Sunday morning took me to the bewitching town of Salem, Massachusetts. It’s a town which most people who are not native feel the need to visit if for other reason than to say they’ve done it.
The center of town is as bad, if not worse, than any other small town whose lifeblood is tourism. Nearly every inch of town was crowded with vendors selling tacky t-shirts sporting witches on broomsticks, or offering $30 tours to what seemed a hundred different haunted houses.
If they weren’t selling t-shirts they were selling your usual astronomically priced bits of funnel cakes, French fries, an all manner of other foods which would seriously frowned upon by your hometown doctor.
Once I got out of the downtown my luck improved. The neighborhood homes, which I would later learn had been mostly converted to condos, were set side by side on narrow streets, each painted gaily in fall colors. Upon these streets I could feel the town’s soul quietly pulse with a sedate intensity.
Final verdict? It was okay. Salem is a town worth visiting, though not worth basing a vacation. I walked away from the experience tired and a little peeved, but it’s a burg which I couldn’t help like at least a bit…warts and all.
There are some who might consider this trip to be a colossal failure. To a certain degree I am in full agreement with them. There are dozens of sights qwhich I have not indulged in to the extent that I would normally.
I have not lost my fervor for this little neck of the woods. Is it less of an adventure? Perhaps. You’ll find this to be the case with nearly any place which you have frequented a great deal. It’s not that I no longer appreciate the rainbows which crown the Charles River after a good rain or the worn stones which mark the final resting place of the dead in the Old Granary Burying Ground; it’s that the shock and awe of discovery has morphed into the quiet appreciation which settles into any gentle and long term love.
My own body has been my greatest foe these last couple of days. Sunday evening found me, just when I was hitting my stride, winging my way to an emergency room on the far side of the city. I had been found unconscious by another of the hostel’s visitors. Fortunately, there was also a physician visiting. I am told that he took my pulse and urged the hostel’s staff to phone 9-1-1.
I learned most of what happened by a second-hand account the following day. All I remember is talking on the phone with a good friend and then waking up in the ER. I can’t really tell you what happened to me, largely because I can’t spell it, but I did learn that my pulse had been shooting north of 160 beats a minute when the folks at the hospital did the voodoo that they do so well.
I was released about 4am the next morning, escaping as quickly as they would possibly allow. I was not eager to leave because I was feeling spectacularly better, I was just worried that I had left many of my belongings out in the open. Theft is not something which you normally have to fret about when staying at a hostel, but a visitor, to any place where there are strangers in and out, is wise to be cautious when it comes to valuables.
Anyways…back to my story.
I slept most of Monday. I was tired and felt pretty well drained. I did wander out long enough to pick up a little bit of grub at a nearby grocery store. The rest of the evening was spent chatting with other people who were resting up from their days of adventure and in talking with a really cute librarian with whom I’ve had a long acquaintance.
Tuesday has been pretty much a complete wash.
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