An expat’s escape to the New England shore
I flew from Cuenca to Quito to Miami to Hartford on a clear and lovely day last week. Although I wished for nothing more than a giddy celebration, I knew there would be a sobering downside, too. I had been told repeatedly that the U.S. has changed in fundamental ways since my immigration five years ago, that an insistent fervor overflowed its banks flooding the homeland and airwaves. “The damage is clear,” they said, and they were right. However, my purpose is to celebrate my good fortune and a New England fall.
After three nights on Martha’s Vineyard, I am ready to sail along blue highways to see the changing leaves of Maine. I will write to you about my adventure when I return next week. In the meantime, I will leave you with this…
The man sitting directly across from me on the Miami to Hartford flight was taken off the plane for unruly behavior regarding mask-wearing — and there was no quarter given. I’ll tell you about that, too, next week.
I found the world’s best pub in Windsor Locks, Connecticut. Shortly after I ordered fish and chips I was presented with a whole cod wrapped in beer batter and a mountain of french fries. Malt vinegar was served by the bottle.
Cape Cod is everything I imagined, and a bit more, too.
Ralph Laren may feel right at home here, but I prefer wool on the hoof, and imagining my neighbor’s hands like a roadmap from the scarped potato fields in Chican to the Mercado in the valley of Paute.
Here are a couple more photos…