The Mountain to the Border

The rest of the trip was spent in the car and with friends. We visited a poet and a novelist in Lancaster, PA, a town more sinister than it seems. My friend, KF, gave me a book of Herbert Zbigniew. He wrote poems that address history coming out of World War II. He was obsessed with human dignity. We ate hoagies in Philadelphia, a better city than it seems.

In New England, we visited a friend who is a musician, professor, and novelist. We visited a rocky beach, our first. Linda recorded some vocal tracks.

Crossing the border was a hassle. The customs officer decided that my sea turtle boots were potentially illegal and a threat to the national security of Canada. She and a much more imposing and malicious woman searched through all of my belongings. Eventually, they concluded that there is a statute that allows me to bring in sea turtle boots if they are, in fact, clothes or personal items.

This post is not meant to illumine, but for record keeping. I won't go in too deeply as to this part of the journey, because it is nothing but private conversations between friends. You understand.

We made it to my apartment in Moncton after midnight, moved everything in, and exhausted, collapsed until morning.