North by Southwest

If you are in New York and someone tells you they are going upstate, you can reasonably assume they are heading in the direction of Buffalo or Albany. If you are in Michigan and someone tells you they will be vacationing upstate, you might guess they are heading for Petoskey, or Traverse City, or possibly the Upper Peninsula. But when someone mentions going "upisland" around here, they are not going north -- they are probably heading west to Chilmark or Aquinnah or one of the other regions of the island that are quite unlike Edgartown, Oak Bluffs and Vineyard Haven. Head a few miles outside of the "popular" parts of the island, and you will find yourself very much in the countryside, surrounded by dense, vibrant forests and traveling along roads that are sometimes lined by stone walls that were obviously built centuries ago (keep in mind that the island was populated long before the United States of America even existed).

The initial point of my trip upisland was to visit a performing arts camp called The Yard; I wanted to see if it might be possible for me to teach classes there to make a little extra money, since part-time job prospects around here do not seem to be panning out. I got the jobs list from the Chamber of Commerce today and started going around to businesses on the list to put in applications, only to find everyone was "pretty much set" or "full up right now." Frankly, I haven't really had to look for work in more than a decade, and so it doesn't take much of this to discourage me.

Anyhow, The Yard sounded like a wonderful alternative. It's in Chilmark, which is about 12 miles (and, because of the low speed limits around here, about half an hour's drive) away from where I'm living. The drive out was quite pleasant and very picturesque, especially if you are fond of winding, sinuous roads that are shaded by huge old trees and dotted with houses that double as businesses: yoga studios, antique stores, farm markets, etc. Unfortunately, when I got to The Yard, there was no one around in the offices. There was what appeared to be a dance class in progress in one of the outlying buildings, but I didn't want to disturb anybody. So it was clear that unless I wanted to hang around and wait for class to be dismissed, this was not going to be the day to land a teaching position.

Well, I decided, if I've come all the way out here I might as well see what's around. So I went for a leisurely drive through Chilmark, out into Aquinnah and out to one of the far western points of the island, where the Aquinnah (or Gay Head) lighthouse stands. On my way to the lighthouse, I stopped off at Lobsterville Beach, which made for a delightful detour. It's a sandy stretch of oceanside that's cunningly concealed from plain view by a barrier of tall grasses and clusters of distractingly lovely flowers. In fact, the scent of the wild roses in the breeze was absolutely intoxicating.

The roses themselves are currently in full bloom -- as if that seductive aroma weren't enough to tell you -- their petals a color somewhere between a deep, rich pink and a delicate shade of purple inside each blossom is a tiny ring of yellow. The flowers closer to the beach seemed to be slightly darker than the ones near the road, although perhaps that was just a trick of the light. I couldn't help but be reminded of the quote from Alice Walker's "The Color Purple": "I think it pisses God off if you walk by the color purple in a field somewhere and don't notice it." God can rest assured anyone who passed Lobsterville Beach would notice these ravishing roses, as well as the long-stemmed daisies that stood nearby, shuddering slightly in the light wind.

I walked down to the beach and quickly found something I couldn't believe. It was a rock that could easily have passed as a cheddar cheese roll in any bakery. The coloring and texture were uncanny. I picked it up and rinsed it off in the surf (accidentally soaking my shoes and socks in the process, but what do you expect at a beach?), and its layers of red-orange and tan glistened in the sun. I used to collect rocks as a child, a hobby I was reminded of last week when I was packing up my apartment and found a plastic chest full of various fossils and curiously shaped stones I had saved over the years. Finding this brought back happy memories.

Then I was off to the lighthouse, which was not far away. Apparently, the lighthouse is open for tours later in the summer, although it was not today, so I had to take my pictures from a fairly great distance. Even so, what a majestic sight it is, sitting serenely atop the ruggedly beautiful clay cliffs that drop off into the water. There are four other lighthouses on the island, and I will make my way to each one of them before long.

Near the lighthouse is a collection of restaurants, snack bars and gift shops. Although I wasn't terribly hungry, I was intrigued by the Aquinnah Clam Chowder, which I had heard is a local recipe. It's slightly thinner and has more of a "clammy" taste than the New England chowder most of us are used to (and it has very little in common with Manhattan clam chowder). The broth is almost clear until you stir it up; then you find the clam meat, the cubes of potato, the bits of minced onion and other chowder staples deep beneath the surface, like little sunken treasures.

Heading back from the lighthouse, I took note of how many roads and drives along the way were marked "private." In sharp contrast to Oak Bluffs or Vineyard Haven, where the houses are generally packed fairly tightly together, rural residences are generally situated on large plots of land. Another eye-catching novelty: Keep an eye out for mailboxes decorated to look like sea creatures. I saw a lobster, a shark and a whale, and I'm sure there must have been others. Those country folk may crave their privacy, but at least they have a stylish sense of humor, too.

Even rice has gone green...

The Green Revolution has obviously gone south of the border, if my dinner tonight is any indication. I ate at a restaurant called Zapotec in Oak Bluffs, which claims to serve authentic Mexixan recipes, and who am I to say they don't? But I've sat down to many Mexican meals in my day and I've never heard of "green rice."
"Would you like white or green rice?" my server asked. "What is green rice?" I asked. She explained that it's white rice that's been tossed with lime juice, cilantro and a few other spices. Color me tempted. I ordered the green rice and was immediately pleased with the slightly tangy combination of the lime and the cilantro; quite often, I barely touch the rice at restaurants, but this was a treat and I fully intend to serve it at home one of these days.

Sunday night in Vineyard Haven

No, that's not a painting: It's an actual photograph of a Sunday night sunset in Vineyard Haven, located just to the west of Oak Bluffs. It's a community with a detectable down-to-earth attitude. There's none of the "let's party" atmosphere of Oak Bluffs, that's for certain. This is a far mellower environment.

Its streets are lined with bookstores, drug stores, a fudge emporium, a grocery store, Beetlebung (which serves delicious, creative pizzas and an assortment of teas, coffees and other beverages) and a sweetly old-fashioned movie theater that shows the latest films at impressively reasonable prices: If you can get away on a weeknight, you can see "Angels and Demons," "The Hangover" or "Land of the Lost" (but really, why would you want to see "Land of the Lost"?) for a mere $5, about half what you'd pay at most cineplexes. Although I haven't stopped in yet to see what the interior of the theater is like, I certainly plan to do so in the near future.

Vineyard Haven also has a sprawling combination inn/workout facility with a stunning indoor swimming pool you can see through the windows. I didn't want to shock myself by looking at the prices for memberships, but I would certainly be willing to shell out a little money to swim there, if nothing else.

If Edgartown is sophistication and Oak Bluffs is come-as-you-are, Vineyard Haven seems to be somewhere in between, perhaps a little more working-class and unpretentious. It's also the first part of the island most people will get to see, since it is the primary dock for the ferries and boats that come over from the mainland. This was where I arrived on the car ferry Thursday night, although by the time I got here it was dark and I didn't have a chance to see very much until Friday afternoon (and then it was raining, which wasn't exactly desirable for a peaceful stroll).

Is there life after lobster rolls?

Two foods are almost inescapable on Martha's Vineyard: lobster and ice cream. Thankfully, no one has tried serving both at once (unless Mad Martha's, one of the premier homemade ice creameries, is experimenting with a diabolical new flavor). Still, you could probably close your eyes, walk 12 paces in any direction in the business districts of Edgartown, Oak Bluffs or Vineyard Haven, and the odds are excellent you'd wind up within arm's reach of a place that served ice cream or lobster.

Saturday evening, I was sightseeing in Oak Bluffs when I nearly walked into a sign that had been set up outside of Sidecar Cafe and Bar. "Lobster Mac is Back!" it announced, and evidently this was bigger than the return of McRib a few years ago. Three women who happened upon the sign gasped and gushed with excitement and dropped in to take advantage of the special -- they'd obviously been regulars at the restaurant, since the staff seemed well-acquainted with them. I hope they enjoyed their bowl of lobster macaroni and cheese as much as I did: What an inspired combination. The chef had tossed generous chunks of lobster meat with an exceptionally creamy macaroni and cheese (made with all white cheeses, so it didn't have that unearthly yellow color we often associate with mac and cheese) and topped the dish with a dusting of toasted bread crumbs. It was served with a side of tender, subtly seasoned asparagus and a small salad of greens. If I don't go back for more one of these days it will be because A) Sidecar has gone out of business, or B) because I have been thrown into a maximum-security prison that does not permit days trips for fine dining.

But man cannot live by lobster alone, can he? So, when I returned to Oak Bluffs Sunday afternoon, I bypassed the assorted seafood houses and headed to a quiet-looking cafe/bakery called Slice of Life (their motto: "We love food"). On their sign, a robust tomato, a garlic bulb and a pear -- that sounds like the set-up for a joke, doesn't it? -- are lined up. I love all three of those ingredients, so why not drop in?

I did not find any one dish that combines tomatoes, garlic and pears (that might be as hard to digest as lobster-flavored ice cream, come to think of it), but I did find something even more intriguing: the fried green tomato B.L.T., an astonishing and hearty sandwich made with applewood smoked bacon, basil mayo, arugula and thick-sliced, perfectly prepared fried green tomatoes. It's served on toasted rosemary bread, and the meal smelled so splendid when it arrived that I almost hated to eat it. If one of the Slice of Life chefs came up with Fried Green Tomato B.L.T.: The Fragrance, I would happily spray myself with it daily.

The gingerbread ghetto

If Edgartown seems a bit stately and upscale, Oak Bluffs is its far more casual, let-it-all-hang-out neighbor. I kept hearing that Oak Bluffs was the island's "party town," and I've found no evidence to suggest otherwise. There are bars and live music and liquor stores everywhere. You can find Irish music, '80s cover bands, acoustic, karaoke -- pretty much whatever you'd like to listen to at any given time.

But the town's real attraction -- at least for those who don't crave a stiff drink or two -- is its entrancing architecture, primarily the eye-catching "gingerbread" houses that line many of its streets. They're painted in the kind of festive colors few homeowners would dare to play with: bright pink, neon blue, sea-green, etc. And many of them are outfitted with charmingly frilly accessories, including lots of bric-a-brac, towering gables, widow's walks and, in some cases, front porches that you could use to store an aircraft carrier. I jokingly wrote down in my notebook that I was "adrift in the gingerbread ghetto," but these homes are wonderful to admire and, as far as I could see, exquisitely maintained by their owners.

At the center of Oak Bluffs, just behind the "Welcome" signage, is Flying Horses, the country's oldest operating platform carousel and a certified National Historic Landmark. It was apparently built in 1876 for New York's Coney Island and was brought to Martha's Vineyard in 1884. It was acquired by the Martha's Vineyard Preservation Trust in 1986 and has been painstakingly restored. It's not a traditional merry-go-round, since the horses remain firmly in place throughout the ride (they "fly," but they don't bounce up and down). The challenge for riders is to try to catch the rings that drop down a chute that's off to the side of the carousel; if you're skillful enough to snag one of the brass ones, you get a free ride. I didn't get close enough to see for myself, but I was told the manes and tails are made of actual horse hair and that inside the glass eyes of each of the horses you can find a small carved charm in the shape of an animal.

Oak Bluffs is also a beach town. There's a nice stretch of sand just behind the stony walls that separate the road from the water, and there's also a ferry station. Move out to the edge of Oak Bluffs and you'll find mostly undisturbed beach settings that are quite a change from the tone of the town itself. Wildflowers bloom everywhere and they're so pretty you might be tempted to pick a bouquet. Don't try: Most of them grow on vines and stems covered with menacing-looking thorns that could tear your fingertips to shreds. I decided I'd take pictures rather than souvenirs.

Edgartown in the rain

Since I managed to get everything set up in my room after I got in last night, I had planned to spend the day sight-seeing and looking for an interesting part-time job, since the prices here are, as you might suspect, a bit steep: I bought a Lobster Roll for lunch, a sandwich consisting of lobster salad on a lettuce leaf, rolled inside a bun -- it was $13.95. (And it came with nothing more than a skimpy bag of potato chips; I mean, it was delicious, but still...)

But the weather was not entirely cooperative. I awakened to overcast skies and light rain, which was not what I was hoping for. While it wasn't a storm by any stretch of the imagination, it was not exactly conducive to a leisurely stroll. I waited a couple of hours to see if it might let up; it seemed like rather non-committal rain and I thought maybe it would roll away eventually. No such luck. Like that chirping cricket that hides in your room and keeps you awake all night with its persistent chirp, this shower was not going to disappear. And, I decided, it was not going to keep me at home.

So I got in the car and headed for Edgartown, one of the island's several mini-cities. It's a charming place, with glorious old New England architecture. It seemed as if there was white paint everywhere I turned. Finding a parking space was only moderately difficult -- I have been warned that that's not going to be the case in a few weeks -- and soon I was wandering through the narrow streets, which seemed to be full of boutiques, ice cream parlors and sandwich shops. If you go hungry here, it's because of lack of money, not lack of restaurants. I had lunch at Edgartown Deli: a fish sandwich with fries and some hot tea. It was $11.95, which seemed a little steep for the portions served, even though the sandwich was quite good.

Then I started looking around for "help wanted" signs. There was one in an ice cream shop, although I didn't go in. There wasn't one at the library, but I stopped in to see if there were any openings: no luck. The librarian did, however, point me to the classifieds in one of the local papers ("There's loads of stuff in there," she promised, although her idea of "loads" is somewhat grander than mine, apparently). I saw an ad for counselors at a youth arts camp, which sounded like it would be fun, so I called the number and left a message.

Meandering around the town I discovered the local cinema, which is quite unlike the megaplexes most of us visit. It's got a grand total of two screens, for one thing, and even though it is playing many of the newest titles, you can't always see them whenever you want. I could, for example, see "Up" and "The Hangover" on Friday, but if I had wanted to check out "The Hangover" on Saturday night -- and what better night to see it? -- I would have been faced with a choice between "Angels and Demons" or "Land of the Lost" instead. "Up" would still be playing at matinees on Saturday, although on Sunday it would be off the schedule in favor of "Night at the Museum: Battle of the Smithsonian." But "The Hangover" would be back on Sunday, as they so often are in life, wouldn't you say? The theater runs something similar to a repertory schedule, which means if you want to see a particular movie you'd better do some pre-planning.

On the way out of town, I stopped at Aboveground Records, which is an amazing little independent music store with a dazzling selection of CDs (used and new), vinyl, DVDs and even a few cassettes in one corner. It also handles audio accessories, so I was able to buy some blank CDs and a snug little protective cover for my new iPod. Aboveground reminded me so much of Repeat the Beat in Royal Oak, where I worked for two years and I thought I'd ask for an application in the hopes of maybe landing a job. Unfortunately, the manager said they're filled up and I should check back in a month or so. Disappointment! But, ever the optimist, I will stop back, hopeful.

The great escape

The challenge: Get from Portage, Michigan to Martha's Vineyard, Massachusetts -- 967.20 miles, according to Mapquest -- in 24 hours. I was sure I could do it. Long drives didn't worry me. After all, I had a Prius, which meant I wouldn't have to stop for gas very often, and I could take along a bag of snacks to distract me from the siren-like call of all the fast-food dens of iniquity that would be lying in wait along the way.

I failed: I arrived 26 and a half hours after I started. Alas, if only I'd been able to avoid the temptation of that hotel swimming pool. And that McDonald's that beckoned me away from the Massachusetts Turnpike.

But considering more than 16 of those hours were spent on the road, going from Michigan to Ohio to Pennsylvania to New York to Massachusetts and then on to a car ferry that took me from the mainland to the island, I couldn't beat myself up too much. Besides, the pool was really refreshing, and if I hadn't loosened up my muscles during that half-hour swim (plus 10 minutes in the jacuzzi) I doubt I would have had the stamina to complete the trip in a little more than a day.

I left Portage at 7 p.m., about eight hours later than I had hoped. Prior to my departure, I had called the Steamship Authority in Woods Holes, Massachsuetts to book a reservation for the car ferry on Thursday. I had hoped for something late; the only opening they had was at 6:15 p.m., unless I wanted to catch the 6 a.m. ferry Friday. I took the Thursday night reservation, confident I'd make it somehow.

I was born in Columbus, so I am hesitant to criticize anything Ohio-related. But the Ohio Turnpike is one tedious drive: miles and miles and miles of vaguely pretty farmlands and endless sky, with occasional exits to tiny towns full of what I call the possessive eateries: Wendy's, Chili's, Bennigan's, Applebee's, etc. I guess Bob Evans doesn't technically qualify for inclusion in that category, but it sounds like it should and there were certainly several of those as well. I didn't reach Cleveland until almost midnight, but even cloaked in darkness it was such a happy change of pace from what I'd been seeing for the past few hours.

Then came the Pennsylvania Turnpike and the New York Thruway, which almost made me nostalgic for the opulence of Ohio. I will say that even though the New York Thruway is generally less than exciting from a scenic standpoint (until you get to the impressive forests and rugged mountains outside of Albany), the road itself is in remarkably solid shape. After spending so many years on the lumpy patchwork quilts Michigan calls freeways, it was a refreshing change to actually travel for hours on relatively smooth, carefully maintained pavement.

At 2:30 a.m. I finally decided to take a break. I was in Fredonia, New York and I thought I was about at the halfway point of my trip. (I was wrong, but I didn't figure that out until the next morning.) I checked into the Best Western Dunkirk & Fredonia Inn -- apparently both towns insist on claiming a piece of this particular establishment -- and walked into a room that was decorated in a style that might be called Abstract African Lite. It looked as if a designer saw "The Lion King" and said, "Yes, something just like that -- but a little less, uh, ethnic."

I suspect there might have been a clash of opinions on exactly what direction to take the inn, since the exterior of the building was adorned with mock Greek frescoes of bunches of grapes. Perhaps Dunkirk argued for Greek and Fredonia pushed the African agenda; perhaps we'll never know for certain.

Anyhow, the morning breakfast buffet was laid out in an area overlooking the hotel pool and spa, so while I was munching on my Belgian waffle and sipping some orange juice I could see that lovely, empty pool just waiting to be utilized. So after breakfast, I ran back to the room and changed into my bathing suit and enjoyed a peaceful, revitalizing swim, followed by a quick plunge into the violently bubbling hot tub.

By the time I got back to the room, my body felt invigorated, as if I'd had a tune-up. I think I heard a few of my muscles quietly apologizing for all the grief they had given me earlier in the week. The state of detente would not last long. Those same muscles would be cursing me all over again by the end of the day, after I had pushed them to take me all the way across New York and Massachusetts in a mad race to get to the ferry (along the way I called the Steamship Authority and managed to change my reservation from 6:15 to 8:30, which turned out to be a wise choice).

The day was as suspenseful as any Hitchcock thriller as I kept checking my AAA TripTik to see how many miles I had left to go and then struggled to calculate how long the trip would take, based on my average speed and the traffic conditions. If I didn't stop for a real meal or get lost at any point along the line, it looked like I would make it, although there literally wasn't a moment to spare. If it had been possible to drive with my fingers crossed, I might have tried it.

Everything was going perfectly most of the way. I had filled up the car just as I was leaving Fredonia and, because of the 55-65 mile per hour speed limit on the Thruway, the Prius was getting magnificent mileage. I enjoyed the extra fruit I had purloined from the continental breakfast table and passed the time listening to National Public Radio (when I could find it), Canadian rock stations and an enjoyable set of eclectic material from the University of Rochester radio station (when no NPR outlet could be found), and CDs of Japanese electro-pop (when I ran out of other options).

But not long after I crossed into Massachusetts, about seven hours into the journey, it felt as if my energy was draining away at an alarming pace. My head began to feel heavy, my arms started stiffening up and my stomach, not satisfied with a diet of leftover fruit, dried strawberries and Smarties, began to growl. Should I give up and get a good night's rest and continue on Friday morning? I seriously considered it for a few minutes. Maybe I was pushing myself to ridiculous extremes that I would regret later. Maybe it was time to eat something substantial. Or just rest: I had only gotten a little more than five hours of sleep the night before because I went to bed so wired that it took me much longer to fall asleep than it should have.

But then, salvation appeared: a "service plaza" with a McDonald's. I pulled in and ordered a Filet-O-Fish meal and a lemonade. If they gave me the extra burst of adrenalin I needed to get to that ferry at Woods Hole, wonderful. If not, I would check into a hotel, crash for the night and start fresh tomorrow.

McDonald's worked magic, although a rather weak sort of magic. I had barely enough power to make it to Woods Hole, although I was yawning and rolling my shoulders quite a bit along the way. But I rolled into the docking area and boarded the ferry at 8:15 p.m., exactly nine hours after I left Fredonia and just in time to see a stupendously lovely sunset. Glorious streaks of deep purple and magenta appeared in the twilight sky, a ravishing reward at the end of an arduous day.