They coordinate to be in New England for autumn to watch the leaves turn color. Angel really gets crazy with the picture-taking, running out of space on her memory card AND internal memory, then borrowing Katie's camera, then Colin's. Bradley doesn't let her borrow his; he needs the space for awoogas.
You find the whole color spectrum in New England this time of year, even moreso than in the spring: tree-lined avenues where the canopies tangle with each other, deep purple fading to blood red to fire orange to bright yellow, and then there are a handful of stubborn trees whose leaves remain as green as if it were midsummer. And all of them extending their branches to the crisp blue of the sky.
They go apple-picking and become thoroughly sick of apples after eating them for a week straight after that.
"Okay, it's bloody cold up here," Bradley says. "Florida now."
"No no, absolutely not," grins Angel. "New Hampshire."
"What the hell is in New Hampshire?"
"Pumpkinfest!"
Keene, New Hampshire has set the world record for the most number of pumpkins present in one place eight times. They all get really excited about the seed-spitting contest, and they buy packets of pumpkin seeds to practice. Pumpkinfest doesn't pan out though. Bradley somehow drives them into Vermont, and while he and Angel bicker in the front seat, armed with maps and the GPS function of their respective phones, Katie and Colin chill in the backseat, resigning themselves to whatever.
"What is it with Americans," Colin asks, "and their giant balls of twine and dinosaur slides and breaking world records for the most number of pumpkins?"
Katie reckons it's the distribution of majesty. The US is such a young country; there are few loci of history and culture and identity as the rest of the world defines them, so America's legacy is spread thin across the land, manifesting itself not in royal palaces and ancient temples, but in things like shoe trees and a house made entirely out of bottles.
"That's bollocks," says Colin. "Britain is not without its share of weird tourist sites, and there are lots of countries younger than America."
"Several states," says Katie, "but a state isn't always the same thing as a nation."
"It's just tourism. It's just people in the middle of nowhere trying to make money."
"I was following 91 North!" Bradley bellows from behind the wheel.
"Our current situation says otherwise!" Angel shouts back.
They make it to Keene late at night after the festival is done. They walk along the main street where the sidewalks are lined with walls of lit-up jack-o-lanterns expressing various emotions: happiness, sadness, anger, etc. A row of six pumpkins side by side bear the message "GO SOX" with the corresponding Red Sox logo at the end. (Speaking of baseball, Katie got herself into a confusing conversation about Yankees a couple of days ago at a rest stop in Massachusetts. She didn't know they were talking about the baseball team.) The road is slippery with pumpkin meat, but Angel determinedly leads them through it, snapping her photos.
"Wow, this is worth it," Bradley mutters, staring disdainfully at the soles of his shoes.
"Oh, shut up," says Angel. "Stand next to that pumpkin, James, let me take a picture of you."
The face on the pumpkin is :D, so Bradley goes :(, and blinks when the flash goes off.
no subject
You find the whole color spectrum in New England this time of year, even moreso than in the spring: tree-lined avenues where the canopies tangle with each other, deep purple fading to blood red to fire orange to bright yellow, and then there are a handful of stubborn trees whose leaves remain as green as if it were midsummer. And all of them extending their branches to the crisp blue of the sky.
They go apple-picking and become thoroughly sick of apples after eating them for a week straight after that.
"Okay, it's bloody cold up here," Bradley says. "Florida now."
"No no, absolutely not," grins Angel. "New Hampshire."
"What the hell is in New Hampshire?"
"Pumpkinfest!"
Keene, New Hampshire has set the world record for the most number of pumpkins present in one place eight times. They all get really excited about the seed-spitting contest, and they buy packets of pumpkin seeds to practice. Pumpkinfest doesn't pan out though. Bradley somehow drives them into Vermont, and while he and Angel bicker in the front seat, armed with maps and the GPS function of their respective phones, Katie and Colin chill in the backseat, resigning themselves to whatever.
"What is it with Americans," Colin asks, "and their giant balls of twine and dinosaur slides and breaking world records for the most number of pumpkins?"
Katie reckons it's the distribution of majesty. The US is such a young country; there are few loci of history and culture and identity as the rest of the world defines them, so America's legacy is spread thin across the land, manifesting itself not in royal palaces and ancient temples, but in things like shoe trees and a house made entirely out of bottles.
"That's bollocks," says Colin. "Britain is not without its share of weird tourist sites, and there are lots of countries younger than America."
"Several states," says Katie, "but a state isn't always the same thing as a nation."
"It's just tourism. It's just people in the middle of nowhere trying to make money."
"I was following 91 North!" Bradley bellows from behind the wheel.
"Our current situation says otherwise!" Angel shouts back.
They make it to Keene late at night after the festival is done. They walk along the main street where the sidewalks are lined with walls of lit-up jack-o-lanterns expressing various emotions: happiness, sadness, anger, etc. A row of six pumpkins side by side bear the message "GO SOX" with the corresponding Red Sox logo at the end. (Speaking of baseball, Katie got herself into a confusing conversation about Yankees a couple of days ago at a rest stop in Massachusetts. She didn't know they were talking about the baseball team.) The road is slippery with pumpkin meat, but Angel determinedly leads them through it, snapping her photos.
"Wow, this is worth it," Bradley mutters, staring disdainfully at the soles of his shoes.
"Oh, shut up," says Angel. "Stand next to that pumpkin, James, let me take a picture of you."
The face on the pumpkin is :D, so Bradley goes :(, and blinks when the flash goes off.