Homeland Farm

Homeland Farm

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

Our most romantic date

    Cliffy and I both love to travel, but we seem to have had more time to travel in the early stages of our relationship. Why that is, I'm not sure. Now, I am a native Mainer, but I had never even been north or east of Orono. So, when Cliffy heard that tidbit of information, he decided he should be the man to take me.
     Early one sunny summer day, we decided to go to Machias, and spend the weekend sightseeing. We hopped in Cliffy's little car and off we went. We had a nice drive up along the coast, and he told me about the area, places he had fished, and about the nice little motel we would be staying at for our romantic night out.
     We pulled into the metropolis of Machias, and drove to a little diner for a late lunch. It was very cozy and we had a great time. After lunch, we decided we would go and get checked into the motel before we did any more sight seeing. It was as if I was Mary and Cliffy was Joseph, because when we went to check into the ONLY motel in town, there was indeed, no room at the Inn. As it turns out, we unknowingly picked "BLUEBERRY FESTIVAL" weekend, and the motel has been booked for months. As was expected, there were no rooms available anywhere in the immediate area. Now, if you have ever been to Machias and the surrounding towns, you already know what we quickly found out..There is NOTHING up there! Nothing really nice, like a Bed and Breakfast..and at the time we were there, not even a Motel 6, or a Super 8.
      We had a dilemma for sure. So, we started driving around, looking in one direction, then another. This was back in the day before the invention of  "Tom Toms" and other handy GPS systems. We had a map, but it was sorely lacking in overnight accommodations. So, we drove this way and that, and when we happened across a half decent hotel, we would stop, only to be told they too were full, and no, they didn't know of any other place that had a room available.
      By now, it was dark..and we were tired. And lost. We were driving down another dark, dreary road, when I saw a "motel" sign up ahead. Well, at least we assumed it was a motel, since only "MOTE" was light up, and it seemed unlikely there were any Motes or Moats in eastern Maine.
     We pulled into a dilapidated motel, with the bug light zapping away on the porch entry way. We sat and pondered, not really liking the looks, but too tired and stressed to want to drive one more mile. I sat in the car while Cliffy went inside to see if they had a room available. I was alternately praying they didn't, and then that they would. My butt was tired of riding. Naturally he came out with a key, and we drove across the yard to our "suite."
     I got out of the car with a great deal of trepidation. It was quiet, and dark. Well, all except for the good old boys in a "suite" a couple doors down. Their circa 1979 jalopy was parked out in front of their room, and I could see the beer cans tossed outside their door. We got our suitcase out of the trunk, and nervously opened the door to our room.
     We walked in and were immediately assaulted by the smell of stale air, cigarette butts, and old carpet. The room was all the things you DO NOT want in a motel room. Dark...dirty..dingy..and of course, buggy. It had a definate 1960 feel to it, and once I went into the bathroom, I knew it was from 1960's. The fixtures were all avacado green, and the shower was a cracked and stained step in tub- shower combination. I am not tall, but when  I stepped in to the shower, the shower head came to mid chest. I had to scooch to get my hair wet, not that I bothered to wash my hair, as the hot water lasted approximately 39 seconds.
     Cliffy decided to forgo the shower, but washed  up while I stared at the next issue at hand. The bed.
It was a double bed, and I am fairly certain it had been freshly laundered sometime in the last century.
The ugly polyester bedspread, in muted camoflage colors stared up at me as I stood beside it, in the newly purchased sexy nightgown I was wearing.  (It was way early in our relationship..I had yet to bust out the grannys..)
     Cliffy walked out of the bathroom, and we made plans on how we were going to best handle the bedbugs I was sure were under those covers. I got ready to swat anything that moved with my shoe, and Cliffy yanked the covers back. No bugs. Only a nicely pilled up set of yellow sheets, that I was positive were once white. Gingerly, we sat down, and immediately felt the nice firm support of the steel coils poking us in the butt. I laid down, and put my head on the one pillow on my side, which was all of 2 inches thick. It was like laying your head down to rest on a stack of magazines. It was flat as flat could be. I folded, fluffed, and mutilated that pillow, but could not get comfortable. We were used to having 2 king size fluffy pillows each. We blew out the citronella bug repeller that they had placed on the nightstand for bug relief and apparently ambiance, and tried to sleep.
     I could hear the hollering, hooting and drunken commotion of the greasy men two doors down half the night. I expected to hear banjos dueling, but they prefered heavy metal instead. I swear, I didn't sleep more then an hour all night, for fear of waking up murdered.  I watched the sun ever so slowly turn our room from pitch black to barely light, which was all I was waiting for. Cliffy and I packed up and got ready to get out of there.
     I fully expected to find our car either gone, or stripped, but there it was, safe and sound. I shook off the feeling of "cooties" I had, and slid into the passenger seat, while Cliffy went to the drop off box ( a broken mailbox) to leave our key. He got in the car and we sat for a moment studying the motel we had just stayed in. Now that it was daylight, we could see it better and it became clear where we had stayed the previous night. The local motel in Pembroke, Maine, had in its former life, been a trailer. The enterprising folks had hooked two old single wide trailers together, end to end, and slapped on a motel sign..well, a "MOTE" sign.
      I said "Well, that was fun....", and I knew he was a keeper when my most romantic guy reached over and patted my leg and said " Only second best for you, Sweetie!"

Cliffy on a much more successful trip to Vermont

3 comments:

  1. There are times when things don't really go as you plan but this trip ended up being fun and exciting and an adventure never to be forgotten. Carmen made the trip humorous as only she can do.

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    1. Just so everyone knows..CLIFFY wrote that not me...:D..I had signed in to my FB page on his computer, and he didn't realize it when he left the message. I haven't yet started to refer to myself in the third person..(but maybe its coming.....:D )

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  2. This one reminds me of a Majorie Eliscu column, the writer for the Portland Sunday paper who does a column called Coffee Break. You could mail it to the papers and I bet they'd print that!

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