Road Tripping: Part 3
The New England coast, while majestic and scenic, isn't my family's prime idea of a summer vacation destination. We like our coastlines flat and sandy, with calm, preferably warm water. Seafood is fan favorite at dinner time, but we like crabs more than lobster, bisque over chowdah.
If there's one thing we can't get from our seaside that the coast of Massachusetts has to offer, it would be whale-watching. This unique endeavor was what got us out of bed on the third day of our road trip.
Actually, that’s not quite true — the howling wind and rain lashing against our hotel window did that. Also, the phone call from the whale-watching company soon after, informing us that all tours that day were cancelled due to “rolly seas.” It seemed our carefully laid plans had run aground amidst the rising storm of reality, and we were forced to step back from the wreckage of our hopes and dreams to try to chart a new course for our trip.
OK, it wasn’t that dramatic; we just rescheduled the tour for a few days later, when we would be passing back through Massachusetts on our return loop through New England. The weather forecast looked more favorable for that future date — Father’s Day, incidentally — and we just had to swap out our Day 8 plans for today. Where did that revised itinerary have our little coven of darlings headed?
None other than … Salem! [cue lightning and minor-key organ music]
Surprisingly full of good spirits at this turn of events, the Lau clan piled into the van and made the short, easy drive to the historic home of witchcraft. It was appropriately overcast and a little foggy when we arrived, with many houses decorated for Halloween year-round: fake spiderwebs covered decorative planters, bats and ghosts dangled from trees, Funco Jasons and plush Sanderson Sisters stood in windows.
We found street parking near Washington Park, which is roughly the center of town. From there we went to the Salem Witch Museum, the most highly reviewed such museum in town overflowing with witch-themed attractions. We arrived in time to catch the next show, so we paid and filed into a dim, cavernous room with benches ringed around a glowing pentagram.
So far so good.
All around us were darkened stages, populated with silhouettes of buildings, trees, and unidentifiable figures. Ominous music thrummed through the air, the bass occasionally traveling up through our feet and bottoms. A fog machine breathed gray air around our ankles as people whispered and creaked into their seats.
The spectacle began with a baritone-voiced disclaimer about the special effects and realism of the show — “Leave now or face the horrors!” This had the desired result of gluing us all to our seats as the official presentation began.
One stage lit up, showing a bucolic village scene: “Salem, Massachusetts, 1692. Just a quiet New England town, bustling with simple, industrious Puritans looking to escape the oppression of Europe…” It basically explained that a few teenage girls incited the whole anti-witch hysteria, accusing people of cursing them or worshipping Satan. Over the next half hour, various stages lit up and went dark as crackly voice-overs and fading lights flickered behind clapboard walls and poorly-wigged mannequins.
It wasn’t terrible, but it wasn’t outstanding either … just good enough to hold our attention. There was a very short museum tour afterward, but we all got the idea by that point, so we headed off into town to see what else Salem had to offer.
Fortunately, one of its non-witch offerings was food. We wandered into the pedestrian district, a nice walkable cobblestone area. A family-friendly restaurant looked like it was just opening, so we stepped inside to grab lunch.
It was a spacious, old-fashioned place — lots of booths and dark wood, with knickknacks and TVs on the walls. We had a decent but unremarkable meal: sandwiches, chips, deep-fried somethings-or-other. More memorable was the water feature beside the patio. It involved a series of stone pathways with little streams running through them. An arch stood at one end with a waterfall; kids (and adventurous adults) would walk through it, hopping from one pathway to another.
A tour group happened to stop there while our girls were prancing around. The tour guide gestured toward this landmark and explained its significance. “If you look at it from overhead, it’s a map of the key waterways of the area. The raised stone sections were the major neighborhoods of Boston and the Salem region.” So that was kind of neat.
From there, we did some casual sightseeing: popped into a large comic book store, posed in front of the Bewitched statue, traipsed through a graveyard. We also did a lap through the Witch City mall, mostly window-shopping and using the restrooms. Along the way we got some ice cream, which again was perfectly average.
After a couple of hours, we all had our fill of Salem, so we went back to the van. Our major destination of the day was all the way up in Maine, the northernmost extent of both New England and our trip. We had another three-state day, passing through New Hampshire for like 20 minutes before ending up in Portland, Maine.
It was late afternoon when we reached our hotel — across the street from the airport and apparently near an enormous mall that we never actually got to see. After checking in, we tried to find something to do until dinner. It was drizzling off and on, so we went to the indoor pool, which hit the trifecta of being large, unoccupied, and heated.
We swam for a bit and then I decided to get takeout for us to eat in the hotel. After my typical 30-minute scouring of Yelp reviews, I found a promising Thai restaurant with something for everyone. I ordered online, silently giving thanks to technology for sparing me the awkwardness of making an actual phone call (or, Heaven forbid, going to the place in person and ordering face-to-face).
I let the rest of the family enjoy their pool time while I cleaned up and went to get the food. When I entered the restaurant, there was nobody there … no customers, no employees. A table by the cash register had several bags of to-go orders, lined up and labeled. After a few throat-clearings and some furtive glances toward the back, I began reading the labels. I found our bag, double-checked the order and shrugged. All good, I guess! I took our the bag and left, gently high-fiving the perpetually waving golden cat.
20 minutes later, we were all back in the hotel room enjoying some delicious noodles and rice when my phone rang. 99% of the very few phone calls I get are spam, so I reluctantly checked the caller ID. Hmm…Portland, Maine. And the number looks vaguely familiar… I answered.
“Hello,” a tentative woman said, “this is Pom’s Thai Restaurant. Did you come pick up your food already? It's missing …”
“Oh,” I said around half a spring roll. “Yeah, yeah, I got it. It was just sitting there, so I just … yeah. It’s great, by the way — thank you!”
“That’s wonderful,” she replied after a brief pause. “But you never paid.”
A hot flush swept across my face. “Oh … really?” I looked at my phone, trying to call up their website. “I thought I paid through the app…” I found the confirmation email, which clearly stated that I intended to pay in person. Oof.
"Sorry about that,” I said, fumbling for my wallet. I paid over the phone, which she was thankful for, and I apologized profusely before she hung up. A mild wave of relief washed over me when I got off the phone, and I was lucky enough to finish my meal without hearing a single comment about my near-theft faux pas.
In fact, when I settled into bed that night, my pillow greeted a head untroubled by a guilty conscience. But just before I slipped into sleep, I was suddenly haunted by one question:
Did you remember to tip?
