Rodney

It was a trip to New England 20 years or so ago. I'd never been, and the trip was like an intensive crash course on New England culture. I saw part of it with an old bud who'd moved there, and who put me up with his fiance's family on their farm out in the middle of nowhere. I saw part of it with a rowdy group of sci-fi and fantasy fans, ending up with a crazed, weekend-long party at a fantasy con in New Haven. In between, I stayed in a small New Hampshire town where anybody who's family had been there less than 200 years was trash; saw the fall colors everywhere; met all the sterotypical New England small town characters (it's _all true_); literally wandered into a Teddy Kennedy rally in Faneuil Hall in Boston, where I sat with the national press, and ended up shaking Walter Mondale's hand, for what that's worth; I help cook for one of my hosts the first Chinese food he'd ever eaten in his life (he didn't get out much); climbed a mountain in New Hampshire and hiked through the prettiest countryside you're ever going to see; saw better museums than we've ever had in California; found out how to relate to Northeasterners (ie, people who'll tell you exactly what they think, even if you don't want to know), fought mad crowds at Filene's basement and carried off a $25 bomber jacket, was nearly run down two or three times in Boston until I figured out that there are no rules on the streets there; was literally chased by the Republican candidate for lieutenant governor in North Station (he wanted to shake my hand; I wanted to get away); interviewed fantasy authors on videotape at the New Haven con; enjoyed brilliant pizza and fresh seafood all over the place. And caught my ride to the airport in a shuttle full of 18-year-old Navy recruits on their way to basic. All that in about ten days. I've traveled far since then, but never enjoyed myself more.