Maine by car

Slowly but surely over the past few days I have fallen in love with my Ford Mustang. I resisted it at first. I mean, at first, I thought I'd be getting a Mazda, an economy car, from the rental place. Then, I thought the car was only fit for a 6-foot giant, that the air conditioning was unusable, that I could never adjust its side mirror . . .

But as I drove it all across Maine three days ago, I began to regret that I would have to return it the next day. The ride was smooth, but you felt your speed. You accelerated as much as you wanted without breaking a sweat, and enjoyed every minute. The next day, we drove to the top of a mountain and back, and then we went to the local Hertz place.

I went in. There was nobody behind the counter: "Off cleaning cars," the sign said. "Be back soon." No point in waiting in there. I went back to the Mustang.

The next day, there was going to be a Renaissance fair at an old fort. It would only be accessable by car, and my grandmother, who I was visiting, wanted to go. We had tried to find a ride, but couldn't reach anyone. Out of pity, I think, she suggested that I go back and see how much more the car would cost for another day.

I went back into the rental place just as the lady came back from her cars. Another day's rental wouldn't be too expensive. Of course it wouldn't. I happily returned with the news.

And so we drove around for another day.

At five, we drove up to the Hertz place for the last time. I gave back the keys, and then went outside to wait for a bus. We had thought it would be a short wait, but it ended up being almost an hour. We had been waiting for a while when the Hertz lady went out of the building. I heard an engine ignite- it was definitely my car. I watched her drive it off somewhere with jealousy, and then the bus came and took us away.

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And after that melodrama, a bit of news. (I've been reading Lehrmontov's "A Hero of our Times" and wanted to try to imitate his style. Or, a style, of some sort. Although some day, even if it's in ten years, I'm getting a Mustang. Dammit.)

As I mentioned, we went to a Renaissance Fair held at an old fort. The fort was build after the war of 1812, in case the Brittish should drop by again. They didn't, and so that it wouldn't go to waste, they preserved it, and now you can clamber around all you want. Which is great for someone who'll never conceal that she's five years old. Or, actually, probably around 8. There was an eight-ish year old boy I ran into at some point. We played a game where he was down in one of the dungeon-like rooms under the central courtyard, and I was up in the courtyard, trying to reach him through the grill/ air vent, and help him escape. Not to worry: he escaped just find on his own. But that's getting ahead of myself.

When we arrived, we wandered past the normal visitors, into the bunch of people there for the fair. I definitely felt underdressed. But as I wandered around all the rooms in the fort, searching for hidden passages (non found, unfortunately), I felt a whole lot better. And then they had some sort of fighting-with-foam-weapons thing. The kids my age really could have done better. It was kinda hard to watch them overanalyzing how to strike next, and so on. But the adults were quite agressive, so it was fun.

And then people sang, and it was pretty, and then they tried to get my grandma and me to dance, and we ran away to the grounds to look around. My grandma was very impressed by the whole fair, especially the singing, I think. And also by how well organized it all was. And how no-one was selling wine or drinking vodka, but there she was comparing it with what might have happened in Russia . . .

At any rate, it was a enjoyable and relaxing. And I really appreciated how no one kept you from exploring as much as you liked.

And in the next few days, I'll report from on foot. Unless I'm taken away by my airplane first. In which case, the next entry shall be from Lyon. Maybe. Which reminds me that now I should be taking care of where I'll sleep for the two weeks after I leave Maine, instead of writing.