Western Maryland boasts some beautiful scenery, including mountains ("There are mountains in Maryland?" my mother asked after our trip, surprised) and the largest man-made lake in the state. That is to say, the largest lake in the state, as all the lakes here are man-made (probably in China).
The views are spectacular, and the view from one mountain in particular -- the lake spread out below, dotted with homes and boats -- inspires in one a deep desire to yodel. Indeed, while we were geocaching* on the mountain, the Hero was so taken with the view that several times he was scarcely refrained from acting on this impulse, and required a great deal of prompting to return to the task at hand.**
But as inspiring as the scenery was, I was under constant strain during the trip, especially in the evening. This is when the Giant Mosquitoes go on the prowl, looking for new blood. Looking for ME, a Certified Mosquito Attractor, an All-You-Can-Eat Mosquito Buffet.
As I indicated yesterday, the mosquitoes in this area are about the same size as the black bears who also roam the region, bur more fearsome. Wherever we went, I encased myself in OFF. If OFF is ever to linked to some awful affliction, like memory loss, I will be the first to know it.
Um, where was I? Oh yes, mosquitoes.
I constantly fretted about them on our trip. Even safe inside our bed and breakfast place, I mused about whether I should put mosquito netting around the bed.
"We're inside," the Hero pointed out. "They're outside."
"Oh, they'll find me," I said, peering out through the curtains into the night, where I could just make out a crudely constructed sign that said Come on out! We will won't bite.
Miraculously, the OFF seemed to work pretty well. Unfortunately this only made the mosquitoes mad, and they sometimes took their vengeance out on the Hero.
"The mosquitoes were terrible!" he complained after our fishing expedition.
"What mosquitoes?" I said.
And after horseback riding, "The flies wouldn't leave me alone!" he said.
"What flies?" I said.
I returned home with only ONE mosquito bite, probably from a rogue mosquito that snuck into the B&B with us, wearing a gas mask to protect itself from the OFF until I showered.
Obviously, encasing myself in insect repellent works, so I will continue to do so. At least, until I start losing my -- uh, my mem -- um --
Excuse me, what was I saying?
*Normally, "a pursuit in which participants use GPS coordinates and their wilderness survival skills to locate a hidden cache of treasure." In OUR version, "a pursuit in which participants wander around hopelessly on the side of a mountain."
**Which was to figure out how the heck to get off the mountain.
When exploring the wilds of western Maryland, where we were recently, it is important to understand and respect the local wildlife. This consists chiefly of black bears and giant mosquitoes. Of the two, the mosquitoes are definitely the more fearsome. Even the black bears are afraid of them.
But you would do well to avoid the bears, too, and know what to do in case you do spot one. To help you, there are signs with helpful suggestions posted everywhere -- at the entrance to state parks, on the backs of doors in public restrooms, in the grocery store, on the ceiling above your bed in the motel room, etc.
If you are hiking, you are advised to let any potential bears know that you are in the vicinity. Theoretically, this will encourage them to stay away from you. Some ways to let bears know that you're around include clapping, talking loudly, and singing. (Bears are particularly frightened by Neil Diamond, so singing "Song Sung Blue" would be helpful.) Alternatively, slapping your arms and legs at regular intervals is effective, and may also help keep the giant mosquitoes at bay, although from personal experience we doubt it.
As the Hero and I hiked in one of the many state parks in the area, we discussed songs that might be appropriate for the purpose of keeping bears away. The Hero suggested we belt out "If you're scared of bears and you know it, clap your hands," which, by combining singing AND clapping, seemed to us to potentially offer more protection than either action alone.
If, despite all your efforts to warn potential bears of your presence in the area, you STILL run into one, the park service people recommend several steps. One is NOT to start singing the "Hokey Pokey" and waving various limbs around in front of the bear, who would undoubtedly interpret such an action as "moderately hostile." (Singing "Moon River" would be "extremely hostile.")
First, you should positively establish that it IS a bear, because black bears are similar in size to the giant mosquitoes in the area, except they don't have wings. There are different methods for dealing with each type of wildlife. If what you see is definitely a black bear, remain calm. If it is a giant mosquito, there is no remaining calm. (Trust us!)
If you do encounter a bear, remain upright and talk to the bear in a calm, yet assertive voice. Yes. This is what the park service people say to do, although there is no record of any of THEM having tried it.
So, to illustrate, cowering and saying in a wimpy voice, "Please don't eat me, Mr. Bear!" is NOT the proper response. It is better to draw yourself up to your full height and say, in a self-assured manner, "Please don't eat me, Mr. Bear." This will cause the bear to respect you.
At least until he laughs and summons the giant mosquitoes to take care of you.
We have returned from our stay at a popular vacation spot in western Maryland, where a good portion of our time was spent signing waiver forms in order to engage in potentially dangerous activities. These potentially dangerous activities included wading through the waiver forms ("Reading this form has been found to cause eyestrain, glaucoma, and, occasionally, old age"). Whatever we did -- boating, horseback riding, roller-coasting down the mountain -- the activities themselves did not take nearly as long as filling out the forms.
It was the kind of place where, if you chose to stay at a bed and breakfast establishment, you might have to agree, in writing, that you fully comprehended that by consuming the Banana Sour Cream Pancakes, triple order of Full-Fat Bacon, and Fourteen-Egg Omelet (including yolks) for breakfast, you could be shortening your lifespan by several years.
Of course, your lifespan could be even shorter should you be foolish enough to engage in horseback riding. The waiver for this activity was particularly instructive, informing participants that horseback riding is the only sport whereby a puny but strong-willed being ("human") is bent on impressing its will upon a much larger, more powerful being ("horse") that possesses its own agenda ("deposit the human on the ground as soon as possible, preferably in a briar thicket"), which is in direct opposition to the puny human's agenda ("stay away from briar thickets"). The waiver therefore advised that "the safest course is to avoid getting on a horse, or going near one, or even getting within a few hundred miles of one."
There were some activities that we felt should have required waivers, though they did not. One of these was participating in activities solely because you felt that if a nine-year-old could do it, so could you ("We will not be responsible for any ensuing emotional trauma experienced by adults who are too weeny to engage in zip lining, and who KNOW they are too weeny to engage in zip lining, and yet who do so because they do not wish to lose face before a group of fearless, taunting, juvenile zip-liners").
Another activity that should have come with a warning was taking refuge in the hammock provided by our innkeepers...
Warning: Use of this apparatus may be habit-forming. All brain functions may be suspended while under its influence. May cause happiness, even giddiness, and a desire to retire early, like right now, and pursue more peaceful, fulfilling work, such as staying right here.
Earlier this week, the Princess was kidnapped and taken to a remote location in western Maryland, where she has been forced to hurtle down mountains, battle dangerous wildlife, and engage in other outdoor activities generally foreign to both her and the Hero. When she is returned to her normal habitat, she will attempt to explain the details of her participation in these activities, provided that she is in one piece and still able to type.
Luckily for us, we live in an area with many tourist attractions, so that guests from out of town who might not come a long way just to see US nevertheless visit us as part of their tour of all the area's exciting attractions, such as the White House and the formerly World's Largest Chair.
Our most recent visitors were lucky enough to be here for a famous summertime event, one that we in the East all look forward to each year: humidity. So on one of these hot, humid days, we did what any sensible hosts would do: We took our guests on a tour of a couple of ships in the downtown harbor, where there was about as much shade as on the open ocean.
Fortunately there was some rudimentary air conditioning on the ships, which was activated by each individual tourist waving a brochure in front of his or her most uncomfortably hot body parts. At each ship, employees sat at the entrance to take tickets and inform tourists that the tour was self-guided. THEY were not stupid enough to go down below where there was even less air movement than outside.
These ships are actual, life-size ships that in their early days had some function out on the vast seas, then somehow wandered into the harbor and have been there ever since. They are large and rather obvious, and should have been easy to find. The brochure stated plainly that there were four ships, but we -- our faculties possibly confused by the extreme heat -- could locate only three.
"It's over on Pier 4," we were told when we inquired about its whereabouts, and as the man showed us what was involved in getting to Pier 4 -- crossing vast desert-like areas of waterfront, leaping over tall buildings -- we made the decision to simply visit the ships in front of us.
The WW II-era submarine was of particular interest to the Hero and I, having just finished listening to The Hunt for Red October. This is a riveting tale of U.S. and Soviet submarines that took approximately 8,000 CDs to tell and included some very convincing, though fake, Russian accents.*
*In the interest of full disclosure, certain parties have promised us financial gain to mention this book on the blog, provided we also would agree to wire them money from our own bank accounts, etc.
As far as we could tell the submarine looked like most other submarines, meaning it looked like something built from old tuna fish cans and might fall apart at any moment, probably while we were on board.
The inside of the sub consisted of a great many wires, pipes, knobs, discarded car parts, pizza boxes, long, metal projectiles labeled "Do Not Stand Too Close to the Missile," etc. The effect was awe-inspiring, as we contemplated the likelihood that the whole thing had been assembled by a tribe of baboons rudely awakened from sleep.
While the guys admired the great many wires, pipes, knobs, discarded car parts, pizza boxes, missiles, etc., the girls debated whether we would rather suffer a slow, torturous death on board by tiny toilet or tiny shower. THIS, we concluded, was the real reason women have been kept from active service on subs for so long. Before we would set foot on a sub, every ship in the fleet would have to be retrofitted with spa-quality jacuzzis and sparkling clean bidets.
The sub was built to accommodate some 80-odd men, and if we tried real hard, we could see how it could easily fit that many, provided they were all the size of GI Joe action figures.
Our next stop was a nineteenth-century sailing ship. If the girls had been dismayed by the size of the toilet and shower on the submarine, imagine our horror at viewing what appeared to be one apparatus used for both these functions in the captain's quarters. The males among us did not, however, comprehend what this horror was about. Upon closer inspection we were relieved to see that the bathtub and toilet were actually separate, although we feared that the captain, sharing his maleness with those among us, would not have troubled himself greatly to make the distinction.
Back on land, we contemplated all we had learned from these relics of time past. After heading to the nearest air-conditioned building.
With our guests last weekend we ventured into DC by car, as is proper for someone who hails from the Motor City. Anyone else would ride the subway, or use some other form of more sensible transportation, such as a three-legged sack. But cars are sacred to those of us having roots in Michigan, and driving them is our sacred duty. When you first get your driver's license in the state, you are required to sign an affidavit that no matter where you may roam on life's journey, you will do so by car, and by car alone.
(Someone is going to point out that I have not kept my sacred duty to go by car when I go to work each day, but after reading this post you might understand why.)
Of course we took along the GPS. In our experience, the GPS is less an absolute authority than a catalyst for debate, and this trip was no exception. With five of us, someone was having an issue with the GPS directions at any one time.
GPS: Turn right in 1 mile at N Street.
Passenger 1: I don't think you should do that.
Passenger 2: Nope, we should turn LEFT in 1 mile.
Passenger 1: I don't think we should turn at all.
Driver: Did it say N or M?
Passenger 3 (peering out window): I hope we didn't want N.
GPS: Recalculating...In 200 feet, turn right on Monarch Street. Then keep left.
Passenger 2 (to GPS): You don't know what you're talking about.
GPS (to Passenger 2): Look who knows so much.
Driver (to GPS): Be quiet.
GPS: Hmmmph. (Is quiet for several minutes)
Passenger 4 (looking idly at road signs): I didn't know we pass Florida on our way to DC.
GPS (gleefully): I see you missed some turns, Ms. Know-It-All. Would you like some help now?
Driver and passengers: Be quiet!
GPS: Hmmmph (Is quiet for several more minutes) Turn left in 100 feet and drive for 753 miles.
Driver: What?? That will put us in the Atlantic Ocean!
GPS: (snort)
Eventually, with the help of a printed map and no doubt also some divine pity, we found our way to our destination. On our way home we decided to go a different route entirely, which caused considerable consternation in the GPS.
GPS: I TOLD you to go straight back there.
Driver: We're going THIS way.
GPS: Recalculating. Recalculating. Recalculating.
Passenger 1: I think we should take this road.
GPS: (snort!)
Passenger 1 (to GPS): Be quiet!
GPS: (remains silent for rest of trip)
Passenger 4 (idly watching road signs): Did we MEAN to drive to Mount Rushmore?
Driver: Recalculating!
Mercifully, we arrived home, although a bit later than we should have according to the GPS (GPS estimated arrival time: 6:04 p.m. Saturday, actual arrival time: 10:37 p.m. the following Tuesday). The device was feeling pretty smug, even though it had steered us wrong more than once.
"Just behave," I threatened it. "Or next time, we'll take the subway."
GPS: Recalculating!
It does not take long, once you have moved into a new residence, to discover all its flaws. The way to deal with this, of course, is to make a list, as soon as possible, that details all the things you definitely want in your next house.
Since our entire house could fit into a walk-in closet in a modern master bedroom, there is little storage space. The Hero deals with this by smashing through walls and ceilings to create more space. To some extent this approach has worked. But recent events in our home have highlighted the need for a place to store...a surprise birthday cake.
One of our out-of-town guests was having a birthday, and to help her celebrate we -- by which I mean I -- made her a cake. We wanted to keep it a surprise, so we looked around for a good place to hide the cake until party time.
The Hero suggested the oven. "Too dangerous," I said, with visions of having to explain to firefighters why we had thought it was a good idea to store a plastic cake carrier in the oven.
We finally hit upon using the china cupboard in the living room, which is actually a bedroom armoire that wouldn't fit up the stairwell that leads to the bedroom. After much shifting of items inside the armoire, the cake was tucked safely away. The perfect hiding place, we thought.
Until we started the meal prep in earnest, and I sent my sister, who was unaware of the stowaway cake in the armoire, to retrieve a salad bowl. From the armoire.
The Hero began to motion frantically, in gestures that could have meant "Don't open the armoire!" or possibly "I am experiencing a major convulsion of all my limbs!" We both quickly fled to the now-open armoire and blocked it from the view of the birthday honoree, acting as if the salad bowl needed the help of all three of us to find it.
Crisis averted, we continued meal prep and pleasant conversation, until someone requested some salad tongs. "In the armoire!" I yelled, and the birthday girl, endeavoring to be helpful, started to open the doors to find the tongs.
The Hero gestured frantically to me again, and we both yelled, "Never mind! We can use the one in here!" and grabbed the closest large utensil, which happened to be a can opener. It would be difficult serving salad with a can opener, but we would make do.
"This is stressful," I whispered. "Maybe we should just have the cake now and get it over with."
"Just stop asking for things," he whispered back.
So we forged on, and while the birthday honoree rinsed the dishes, I signaled the Hero in the other room to a) get the cake out of the armoire, then b) hastily put it back as the birthday honoree suddenly shifted position, giving her a clear view into the living room, then c) get it out again after she looked away, then d) get ready to light the candles, then e) put candle-lighting on hold while the honoree suddenly discovered more dishes to rinse, and finally f) bring the cake with the lit candles into the kitchen while I persuaded the honoree that the fry pan really needed to just soak some more and we should put it aside.
There was a brief awkward moment when the honoree noticed we were all staring at her. We then endeavored to stare as nonchalantly as possible at the table, where she finally saw the cake that had mysteriously appeared. That was our cue to burst into song, as much from relief that we could stop pretending nothing was going on as from sincere wishes for her special day.
Next time, it may be worth it to risk using the oven instead.
