The T-Terminus Trek Travelog

My friend Matt Herman once asked www.chacha.com, "How long would it take to ride to every terminus station on the Boston subway system?" The answer he received was, "A looooooong time." On Saturday, June 28th, Matt and I endeavored to find out how long a "looooooong" time took. There were a couple of ground rules. Our goal was to reach every terminus station via public transportation. That meant we allowed ourselves to travel between terminus stations that were nearby. We would travel every length of track that was operational – shuttle bus service did not qualify and we would skip lines that had no weekend service. Furthermore, by spending a day traveling to the far reaches of the subway, we would also be able to answer a secondary question: What sort of people live in the different neighborhoods of Boston?

When we started our journey, we immediately, we began to notice trends. Unsurprisingly, the Green line toward Newton was filled with affluent Caucasian families and college students while the Red line towards Mattapan was mostly used by African American families. Orange line towards Oak Grove had many older people, possibly indicating a higher percentage of generational families and long time residences. Other trends emerged. For instance, people who wore sandals typically wore hats. Perhaps the unconscious mind wants one end of the body to be covered at all times? This would be a question some sociology graduate student may wish to answer. By coincidence, most people who wore sandals and carried picnic baskets got off the train at the Revere Beach station. Matt and I did not fit into this social microculture of residents wearing flip-flops and carrying picnic baskets. Similarly, we noticed that people who got on and off at the Airport station usually carried luggage. What a strange culture to carry luggage everywhere you went!

As the train whizzed across the system, we noticed that JetBlue and the State of Vermont had purchased the most advertisement space. Sadly, there was no synergy, as Vermont is not a JetBlue destination nor does JetBlue allow in-flight flyfishing. Residents on the Braintree extension of the Red Line drew the best graffiti. The designs were large with brazen colors. Some included the blending of hues and shades to create stunning shadow effect. The worst graffiti was on the Orange lines. Here, unimaginative outlines were rarely filled in and typically the artists utilized dark earth-tones.

By late evening, we returned to our home base in a PF Chang Bistro and compiled the statistics of the day. We spent the most amount of time on the Red line: 2 hours and 34 minutes going through 61 stations. The least amount of time was on the Silver Line from Boylston St. to Dudley square: 14 minutes for 10 stations. Silver Line to South Boston had the longest wait of 16 minutes. Over the course of the day, I consumed 3 granola bars and 1 bottle of water. (In our defense, we did not plan to go the entire day without eating. We kept saying "Let's take a break after this next leg of our journey.") We saw six baby carriages, one pair of knee-high orange socks, and overheard one conversation of "Would you shoot someone if they robbed your house?" But most importantly, 11 hours and 17 minutes after we started, we had our answer of how long would it take to ride to every terminus station on the Boston subway system: A reeeeeaally looooooong time.

Ode to a Turboprop

There is something about turboprop planes that make them alluring. They are small beasts that can be terrifying to ride. Yet there is also an allure and exoticism that draws you to look forward to the experience. Indeed, as I write this, I am sitting in one, an EMB 120 Brasilia, sandwiched between two Boeing jumbo jets, waiting for our turn to take off.

The flights can be very uncomfortable. Physically, their diminutive size is apparent when you stare up at the giant Rolls-Royce engine of the Boeing 747-400, as if it is ready to suck you in. There is not much of a buffer between you and the fast moving blades. The noise generated by the engines cut through the hull with a volume rivaling that of rock concert. Puddle hoppers, as they are affectionately called, are subject to the minute bumps and changes in wind patterns that transmit the turbulence undampened to your seat.

Yet I am willing to forgive the discomfort of the flight. A small plane is exotic because chances are, you are going to a place that is small and quiet. Indeed, the smallest plane I’ve ever been on was an 11-seater to Hagfors Sweden, population 7000. Sometimes, I’d be the only person on the jaunt and it became rather embarrassing when the first officer gave me the safety spiel for the 4^th time that summer, even though I was the sole passenger.

But, more often than not, I am one of a handful of people flying from San Francisco to Monterey. I walk along the tarmac to the staircase next to the plane. I duck to enter the door and, once inside, cannot stand up straight. I try to make myself comfortable for the quick 20 minute flight. But in my mind, I am at ease. I feel the satisfaction of being on the last leg of my 2500 mile journey. I feel the warmth of home, and it calls to me.

Caution: Frequent Moose Accidents Next 3 miles

Thus we were welcomed to Mt. Blue State Park where a few friends and I were going camping the last weekend in May. We were desperate to escape the hustle and bustle of city life and chose to spend it in the serene quietness of the Maine wilderness. The highway sign merely indicated that we had gone far enough, to a place where moose ruled the earth. Indeed, this would turn out to be a weekend with us hardly seeing another soul. Even the campsite was nearly deserted upon our arrival. Perhaps we had traveled so far away that humans barely knew of the park’s existence. Perhaps the rest of the world coincidentally decided to pay their mother a visit on the same weekend. Most likely, however, it was because there was a forecasted 90% chance of rain.

Things could have been much worse. While we were shooting emails around, Craig sent out a warning message, “Checkout the weather up north…egad lots of rain…” There was no in-depth discussion as to whether we should continue with the trip or to postpone the journey to a sunnier weekend. The three of us merely added a rain jacket to the packing list and proceeded to make plans as if nothing was out of the ordinary. We left for the mountain prepared for anything Mother Nature could throw at us. We just couldn’t find it.

Mind you, most of the time, mountains are easy to find – they are these large and tall protrusions that stick out of the ground. However, all mountains look alike when covered by low clouds. In a moment of weakness, I made a phone call and got directions to the campsite. It was to be the last connection to the urbanized world. As we began our climb, I realized that I couldn't find my cell phone.

The trip up was uneventful but the summit was fascinating. It was the most beautiful fog I had ever seen. On one side was a steep drop and a solid white canvas that luminesced by the hidden sunlight. On the other side, a small pond became an infinite-sized ocean with a full palette of whites gently floating with the breeze. Trust me, dear reader, countless thousands have witnessed the tree-covered mountains and lake-filled valleys of Maine. But very few people have been lucky enough to relax for a moment inside of a storm cloud.

That being said, it was pouring rain and time to go. Our descent on the steep side of the mountain was also uneventful and devoid of civilization - except for three suspiciously convenient metal rungs embedded inside a vertical cave. Once back to the campsite, Brent quickly built a shelter and a fire for us to dry off and warm up. The rain jackets and rain pants did their jobs and we stayed mostly dry. The packs were dry save for a few damp spots here or there. Good rain gear is a worthwhile investment. Even my cell phone stayed dry. Yes, for as it turned out, I had stashed my phone in the mesh on the outside of my backpack. Take note: the Motorola Razr V2 can function after being subjected to 5 hours of torrential rain.

Were we disappointed? Of course not. We knew what we were getting ourselves into. Indeed, we would have been more disappointed if we scaled the mountain only to find a Dunkin’ Donuts doling out coffee and greasy foods. It would have been far more disappointing if we found Bob Dole handing out free autographed copies of his biography. It would have been extremely disappointing if we were kidnapped by pirates. Years of indentures servitude is not my idea of a relaxing get-away. Indeed, this was a vacation of solitude, a vacation of nature, a vacation of peaceful rain.

Adventures Along the Coast

It was mid April and I was in Newport, RI. It was the perfect time to visit, after the bitterness of the winter cold and before the massive onrush of the summer tourists. The weather was pleasant, a warm day cooled by a soft offshore breeze. Waves gently lapped the rocks along the coast making for a chronic, yet light, crashing sound. I came to tour the historic mansions from the American Guilded Age, envisioning a peaceful and relaxing weekday. However, as common with spontaneous trips, strange adventures have a way of finding you.

It was Hasid Day at Newport. Men with black yarmulkes and curly locks of hair near their ears lined filled the streets with their long-skirted wives and children in tow. Their well-pressed white shirts and black pants offered stark contrast to the colorful lawns and gardens of the summer “cottages” of some of America’s wealthiest tycoons. I happened to have purchased the last ticket to the 3 o’clock tour of the Vanderbilt’s summer cottage and found myself surrounded by an entire congregation of Hasidic Jews, complete with a waddling rabbi. As a Chinaman, it made me feel very conspicuous and out of place as I tried my best to fit into this crowd. I had misread my calendar, thinking today was China Days at Newport, and had arrived wearing a bright-red royal robe from the Qing Dynasty, complete with a Fu Manchu moustache.

Our tour began uneventfully, as the crowd did its best to smile and make me feel comfortable. One of the fathers was carrying his young son who was eating a Hamentaschen. The kid made an offering gesture and, not wanting to be rude, I graciously accepted his treat. I began munching on it when we entered into the great hall. Our tour guide stopped in the middle of his talk and glared at me. “Excuse me! Can you understand English?!? I said at the beginning no eating on this tour! Put it away or I will have to ask you to leave!” I blushed and quickly stuffed the half-eaten pastry into my pocket on my overly large sleeve.

Feeling slighted, I plotted my revenge. As we were walking between rooms, I tapped the father who was holding his now sleeping son and motioned to a room we had not toured. When we were alone, I pulled out my pocket sledgehammer and smashed a hole into a heave mahogany door. Before the father could react, I grabbed his kid out of his arms and put the sledgehammer in its stead. Frantically, the tour guide ran in, looked at the hole, saw a sleeping kid wrapped around the sleeves of my robe, and kicked out wide-eyed Hasidic Jew holding the sledgehammer, banning him from ever returning. The rest of the tour was very informative if rather uneventful. When it was over, I was glad I did it, but I was stuck with a sleeping kid wearing a Yarmulke.

Not knowing what to do, I went to the center of town and bought him some saltwater taffy. I am a firm believer that saltwater taffy tastes better if it was made on a wharf above the ocean. There is something about the essence of salt water in the air that enhances the taste. Unfortunately, the Newport saltwater taffy was made on land, so it was not such a high-quality delicacy. However, a few days later, I visited Rockport MA, where they do sell saltwater taffy made over the ocean. It was delicious. But unfortunately, I once again misread my calendar. It was Qing Dynasty day in Rockport and I was dressed as a Hasidic Jew.

Eviler Emily

Eviler Emily awoke to the sound of her alarm clock blaring in its usual annoying fashion. Brightness strewed through her window as an indication of the start of a new day. She groaned as she rolled out of bed, a noisy complaint on her tiredness. Today was the day of the big history test and she was in no way prepared. She began the brushing of her teeth, the combing of her hair and the general ritual of making herself into an attractive teenager. As she made her way downstairs, she smelled the sweet aroma of coffee and she finally began to wake up.

You see, there were three Emilys at Central Valley High and each had nicknames to tell them apart. Eviler Emily was actually one of the most generous girls in all of the school. The night before, her best friend threw a party and invited the entire sophomore class, of whom most of which attended. Eviler Emily knew it would be a major undertaking and so she volunteered to help. While her classmates binged on beer and vodka, she spent the party bartending and diligently mixing the drinks. While her classmates complained of the munchies, she would order out for pizza and Chinese food to satisfy the urges. And while her friends complained of headaches and the onset of the inevitable hangover, she laid them down as comfortably as she could.

As she got off the bus to Central Valley High, she ran into her best friend, Evilest Emily. She looked just as sleep deprived, if not more so. Evilest Emily was probably the most generous girl in the entire school. Whenever Evilest Emily’s parents were out of town, she would host massive after-hours parties. So many people would be invited that there would hardly be any standing space. She would always find a way to supply the alcohol no matter what the situation and there was always an endless supply of it. She never asked anyone to bring anything in return. Since her parents were out of town fairly regularly, the parties she throws have gained a reputation for being a large orgy of drunken bacchanalian debauchery. Only Eviler Emily ever helped out because the two girls really enjoyed entertaining their classmates.

They caught up a little at their lockers and walked into their history classroom. Most of their classmates in the rooms were nursing their massive hangovers from the night before and by the looks of it, very few had a chance to study for the exam. The class gave a collective groan as the clock struck 8AM and their teacher, the third and final Emily at their school, stormed in with a fit of rage. Evil Emily, as they called her, was clearly on a rampage with smoke coming out of her ears and fire spewing from her mouth. Her deadly glare would bore into the students as she went to tear into each and every student about their attitudes. When she got to the two Emilys, she stopped her diatribe and a smile broke out over her face. “Class,” she said. “You are lucky that you have two wonderfully evil students in your class to bring down your average. Why can’t you all be more like them?”

You see, Center Valley High was also known as the Devil’s Vocational School and Evil Emily was the Principle. She immediately began to heap praises on Eviler and Evilest Emily as the instigator of the party that would allow the rest of the class to fail the history final. Without them, an inordinate number of students would actually pass. The class gave groans of appreciation and was glad to have such good peers that watched out for their wellbeing. Eviler and Evilest Emily smiled at each other. They loved being the teacher’s pets.

Travel Log April 10, 2008. Maine

Maine is an exciting place. Close your eyes and imagine a land lush with forests on rolling hills with streams that empty into lakes and rivers that flow out to the ocean. Now imagine pristine land perfect for hiking, rafting, climbing, biking, skiing, and mountaineering. Add to that people in plaid shirts with large, bushy beards shopping for hunting rifles and fishing poles. Now imagine the population density spread out so thin that living one hour from town is “close enough” to feel connected to the rest of the world. Imagine stores serving dual purposes, like the Tanning + DVD Salon.

Now imagine what sort of exciting newsflashes can be had in such an environment.


Queen Elizabeth the Second Invades Bar Harbor.
Bar Harbor, ME. On a warm and sunny day, the quaint, New England town of Bar Harbor received a surprise. The 2nd Infantry division on board the QE II landed right off of the Porcupine Islands and launched an amphibious assault. The town, caught unawares, surrendered without firing a single shot from their two ceremonious canons located at the harbor. Thousands of invaders landed in a span of a few hours and mercilessly pillaged the town. The soldiers noisily went into the taverns and public houses to eat and drink their fill. They would stumble out onto the streets and take the best clothes, jewelry and crafts. The local inhabitants were unable to protest the small sheets of paper traded in return. They put on a valiant yet futile effort to keep some semblance of order in their small town but the local police force was vastly outnumbered. Rioting hit the streets at night when there were not enough accommodations. Several taverns were burnt to the ground with the loss of several lives – mostly locals. The eerie orange glow of the fires lasted till late into the night. By the early morning, Bar Harbor was only a shell of what it once was.

Low-bush Blueberry farmers Attacked by Swarm of Ladybugs.
Columbia Falls, ME. The National Guard was deployed to defend Watson’s Blueberry Farm from a swarm of invading Ladybugs. Henry Watson, the owner, said that his farm hands put up a brave fight but were no match for the vicious insects. “Normally they fly through in order to feed on the Aphids but this is almost like a plague. Indeed, the entire field was covered with small crawly red bugs and what used to be the farmhouse is now a lair for the insects.

“This is the worse infestation of ladybugs I’ve ever seen” said Sam Winterpool, Captain of the National Guard. “For now, we are at a stand-off. Our smoke machines are just good enough to keep the insects at bay and prevent them from attacking the town. We have special equipment being flown in from the Capitol that will hopefully repel the invasion for good.”

Mr. Watson was thankful, however, that the National Guard arrived when they did. “My farm hands and I were getting overpowered and if the Guard arrived a few hours later, we would have been a goner. Usually the ladybugs will fly through outside in the fields, but this year they came into the barn – and there are no aphids in there!”

General Announcements
The National Chainsaw Artwork Association will be holding their annual banquet and fundraiser auction Thursday night at the Mexican-Italian Restaurant. All proceeds will benefit the Foundation for Chainsaw Artwork Insurance.

See how exciting Maine can be? For when you live in Maine, your imagination is all you have.

Me Vs. Green

My body is in conflict between the feelings of aching and elation. I have finished my first day of skiing ever and my brain is on the last leg of an adrenaline high while soreness is slowly spreading through my legs. My cheeks feel flushed with heat while my fingers are frigid in comparison. Overall, it was a great day, and here are the numbers. I fell 4 times, went down the bunny slopes 10 times, ate 1 teriyaki chicken sandwich for lunch and 42 french fries. I swore 26 times, tore 1 hole in my hat once, and had 3 shots of Jägermeister. I punched my ski instructor twice, got a bloody nose in return once, broke 3 bones on the half-pipe, had 1 airlift, and a monster medical bill.

Seriously though, I only had 27 french fries.

By far the biggest take-away for the day is green slopes are much more difficult than the bunny slopes. That might sound obvious for veteran skiers, but for me, my rationale of attempting such a feat was “how much harder can it be?”

Let us explain how much harder it can be. At the first ski lesson, the first skill taught is how to stop. This makes sense, because if one ever loses control, one can stop and restart from the beginning. So we spent quite a bit of time learning the wedge technique of starting and stopping and how to turn by bending the opposite knee. After several practice runs, I thought I was ready.

Thus began Mistake #1. What I didn’t know was that on a steeper slope, the wedge on its own is not enough to counteract your downward momentum. After finding out the hard way, I start to frantically turn and found out that I was not turning but merely sliding sideways down the mountain. Eventually, my skis caught the ice and I jetted towards the trees on the side of the trail. Then I learned that self-preservation was the best ski instructor. As I was approaching the trees at full speed, I dug my outside ski into the ice and made the sharpest turn ever and avoided a Wile E. Coyote-style collision. By the time I reached the lodge, I was exhausted and took a much needed break, for both physical and mental reasons.

Returning to the bunny slopes, I ran into a few of my fellow classmates from the lessons in the morning. One of them felt adventurous and debated attempting a green slope. I felt rested and wanted to take a second shot. Thus began Mistake #2. We took a different trail, thinking that it was flatter. It wasn’t. I took the lead and a short time from the lifts, we approached a hill far steeper than on my previous run. Knowing that the wedge method would not work, I stopped in order to see if there was an alternate descent. My friend, however, whizzed right by before I could say anything. I stood and watched in suspense as she accelerated down the slope towards an intersection with another trail. Suddenly, there was a plume of white and when everything settled, one ski was several feet to the left, the other to the right, and she was lying face down in the middle. Calling upon all of my courage, I took my skis off and walked down the slope. Rather, I slipped and fell the entire way and landed awkwardly on my butt. To add insult to injury, when I stood up, there was a 5-year old girl in a light-purple parka gracefully meandering down the hill like it was second-nature.

Thus, the green slopes won twice in one day. After such an experience, there are only three things one can possibly do. The first is to laugh about it for it makes such a good story. The second is to write about it so that you, dear reader, can share in the mirth. And the third is to drink and forget all about it.