Free State Observer

I checked out of my hotel in the morning, skipping breakfast again as I only had a few Canadian dollars left and needed to save a few to tip the parking garage valet. I had visited a Canadian grocery store the day before, hoping they would sell some of the same delicacies I’d seen at the Atwater for a lower price, but they didn’t have any. On my way out of Montreal, I stopped at another grocery store, one described in my Lonely Planet guide as “cavernous”, for a second attempt. Cavernous?? Has the author of that guide never been to the U.S.? The store, Provigo, was smallish by my standards, and didn’t have any of the items I was looking for. Also, while attempting to drive there and dealing with the usual city hazards of one-way streets, I’d been taken out of my way and discovered I had almost driven to the Atwater without trying. So I bit the bullet and drove back there, whipping some good ol’ American plastic out of my wallet, and went a little crazy in the gourmet store. Canards au confit, cassoulet, saucisson sec… ooh la la, I had some good meals ahead of me! [dramatic foreshadowing] Or did I? [/dramatic foreshadowing]

Naturally, the highway I needed to take upon exiting Montreal on my way back to the U.S. was closed. Why does this always happen to me?? Fortunately, the U.S. is kinda big and therefore hard to miss. Just drive south and you’ll run into it.

I had carefully hidden my pastis in my suitcase and was mentally prepared for the border-crossing question “Do you have any alcohol or tobacco?” Yes, that’s right, I smuggled! I shirked a tariff!! Come and get me, coppers!!! Unfortunately, I was ignorant of other regulations and wasn’t quick-witted enough to lie when necessary.

The border guard headed in the U.S. direction was a young American man, who asked the obligatory questions perfunctorily. “Coming from?” “Headed to?” “Purpose of trip?” (I wonder if anyone ever actually answers that question “to plant a bomb”; honestly, why do they bother?) “Buy anything?” Why yes, actually, yes I did. “Food”, I replied. “What kinda food?” “Ummmm… duck.” “Duck?!” the guard replied, sounding surprised. I’ll bet he’s never eaten anything other than beef, pork and chicken in his good wholesome American beefsteak life. “Well, it’s in a jar!”, I replied. “What else?” he asked, with increasing suspicion. Feeling vaguely guilty for no apparent reason, I sputtered “Saucisson sec?” The guard’s eyes bugged slightly. “What’s that?” “It’s like Italian dry salami…. there’s not a RULE against that, is there?” “Well, I don’t know, I just mostly deal with immigration and stuff; let me get the health inspector (I can’t remember the exact term he used). Pull over, please.”

Feeling embarrassed and ashamed for my audacity at buying French food while visiting Quebec, I pulled over. The health inspector came out of the mysterious building with darkened windows; she was a young, friendly American who greeted me with a smile and a “How ya doin?” We proceeded to unpack the contents of my grocery bag on the hood of my car. The HI examined the ingredients list of each item closely. Apparently, there is a ban on bringing sheep, goat or I-forget meat into the U.S. She was intrigued by my terrine de caribou (so was I, that’s why I bought it). Fortunately, there is not yet a ban on caribou. Santa is good to go on Christmas Eve… this year, anyway. :-\

The jars of duck looked pretty darned gross, with chunks of meat floating in globs of fat, but she had no problem with those. Products made in Quebec were also OK. It’s products from France that are cause for concern. You see, we don’t know how they process their meat over there; it may not be SAFE. She mentioned “avian flu” and “mad cow disease”. Yes, the French, known for their longevity and famed for their fine cuisine, with a culture that goes back 1000 years, just haven’t quite got down this whole animal husbandry thing yet.

Finally, she got to my Rosette de Lyon. It bore the damned inscription “MADE IN FRANCE”. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to check this out. Come inside, please.”

So I got to enter the creepy building that designates the arbitrary geopolitical line that separates US from THEM. There were a surprising number of other people in there, pulled over for who knows what specious reasons. I sat in silence, fearing for my saucisson.

After about five minutes, the friendly HI came back and said apologetically “I’m sorry, but I can’t find this on an approved list; I can’t let you bring it into the U.S.” I pointed out, truthfully, that that’s the one product I KNOW is actually available for sale in the U.S. (it’s just not financially worth it for me to pay to have it shipped from San Francisco). I wondered how, even if by some astronomically remote chance, it *was* infected with mad bovine flu, it would hurt anyone but me if I ate it? I mentally noted that I will probably get back to Lyon, France approximately, oh, let’s see, NEVER, and that the mother of my ex-husband will more than likely NOT be sending me a care-package any time soon. In desperation, I asked the girl if I could at least have a TASTE of my saucisson; I’d been waiting YEARS to buy that thing. She got a pained expression on her face and shrugged.

This is ridiculous on so many levels. The U.S. government is looking out for my health by preventing me from eating potentially infected meat. Well, for crissakes, I’m obviously not eating it for my health… it’s FUCKING SAUSAGE!!! It’s full of saturated fat and salt and nitrates and is a future heart attack wrapped in a pigskin sheath. They let me keep the one that was made in Quebec, and only took the one that was made in France.

Ironically, when I had first pulled up to the guardpost, the guard had asked me to confirm my license plate number so he could type it into the R-U-A-TERRIST database. My license plate is an acronym for “There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.” Well, the guards got a free lunch that day; I’m surprised they didn’t bogart some of my cheese to go with it.

Wrote a song for my lost, beloved saucisson. Wanna hear it? Here it is.

[to be sung to the tune of Pearl Jam's "Last Kiss"]

The USA Took My Sausage Away

Oh, where, oh where can my sausage be?
Border guards took it away from me
It’s back in Canada, I left it behind
Its fatty goodness won’t leave my mind.
Oooooooooh
Whoooooooah

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Day 3 of my Montreal adventure dawned cold and snowy. I walked around the corner to get a cappucino and pain au chocolat for breakfast and felt distinctly colder than the day before. So after eating breakfast and steeling myself for a few frigid moments of walking, I went directly to Simon’s department store. After making a contribution to Simon’s and the government of Canada (sales tax), with my extremities now protected, and looking fetching (or so I told myself ) in my new faux arctic fox chapeau and bright orange scarf and matching gloves, I set off to explore downtown Montreal.

First stop was Square Dorchester, which is dominated by a statue of Lord Strathcona. I noticed the statue was engraved with the words (in French) Empire and Liberty. Somehow, I think they missed the irony. The square also has a statue of Robert Burns, my favorite poet. I then wandered through Les Cours Mont Royal (a mall), because it was a warmer way to get from one side of the block to the other, and continued down the main shopping thoroughfare of downtown Montreal, Ste-Catherine Ouest. Lots of nice stores. So much to buy… so little money. feh Up to this point, I hadn’t seen a single Starbucks in Quebec, but now I found three of them within two blocks of one another.

I stopped for lunch at Le Faubourg, a multi-level food court. Seven dollars bought an absolute mountain of Thai yellow chicken curry with tom yum gai soup; I couldn’t finish either. I’m out of practice with Thai food and foolishly put one of the red chili peppers of doom in my mouth. Fortunately I realized this quickly and removed it, and there was a huge barrel of drinking water close at hand.

There’s some great architecture downtown, and a lot of cool street art. One statue looked like Robert DeNiro in his final scene in the movie Brazil: it was a man completely covered in sheets of paper. On one particularly charming street, featuring many small stone storefronts, I noticed that several of them were empty. There were also not that many people out on the street, considering it’s a city with a population of over a million. It wasn’t that cold by local standards. I wondered how the city is doing economically.

After lunch, I took the Metro back to my hotel, partly to save my feet and partly because I had tickets to use up. A little later, I took another Metro down to the Canal de LaChine neighborhood to visit one of Montreal’s markets, le Marche Atwater.

One of my primary goals in making this trip was to see if various French foods that are almost impossible to find in the U.S. would be available in Quebec. Ah. Mon. Dieu. This market had every single item I’d had in mind, and numerous other French “delicacies” I hadn’t (anyone for pig cheeks?). Canards au confit (my favorite food)… saucisson sec… pastry cases so beautiful they’ll bring you to tears… and cheese, cheese, cheese as far as the eye could see and farther than the nose could run. I was in French foodie heaven. And, tragically, I was down to my last CAN$25. Most of these items were in refrigerated cases, also, and I wasn’t sure about trying to transport fresh meat products without refrigeration on the several-hour drive back to New Hampshire. So I spent my last $25 on a bottle of pastis (Marseillaise anise liqueur) imported from France, another item I have failed to find in NH (although I could buy it back in California).

I made two passes through the market, looking longingly at the ready-to-bake meat pies, the endless displays of artery-hardening sausages, the jars of duck fat… le sigh. A black lady, dressed as a witch, working behind one of the counters, said to me “Vous avez la bouche b….”. I was too embarrassed to tell her I didn’t know what she was saying, so I just smiled, but it’s been driving me crazy ever since, wondering what it was she said.

That evening, I dined in a tres chichi French restaurant called Garcon! (Note: don’t actually refer to a French waiter as garcon; it’s very rude.) The place was *empty*. Really, I was the sole customer at 6:15PM. There were four waitresses/bartenders leaning on the bar gabbing away to each other in French, and during the course of my meal a fifth one reported for work. I made it all the way to dessert before another customer came in, and he only wanted to drink at the bar.

I had fish with mashed potatoes, but dang if it wasn’t the FANCIEST fish with mashed potatoes I’ve ever had. For example, the potatoes were blue, and molded into the shape of a shortcake, and had various edible things embedded in them (veggies, noodles). When I first saw it, I had no idea what it was; it looked like a huge block of mystery pate. The main course was preceded by an “amuse-bouche” (translation: amuse your mouth) of a bite-size piece of smoked salmon with cream cheese. Dessert was way too complicated to describe.

Life is fabulous; trust me, I’m 49 and can’t wait to turn 50 (the new 30!)
P.S. remember, the glass is always full; part water, the rest is air!
– words of wisdom and encouragement from a fellow human on this, my 40th birthday, scrawled on the wall of a stall in the women’s bathroom of Le Faubourg

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After a refreshing night’s sleep blissfully unbroken by cats fighting/kneading my chest/sitting on my face, I ventured out into downtown Montreal. I absolutely refuse to pay $12 for “continental breakfast”, so skipped that meal. Thanks to years of alcohol-induced brain damage, I had not brought a coat with me to Quebec in late October. Or a hat, or scarf, or gloves. Fortunately, my layers of blubber, fish-heavy diet and three winters in New Hampshire have given me the physique of a California sea lion, and while everyone else on the street was bundled up in coats and hats, I really didn’t feel cold.

First stop: le Metro. After years of riding the San Francisco Bay Area’s BART, this was a piece of cake. A transit guard tried to help me purchase a ticket and turned out to be the first person I ran into who speaks English as a distant second language. I mean, she speaks English, but with the heaviest French accent I’ve ever heard. Comically, some things are universal, such as ticket machines refusing to take a perfectly good $20 bill. After at least a dozen attempts with two different bills, I gave up and used a Visa card. The transit guard seemed embarrassed on behalf of her crap machine.

I found part of the underground city without even trying, while navigating from the street to the Metro train. There was just staircase after staircase, going down seemingly endlessly, and then when I expected to find a train, I found… a restaurant! And then a shop, and then several more restaurants. Apparently there isn’t much of a map to the u.c., so you’re just supposed to wing it (or live in Montreal and figure it out during the interminably long winter).

I took a train to Place-d’Armes and wandered around Old Montreal, admiring churches, banks, statues, cobblestone streets and tourist shops almost, but not quite, as tacky as those at Fishermen’s Wharf. I went into a furrier’s shop and longingly caressed insanely expensive coats made of the corpses of numerous small furry creatures. There were bear and wolf pelts nailed to the walls. The chatty shopkeeper latched onto me like a leech and repeatedly extolled the praises of the “wholesale” (translation: two months’ worth of after-tax income) prices of various beaver and mink coats. I admired some rabbit-fur hats, then thought guiltily of my beloved deceased bunny Yngwie… then admired the hats some more. Yeah, I’m a bad person. Not that bad, though; I didn’t buy one.

I stopped for lunch in a tres charmant restaurant called Le Petit Moulinsart, which for some inexplicable reason has a Tintin theme. It even has an attached bar called “Le Cigare du Pharaon”. I don’t know if either of this blog’s readers are familiar with Tintin; he’s a Belgian comic character from the 1930’s. I got turned on to him at age 10 while attending an international school with a lot of kids from Europe. Anyway, it’s a perfectly nice, serious-looking restaurant, only it’s got pictures of Tintin and his friends on the walls. Despite the fact that the place was recommended by my guidebook, it was empty. This time, the waiter did *not* switch to English after I said oui; my accent must be improving! I had coffee with real cream, freshly baked bread with butter, and a bucket full of steamed mussels with herbs, served with a platter of homemade, perfect french fries with a dish of mayonnaise to dip them in. Finest lunch I’ve had in forever. And it only cost $14.50, which is phenomenal if you’re into seafood and know how much it generally costs. Friday gives it 5 stars.

After more wandering through cobblestone streets, I decided to retreat to my hotel. Oh, did I mention it was raining the entire time? And sometimes the wind was howling so hard, it was making it impossible to keep the rain off my guidebook and flipping my umbrella inside out. Also, I’m no spring chicken and am woefully out of shape, and knew I’d suffer greatly for the unaccustomed hours of city walking, assuming I don’t come down with pneumonia. Tomorrow it’s supposed to be colder, but with less rain.

In the evening, I once again braved the pouring rain and sidewalks filled with frigid puddles in search of food. I found a place called Comptoirs du Chef (rough translation: chef’s deli) that sold a variety of fresh, pre-packaged meals to go. I love French “fast food”; it includes duck, lamb, and smoked salmon.

Montreal reminds me a lot of San Francisco of 20 years ago. It’s very beautiful and has so much going for it. It’s very liberal, multi-cultural, gay-friendly and has a thriving arts and restaurant scene. But it’s also very socialistic, highly regulated, and highly taxed. It’s got bums on the street asking for change in two languages, and stinky homeless people riding the subway to wherever. It makes me sad to know how it must inevitably go downhill as more and more consumers become supported by fewer and fewer producers. Alas, Babylon.

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This week, I’m doing something I’ve wanted to do for years, and planned on doing ever since I moved to New Hampshire: visiting Montreal. It’s only 5 hours away if you make a straight shot for it (which I didn’t). I set off bright and early at 10:00AM (hey, that’s early by I’m-on-vacation standards!). It was a picture-perfect autumn day in New England. The foliage is past its prime in southern New Hampshire, but still very pretty. I was reminded of the mysterious Crayola crayon color “burnt umber” from my childhood. What the hell is an umber?? I still don’t know. But the trees are that color right now.

I stopped at my local AAA office and loaded up on road maps and a continental U.S./Canada atlas. I know AAA supposedly lobbies the government for things like mandatory seatbelt laws, but I still think they’re a good deal for the price.

Next stop: the Cabot Creamery in Vermont. I tried to visit this place two years ago on my way to the secession conference in Burlington, but failed to find it. Google maps gave me a ridiculously circuitous route that included some only semi-paved back country roads, but at least I made it this time. And boy, was it worth it!! Background info: I love cheese. I mean, I *really* love cheese. And Cabot, VT is where good American cheese goes when it dies. For $2, you get a tour of Willy Wonka’s Cheese Factory, and then can help yourself to an incredible smorgasbord of free cheese samples. Cabot makes all kinds of wacky flavors that I don’t see for sale in my local grocery store; I had the equivalent of a full meal made out of small cubes of many-flavored cheddar on toothpick skewers. The habanero cheddar was painful (I mean that in a good way). I loaded my arms with as many blocks of funky-flavored cheddar as I could hold and staggered to the checkout counter. I also tried some “Greek-style” honey-flavored Cabot yogurt, which has a consistency kind of like ricotta and was incredibly good.

After leaving the cheese factory, I took a wrong turn and went several miles in the wrong direction. But Vermont is so cute, it was hard to mind. I stopped at a visitor’s center to use the bathroom and couldn’t believe how nice it was. It was a beautiful building, with free Wi-Fi, and free Green Mountain coffee. How desperate is Vermont for tourists, anyway??

Finally I made it to the Canadian border. Only one lane of the customs booth was open, and it was moving very slowly. I started to get paranoid about the sack of cheese sitting in the back of my car. Was there some regulation about carrying cheddar across the border?? Wouldn’t surprise me in the least if there was. I considered getting out of my car and opening the trunk to make the bag less conspicuous while I was stuck in line, but figured that might just encourage the federales spying on me through the black, impossible-to-see-into windows of the customs building to gun me down preemptively.

Finally got up to the window and handed over my passport. The customs agent was a pretty but not friendly blond who clearly spoke French first, English second. She asked me a few questions about the purpose of my visit, and asked me if I had any alcohol or tobacco in the car. Thank goodness, my cheese was safe! Also, my guns and my cocaine.

Southern Quebec is just as boring as I recall southern Ontario being when I first drove to New Hampshire on my Free State Project migration. It’s perfectly flat, and all farm land. I started to think Montreal was going to turn out to be “not all that”, because I was getting pretty close and there was still nothing but farmland and beatup old houses. Thanks to the neverending wonders of internet-provided directions, I took a wrong turn because the directions failed to mention that, at a certain point, the highway I was on would turn into the major highway that leads into Montreal. I exited erroneously and wasted the rest of the daylight exploring such scenic wonders as a Quebecois trailer park and Burger King, the French-Canadian version. Finally realized I was headed in the wrong direction (again), backtracked to the highway, and made my way to Montreal. By this time it was dark, and I must say the city skyline looked quite impressive by night. It made me homesick, in a way. New Hampshire has a lot of things going for it, but city skylines ain’t one of them.

I had made a reservation downtown, and got to enjoy some classic big-city amenities such as dodge-the-kamikaze bicyclists; try-we-dare-you to make a U-turn after you accidentally find yourself in a left turn only lane and get taken far, far away from the street you really wanted; and parallel parking. I didn’t even try too hard on that last one; I basically double-parked with a bunch of space between my car and the curb, and ran into my hotel, hoping they’d have a parking garage that I’d somehow failed to spot. They do, but it’s valet-only and wicked expensive, but that’s OK; getting reamed on incidentals is all part of the vacation fun.

For dinner, I went to a place called Dunn’s that was recommended by my Lonely Planet guide as a great place to have a greasy meat sandwich. Or should I say “Restaurant de Smoked Meat à Montréal”. It was just a few blocks from my hotel, and right around the corner from a colorful establishment featuring a flashing neon sign of a naked lady and the words “Danse Contact”. My Catholic high school French teacher never actually taught us how to translate lap dance, but I decided to give it a wide berth just in case.

Dunn’s was the first place where someone actually tried to speak French to me (everyone at the hotel immediately spoke English), but all it took was for me to say the word “Oui” and the waiter switched to English. What the hell?? How could I possibly have an accent saying “oui”?! Arrogant Frenchies. (Just kidding; most of the people I’ve interacted with so far have been very nice.)

I’m sorry to say that dinner was kind of gross. I ordered what I took to be the house specialty, the Smoked Meat Super Sandwich. I felt daring ordering unidentified generic “meat”. I don’t know what exactly it was, but it was kind of like Spam on rye. Not exactly what I had in mind, and may not kiss the hem of a pastrami sandwich from the Carnegie Deli in Manhattan. I also ordered a Moulson, which I’d never had before, and found it to be the equivalent of mass-produced American beer. blech The PA was playing jazz music while the big-screen TV was showing ice hockey. Wacky Canucks. I heard some guys say “eh”, and one guy commenting on how Germans love David Hasselhoff. I almost chewed out my waitress for shorting me on my change, until I realized that some of the coins she had given me were $2 coins. Who knew?

Tomorrow, I will explore old Montreal, and hopefully find some decent food.

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I’ve been an activist in the small-l libertarian movement for five years now. And man, has it taken years off my life! I’m not sure how much of a difference it’s made in the grand scheme of things (although yesterday, my shrivelled heart was warmed to roasting when I heard one of San Francisco’s finest FORMER libertarian activists, now a New Hampshire Porcupine, refer to himself as “one of the First 1000″ (currently featured on the front page of Pledgebank as a success story). But it has surely taught me an awful lot about human nature, and about my own strengths and weaknesses. I’ve discovered I can do things that people who “knew me when” frankly wouldn’t believe if you told them. I’ve also discovered I have some big-assed flaws that bite me in the ass time and time again, even when I’m fully aware of them. It’s all very strange and mysterious and so much more strenuous than lying in bed with a good book and a package of Pepperidge Farms cookies, but when all is said and done, I’m glad I’ve done it. I wouldn’t be who I am today without these years of experiences, the good, the bad, and the ugly.

So now, on the cusp of the end of my 30’s (noooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo), allow me to share with you a few pearls of wisdom I have gathered over the years. Some of these I’ve learned from observing others; most I’ve figured out on my own, usually by making a complete ass of myself in the process. I make no claims to actually following these rules consistently, but on a good day, I do try.

Volunteers - The Rules of Engagement

– the primary currency of the work world is money; the primary currency of the volunteer world is thanks and appreciation
– Never underestimate the capacity of most people to enjoy having their asses kissed (whether deservedly or not)
– Never put it in an email unless you’re comfortable having it forwarded to the worst possible recipient
– The person with the grandiose title is not necessarily the person performing the duties associated with the title.
– Actions speak louder than words.
– Praise publicly and often; criticize privately and infrequently
– Leaders of volunteers, like coaches, must inspire and motivate.
– If you want something done, do it yourself.
– Sadly, many volunteers, even self-described libertarians, cannot be trusted to keep their word. Deal with it.
– A few volunteers, even self-described libertarians, will actually try to scam a free lunch or will fail to pay their bills. Appalling, but true.
– There are always more backseat drivers than actual drivers. Deal with it.
– A disproportionate number of libertarians are lacking in basic social skills.
– Don’t respond quickly in anger. Enforce a cooling-off period.
– Put yourself first. All the volunteering in the world won’t keep the heat on through a New Hampshire winter or take care of you when you’re old.
– Don’t take it too seriously. In a hundred years, we’ll all be dead.

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subtitle: The Great Moosehunt of Aught Eight

New Hampshire is known for its crusty conservatives (now being increasingly outnumbered by leftie emigrants from Taxachusetts), fall foliage, beautiful lakes… and moose. Moose Xing roadsigns are ubiquitous around the state, and the further north you go, the more likely you are to see one of the more dramatic “Brake for Moose; It Could Save Your Life” signs. Local radio stations remind listeners to watch out for “rutting” moose at this time of year; apparently they’re even more likely to charge in front of your car when they’re horny. I had a very New Hampshire moment when the token “dumb blonde” on the local rock radio station morning show stated “You see something charging you; you shoot it.”

Dang it, I’ve lived in New Hampshire 3 1/2 years now and the closest I’ve come to a moose is watching the opening credits of Northern Exposure (how pathetic, to move from the San Francisco Bay Area to a small city in New Hampshire, and then sit at home watching videos about a guy from New York who moves to a tiny town in Alaska… but I digress). This year, I vowed, would be the year I see a moose! And if you want to maximize your chances of seeing/being charged by/totalling your car on a moose, there’s only one place to go: the Kangamangus Highway.

The Kancamagus Scenic Byway (Rt. 112) is a 28 mile road through the heart of the White Mountains that climbs to nearly 3000 ft. The highway stretches from Conway, New Hampshire to North Woodstock. It is designated a National Forest Scenic Byway, and is one of only two such roads in Northern New England. The Kancamagus Highway may be one of the most scenic routes in New Hampshire.

I set off bright and early… oh alright, it was more like noon… for parts northward. It was a grey, drizzly day, which I actually enjoyed; it really brought out the England in New England. After about an hour of driving it started pouring, but it was too late to turn back at that point. Moose or bust!

When I got to the town of North Woodstock, which features such cultural offerings as bear tours, moose tours and miniature golf, I stopped off at McDonald’s to use the restroom. That far north, even McDonald’s has a fireplace. As luck would have it, they were giving away free samples from the new “McCafe”, so I scored a free mocha. Yes, that’s right: McDonald’s is now selling foofy espresso drinks. The apocalypse is pretty fuckin’ nigh.

I got onto the Kangamangus Highway, headed east into the White Mountains and the lair of the fabled
Alces alces. Not wanting to be hurried and potentially miss Bullwinkle’s brethren lurking in the breathtakingly beautiful fall foliage, I drove slowly, pulling over to let speeders pass. I passed rushing rivers, numerous parks, campgrounds and hiking trailheads, rolling hills so tightly knit with multi-colored deciduous trees it looked more like a rose garden than a forest… but no moose. Argh!!!

When I came upon an apple farmer (orcher?) selling his wares by the side of the road, I pulled over to check out the merchandise. He offered me a cup full of cider as sweet as candy, and gave me a free apple, which I felt almost guilty for accepting (or perhaps that was the idea… since I proceeded to buy some cider and apples). I asked the elderly gentleman, who had an accent that I’m sure would have enunciated the famous New Hampshire slogan “You can’t get there from here” perfectly if it had somehow fit into the conversation, if he’d seen any moose. He replied that he only sees them about once a year, which disappointed me. He also opined that they’re very stupid creatures and believe they are the dominant species. After observing the U.S. stock market this week, I’m inclined to side with the moose.

Ah well, maybe next year I’ll spy my first wild moose; until then, I’ll still have Mort.

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