise where herons feed and turtles nest (not that I saw either of these creatures).

But I did feel the restorative calm of an alternative universe, a kingdom of water.

Yesterday’s paddle put the creek in Deep Creek Lake.

The low clouds have blown away and in their wake comes a picture-perfect mountain beach day: blue skies, low humidity, a gentle breeze.

The beach was still a bit chilly this morning, so I only waded, but the kids jumped in full tilt, as they always do. The adults observed from the sidelines, or entered the water when necessary to supervise. But otherwise, it was a children’s world.

After their swim the kiddos dug and raked and patted — and built what must have been sand castles to them.

We’re back at Deep Creek Lake, the sixth year in a row we’ve come here as a family. This year’s rental house is in a different location. It’s the replica of the familiar cabin we’ve booked the last four years but situated closer to the lake.

I’m getting used to this new venue, to how the light falls in the morning, to the waves in the lake. Will there be enough calm water to kayak? We’re looking into it.

We didn’t pull off the first swim we attempted (at a smaller, more kid-friendly lake) due to an e-coli outbreak. The bugs are everywhere these days, it seems. But we will avoid that lake (along with iceberg lettuce) and make the best of it. An ironic statement, of course, because as you can see from the photo above that’s not hard to do around here.

One more backward glance before I move forward. This was one of the last sights I saw in London, a view of Picadilly Circus just as the lights were coming on.

It doesn’t get dark till almost 10 there, and we were trying to make our way back to the Victoria Station neighborhood before dark. It was not to be. Too many twists and turns. We jumped in a cab instead. I’m finally solvent enough that I can do that. For most of my traveling life, I’ve had to walk or take public transport (impractical in this case) no matter what the situation.

I love the energy in this photo: the people strolling, the puddles evaporating, the marquee twinkling. The evening was just coming alive. I hated to leave. I always do.

We flew back in time yesterday, shedding the hours we took three weeks earlier and landing back where we started — in the New World.

We left the Roman walls and the castle keep built by William the Conqueror. We left the narrow alleys of York and its magnificent minster. We left the locks on the River Wey — and thank God we left them intact.

We left the trains and the Tube and the half-timbered wall, the tea and the Thames and the Marks and Spencer Food Halls. If someone offered me a ticket back tonight, I would take it. But I don’t want to be greedy. I live in the New World with all its space and energy and eye-popping green. (Virginia must have had as much rain as Britain has these last few weeks.)

We’re back in the New World, yes, but today I’m wishing I was back in the old one.