Almost the last day of May and I leave Hampstead headed for Waynesboro in Pennsylvania where I have booked a hotel room for the night. It’s not a long ride so I left late afternoon and arrived without incident.
At the hotel reception I was asked fro my credit card and when I queried this I was subjected to a tirade from the Indian manager. Trying to explain why I was asking, only irritated hi further, so I decided to just keep quiet and handed over my card. This worked to a point, but every now and then he would relaunch himself, accusing me of arguing with him, even though I was saying not a word.
Eventually the process was completed, and I found my room. It wasn’t bad, not great, but not as bad as some of the descriptions I had read about motel rooms. The next morning Mr Patel was much calmer and remorseful; he must have apologised to me half a dozen times in the space of an hour. Breakfast was a pleasant surprise; it was simple but there were several choices and the quantity unregulated.
This was my first experience of a motel, and I reflected on the picture painted by Paul Theroux in his book Deep South. He described how Indian immigrants had taken over the motel sector, how they were all called Patel, and how the motels could benefit from a good clean and a facelift. Now I’m not in the Deep South – that pleasure is still in front of me – but my experience was far removed from this description. The motel, Days Inn by Wyndham, was clean well maintained and certainly didn’t smell of curry, or any other culinary odours.
Next day I spent visiting the UPS delivery point to which I had addressed my regulator., and sat in a café trying to do a bit of blogging. In the afternoon I headed off to meet my next hosts, Terry and Bobbie McIntyre, in Greencastle, only 10 km away.
The reception was warm and I was shown my bed in a roomy mobile home/trailer. I was introduced to the dogs, who clearly had differing opinions as to my acceptability, offered a drink and told to make myself at home. This was not a hard task as Bobbie and Terry were both very relaxed and easygoing. Soon I really did feel at home.
Earning My Keep
Next morning I volunteered to accompany Bobbie to the dump and to do a bit of ‘yard sale-ing’. It seems that every weekend there are yard sales, or ‘vide maisons‘ to we francophiles, all over the place and Bobbie and Terry are very fond of rummaging for bargains at these. We visited several on the way back, in spite of the big trailer we were pulling behind the truck. I bought nothing, but Bobbie acquired a garage game for her grandsons. I was very impressed by the tip; firstly by its size and secondly by the efforts being made to recover/renature (or whatever the term is) the site and return it to a natural looking hill.
In the afternoon we attended a graduation lunch for Bobbie’s niece. But before this I had received a message from USPS to say that my name hadn’t been recognised at the UPS delivery point so my package had been returned to sender. This was a disaster, as it would take 3 days to get back there and then another three, at least, to get back to me. The guys at the delivery point told me that the postman had not attempted to deliver anything but mail for them, so this was a bit confusing. I had always been a little confused by the UPS and USPS thing; I sort of thought, if I thought about it at all, that they were two divisions of the same organisation. Wrong! They are separate, one, UPS, being a private company and the other the Government owned United States Postal Service. So asking USPS to deliver something to a UPS delivery point was not, it transpired, a good idea.
Not one to give up easily, while Bobbie and Terry stayed at the lunch, I went up to the nearby post office to see what could be done. The front office was closed, so I went round the back and rang the bell. The manager was summoned and, after I had explained my situation and acknowledged my ignorance (stupidity), he went to trace the item. Luckily, it was still out on the delivery truck, so he told me that I should return on Monday morning, and it would be at the front desk for me.
Ecstatic at my good fortune, I returned to the lunch venue, where folk were getting worried at my disappearance. The lunch was a purely family affair and I was made to feel truly welcome, and given a good feed into the bargain. Dessert was an ice-cream cake, something I don’t think I have had since Jack’s 7th birthday party in Mukuvisi Woodlands in Harare almost 20 years ago.
The lunch was in a meeting room attached to the local volunteer fire station and the younger kids went out to see the fire engines. They were joined by a few and eventually by all the adults as the duty volunteer showed us around the two trucks. I was amazed and the quality and quantity of/ equipment that was stored in every nook and cranny of the trucks; if I am ever involved in an accident requiring rescue, I’d be delighted to see one of these arriving on the scene. The young firefighter then demonstrated his personal equipment, donning his full suit – helmet, mask and all – in spite of the heat of the afternoon.
He then got out the hose and the kids had a ball playing in the shower and even directing the water. While this was probably a good way to pass an otherwise dull afternoon on duty, this young lad went well out of his way to present the fire service. I am sure he succeeded in recruiting many new supporters amongst the family. Me? I decided that when I grow up, I want to be a fireman!
Helping out with the trash is one thing, but having to dig rocks out of the garden is quite another; when I was told to feel at home, I didn’t realise this included becoming part of the household labour force! This was because Bobbie wanted to lay some pavers to prevent rain splash on her newly painted shed. I suggested she just paint the bottom ½ metre brown or black, but clearly this wasn’t acceptable.
Then came the biggest shock of all. It was Sunday and Terry and Bobbie were going to church and asked if I’d like to come. I was encouraged by the promise of a free cup, a very nice piece of chocolate and lunch. Well, what’s a travelling man to do?
It wasn’t quite “happy-clappy”; the music was more, what I would describe as Christian folk. The congregation was, however, encouraged to participate and was their arms in the air. The sermon was more of a motivational talk, using excerpts from the bible to reinforce the message, than a traditional Sunday sermon. However as with all religions or sects or whatever, there was an element of conditioning, you might say brainwashing, involved. It was gentle, it was subtle, but it was there, and I felt that while only and donations were not mentioned directly, there were several references to the generosity of the congregation and the good works that this generosity facilitated.
I found myself pondering on some issues that the sermon raised and in spite of my scepticism I left the service feeling somehow better. A strange feeling for a confirmed atheist, but I guess this demonstrates the effectiveness of the approach.
The lunch after the service was like a large family gathering, with plenty of activities to keep the kids, and adults, amused. It was self-served in the garden adjacent to the church and everyone, well nearly everyone, was very polite and pleasant. I have to admit that, all-in-all, I enjoyed the day; I doubt I’ll make a habit of it, but I can see how the whole thing could appeal.
Belfast-2-Belfast-By-Bike 