Moby Dick-less

So, we went to New Bedford today. Turns out, it’s kind of a shit hole.

I mean, it clearly had its day. Problem is, that day was a couple hundred years ago. Well, more like 150. It was the whaling capital of America, and possibly the world. But now it’s a somewhat grim industrial town that’s trying to cash in on its history and its location near Cape Cod (not actually on the Cape, as I also learned today. Or re-learned – the giant “Welcome To Cape Cod” signs once you cross the Cape Cod Canal had clued me in on the first trip across, but somehow I’d forgotten that by today).

Today was forecast to be rainy, so we had set aside this day for exploration of that particular burg, drawn thither by the possibility of the Whaling Museum. And, strangely, this song popped up on Janneke's ipod:



It refers to "Moby Dick" throughout. And is a delightfully quirky song, which the kids were humming for hours afterward. As was I.

Say what you will about the rest of the town: That is a fine museum.

Actual skeletons of a right whale, a humpback, and a blue whale – as well as another, which I can’t recall – hang from the ceiling.

And a sperm whale skeleton stands in another room. Utterly gorgeous. Scrimshaw out yon wazoo, as it were – they had a rack of whale-ivory-headed canes that ‘bout make your head spin. And a half-scale model of a whaling ship from the turn of the 20^th century that the kids bounced around on for a good long stretch.

I’m going to go on about the museum for a paragraph or so, so if you’re sick of it already, just skip ahead to where it says “So, anyway” in huge letters.

Now, apparently, when the whale is alive, its whole being is kind of suffused with the oil that it produces from its food, and this acts as a nutrient delivery system for the long periods of time when it doesn’t eat. The bones are even filled with it – so much so that the blue whale skeleton, from an animal that was killed when it was struck by a ship in 2004, is still, to this day, oozing the oil. A bg plexiglass triangle hangs below its skull, where most of it appears to be oozing out, and the triangle leads the oil into a plastic tube, which leads to a beaker right at the level of one’s eye (if one is slightly taller than me). It’s black, and smelly – the whole room is rife with the scent of it. "Smelly" is probably the wrong word – It does smell, and somewhat strongly, but the odor isn’t unpleasant. It’s kind of fishy and kind of not, and definitely rich and oily. I found that fascinating. And the sperm whale skeleton was amazing because of the giant dish that its bones form just ahead of its brain case, where its giant, fatty melon sits. The melon, you see, is the organ that they and dolphins and pretty much all toothed whales have, through which they can focus sound in the most interesting ways – dolphins, and probably not only dolphins, echolocate, while sperm whales emit the loudest sound produced by a living creature, and can apparently focus it into a beam that’s essentially a weapon to be used against squid in the deep, dark reaches of the sea. And there’s a whaling captain, named Cuffee, whose mother was an Indian from one of the Cape Islands, and whose father was black, and whose wife was also an Indian, who became one of the richest men in America, met and counseled the President, and was active in the emancipation movement, and who I need to know a hell of a lot more about. And Nantucket was, when Melville wrote Moby-Dick, considered the whaling capital of the US, but he at the time thought the weight had probably shifted to New Bedford – and later historical evidence confirms the switch that he smelled in the air. So I have got to read Moby-Dick, and I have got to get to Nantucket. All in good time, my friend.

SO, ANYWAY...  The morning of the museum visit, Janneke and T were up doing laundry, and I decided to take advantage of the moment to conscript Q into a ride on the bikes. We hit the bike trail to take it to its terminus in Woods Hole, that gorgeous little burg I'd fallen in love with the day before. Since T wouldn't be up for such a long haul. Don't fret, I had prior approval from the missus.

So Q and I blazed (relatively) the 6 miles into Woods Hole. That part of the bike trail, which we'd not been on past the bus stop for the ferry some 2 miles from Sippewisset, is much more scenic than the other part we'd ridden to the beach. A good chunk of it goes right along the beach, and there are a number of tidal ponds along the way. It was a nice bonding experience for the two of us. Once in WOods Hole, we sat in a little bakery and had macaroons and fruit drinks. Then we hit the road and zoomed back to camp, where we all headed out to New Bedford.

Which I already told you about.

So, after the museum, we tried to walk around scenic New Bedford, but there isn't any. I found this out when I stopped in to the Chamber of Commerce in town, having spent a few aimless minutes peering down streets trying to find one that looked scenic, and being unable. And the lady in the chamber of commerce office basically said we'd seen all the nicest parts already. I then asked her to point me to the most authentic Portuguese restaurant in town. She obliged, and we headed for Antonio's.

The waitresses all toggled back and forth effortlessly between English and Portuguese, which was a very good sign, I thought. And I asked ours what was the most authentic Portuguese item on the menu. She suggested a dish of pork served with clams and cubed, baked-then-fried potatoes. It was great. The kids shared a dish of something chickeny - chicken, steeped in tuna juice, I think - with sliced, fried potatoes on top. (They like to pile potatoes on top of their food in Portugal, it seems.) Janneke had a spaghetti and shrimp dish (no potatoes atop it), and we all came away much more than satisfied, and weighed down with doggie bags. It was a grand eating experience.

But New Bedford is still a shithole.

Back to camp. Some sittin' about, chattin'; then we setted in to watch "Dolphin Tale", which was cheesy, but sincere. And to bed.

The next day (today), we broke camp, which took less time than one might have thought, and then, on my suggestion, all four of us rode the six mile trail in to Woods Hole, that blessed burg, and had drinks and snacks at the bakery. It was a great experience. T never once asked to rest. I just wish she'd have found that level of fortitude inside her the day we were on the Vineyard. (Those of us in the know will tell you that this refers to "Martha's Vineyard". You're welcome.) I then zoomed back to the campground, loaded my bike onto the bike rack, and zoomed internal-combustion-engine-style back to town to pick up my dearies.

As I circled the block trying to parallel park, I noticed that they were blocking off the drawbridge! So when I came back up and actually parked, I told the fam to go down and check it out while I loaded the bikes onto the car. They obliged, and reported that it was well worth the walk down the hill. I felt very much the doting provider for those few minutes.

And then we drove home. I tell you, man: The Cape feels like a totally different place than the rest of Massachusetts. Down to the giant bridge you have to cross to get there. I love the history of it - largely, I think, because it's more socio-economic and such than it is political-historical. Soon as I finish up here, I'm going to find out who the hell the Vineyard was named after, and learn more about Nantucket. Then blow the dust of whichever copy of "Moby Dick" pops to hand first and dive in.

Sleep first, though. On a bed. That isn't glorified bubble wrap.