Day 6: Thursday, October 5th 2017
Mia and Jasper leave for school and we say our goodbyes, promise to keep in touch (we do) and then head off to Hyannis Port.
Can’t remember if Jack Kerouac ever mentioned visiting the laundromat but such is life on our particular road that needs must. Jane bravely enters alone and successfully deciphers the instructions. We leave the spin cycle and head off to discover Hyannis port: the armoury where JKF first declared he was standing for office of president, now curiously unkempt and anonymous, the church he and Jackie attended, and the JKF museum; squeaky clean with shiny buttons and unquestioning respect. After collecting the laundry we take a walk around the harbour and then drive up to the posh end of town. The JFK Memorial overlooks Lewis Bay where the man himself must have set off many times with his brothers in Victura, his beloved sloop now moored on dry land at the library in Boston. My latin is a bit rusty but apparently, Victura means, “about to live”, “about to be alive”, “about to survive”.
We stroll on the beach, enjoy the late autumn sun and watch the Canada geese desecrating the manicured lawn of the compound. The surrounding fencing is almost exactly the same construction as our own Lincolnshire fencing; we have some in front of the vegetable plot in front of our cottage back home. I guess one of the Lincolnshire pilgrims brought that idea over on the Mayflower?
We drive up to the headland in search of the JFK compound. It sits at the and of a short road that looks like it could be along the coast of Norfolk, Essex or Kent (England of course). We park as near as signage will allow, get out of the car and gaze like tourists up the short road at the end of which lies the compound and Ethel’s house. Ok, we are tourists but feel we are somehow now part of the elite, brushed by history, privy to inner secrets, reviled by Trump. Democrats. Once again the charged atmosphere of fame, myth and money is in the air. In the sea air.
We slowly cruise around the narrow, sandy lanes and come to rest on the roadside by Hyannis Port golf club. A lone golfer, surely someone famous, a distant relative of JFK perhaps or at least someone with a good story to tell, tees off by the clubhouse.
As he marches purposefully up the fairway, (for marching purposely is the only way to walk up a fairway it seems: full of optimism for that perfect lie up ahead, already putting the scuffed drive behind you), we dine on the sandwiches we made earlier. The budget took a bit of hammering during the first days as we casually chose where to eat, what to see, what to buy. A bit of basic multiplication revealed how much we might spend over 30 days on food alone so we decided to take firm control of our spending. I say firm. Probably more of a light squeeze. We would only eat ‘out’ once a day from now on. Definitely maybe. So today it’s sandwiches. I think we actually made these yesterday so that could count as two days in the ledger? We sit in the car and watch Jack Niklaus take his second shot. The smell of ham and cheese is now in the air. Feels wrong, yet strangely right.
We leave for Newport, Rhode Island, the next state; 80 miles away and, as all quiz veterans know, the smallest of the 50 states. (1,034 square miles since you’re asking).
‘Newport, Rhode Island’. Why is it that the name of every, yes every city and town in the US seems to sit so comfortably, syntactically speaking, with it’s mother state? Boston, Massachusetts. Washington, DC. Dallas, Texas. I could go on. Were they all named by someone with a compulsive need to create a kind of syllable-balanced, free-flowing system of nomenclature? Miami, Florida. Memphis, Tennessee. You see? Wolverhampton, the West Midlands? Doesn’t work. Maybe that’s why Americans will invariably say ‘Paris France’? It’s not their lack of geographical knowledge or a need to establish which Paris they are talking about (although ‘Paris, Texas’ is another good example); it’s just that the words sit well together? They would probably have little need to ever say, “Wolverhampton, the West Midlands”.
Our home in Newport is with John, a friend of Jane’s cousin Lesley, and his dog Kylee. Our first non-AirBnB stop, and thanks to John, it’s free! This could mean a re-think of the catering regime. John’s dog Kylee was due to have an operation the next day and he was clearly anxious about her.
We left the two of them at home and ventured into Newport; end of season and rather quiet. We dine at the Red Parrot (did we eat out at lunchtime? No, it was the sandwich in the car. It’s ok). There are lots of fresh-faced young sailors in uniform, dining out with their families; start of term or graduation I guess? It’s definitely a rite of passage night, a final obligation for mom before cutting loose and finding their feet. Or sea legs.
At one booth inside The Red Parrot the scene is like an Edward Hopper painting; a family group bathed in the dim restaurant lighting. Mom, dad and sis envelop one young sailor, who, in uniform, looks like someone from a Hollywood musical. He also has the slightly awkward look of someone hemmed in by expectation, like Dustin Hoffman’s character, Ben, in ‘The Graduate’; paradoxically, all at sea. Dad is smiling that smile that says he’s relieved his rival is leaving the nest at last, but he’s also envious that his boy is casting off into the wild blue yonder. Literally. Mom’s smile says the opposite of course. Sis is being sis. It’s a ritual acted out all over town tonight. For tomorrow their ships will sail.
A quick stroll in the cool evening air of Newport, then back to John’s for a nightcap and the lowdown on what we might do the following day.