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Here I am again in Quebec. Home from my worldly travels energized and fortified and money spent. I can look outside my apartment window and see the deciduous trees of Mont-Ste-Anne lit up with the warm autumn colours but it just ain’t doing it for me. I’m lonely, restless and a little disappointed to be home. The last few weeks were a blast. I was in Austria loading myself up to the brim with training, then got home and went to Boston to absorb it. I’ve spent plenty of time in big cities and small cities, backcountries and backcountry glaciers but I’m always thirsty for more. So, here I am again in Quebec in my quiet, plain apartment with no colour or art on the walls with nothing to do but entertain myself as if it were 1905. But don’t get me wrong, I feel enlightened and excited about what’s to come. My training is resting in a perfect place, ready to race, and artistically I feel as though I’ve been given a road map to the place I always wanted to go. So besides the dullness of my physical surroundings in this quiet town, I’m excited about one great chapter complete and eager to embark on another.

But before I embark on this journey I’m going to pace around and bounce off the wall of my apartment like a crazy person in a padded room. To prevent myself from going completely crazy, I’m going to stay relatively productive: Write about Boston, the rest of my summer and perhaps watch 40 hours of Prison Break. As far as Boston goes, I’ve wanted to go on that trip for a long time and no one wanted to come with me from the team. Most these guys spent all their money in New Zealand and need to save up some cash for when their girlfriends visit. I can understand that. But I had to go because the south was taunting me. Outside my window, opposite of the ski resort are rolling hills that shot south like opportunity: The Atlantic Ocean, Maine, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Portland, Boston. I wanted to explore it all and I did last weekend.

My first stop was Portland, Maine. The drive was painless. The scenic secondary highways from Quebec to the Atlantic coast are beautiful, especially this time of year. The roads which are in incredible shape curve around the Canadian Shield delicately, passing rivers, lakes and small hillbilly towns of the US. The border guard was a little suspicious as my passport has had plenty of use latetly. He poked around my car little but all he could find in the trunk was a duffle bag, couple ski boots, roller skis and a frizbee – I was soon on my way.

Portland was busy because of Columbus Day weekend and it was impossible to find accommodation in a 40 mile radius. I went into a Holiday in, slapped my credit card down unknowingly and asked for a room. They replied, “this is the first hotel you’ve tried isn’t it? There is nothing here or anywhere.” They called several hotels for me but there was no use. I came to the conclusion that I had to sleep in my car which isn’t the most pleasant way to start a road trip. However, I sure as hell wasn’t going to drive another 40 minutes at 9 pm to maybe get a room in the middle one nowhere. So I made up a nice cushy bed in my backseat, found a nice spot in an abandoned parking lot and walked around the town. In excitement I called everyone I knew to brag about my trip. I felt great about myself. I yapped on the phone long enough for my cell-phone to die just when I needed to make inquiries about my missing car. When I came back to the parking lot there were skid marks in the sand where my car use to be. Fuck. Long story short, most my night was spent locating my towed car and paying people cash to get it back. I ended up spending as much money as I would have on the hotel.

In the morning, I gazed out at the clear day with my foggy eyes and merged onto Route 95 out of Portland. I was looking forward to leaving the night behind me and thought only of what was to come. I thought to myself and smiled, “in two hours you’ll be sitting in Fenway Park.” And I was.

I watched the Red Sox lose their only postseason home game but the game itself was amazing. There was plenty of action and energy. It was hard for me to bring the same energy to the game as when I’m with friends, so I was more of a fly on the wall of Fenway. I watched all the riled-up, die-hard fans letting everyone know there opinion of every player, ump and the calls they made. The experience was everything I had hoped for.

After all the game, I check into the hostel and caught up on sleep. The night before was a disaster mixed with stress and jetlag so I slept it all away. In the morning I was stocked up with the appropriate energy to explore my sought after US city and I saw everything Boston had to offer.

I site-see perhaps a little different than most: I have a burning curiosity for architecture and art but don’t really know what to make of everything at first glance. I walk around just looking at stuff, sort of downloading it all until I can make use of it. This is what I did that day.

The morning was casual. I spent the first couple hours relaxing in a trendy coffeeshop/bookstore joint called Trident. Once I zeroed myself with coffee, breakfast and the wonderful Monday morning coffee shop vibe I attacked the town. The day started with walking and ended with running. I capped it all off with sprinting north up Harvard Avenue at 8pm, in casual clothes, leather jacket and Nish’s camera swinging around my neck. I had to see the last Boston attraction before I left town: Harvard University. I stood on the steps of the main entrance, hot as hell but feeling content. I looked up at the tall, beautiful brick building with 20 foot high tilled glass. The building was lit up and glowing like a beacon. I only had a few minutes to explore the campus before racing home to be herded with the a dozen over-enthusiastic hostels dweller that were leaving to watch some live jazz/blues.

In the morning it was appropriately raining and I went back to Trident: I drank coffee and ate eggs benedict. I wanted to chill there for a couple hours before hitting the road. It was time to get back to my life and I know it isn’t a good sign for me when I become this introverted. I ignored my head full of Boston architecture and its unique style and listened to several conversations happening around me. I paid the bill I waltzed around the bookstore waiting for something to jump out. After 20 minutes, I was on my way out of the store with Jack Kerouac’s ‘Complete Travel Works’ in one hand and Voltaire’s ‘Candide’ in the other. (The Voltaire is a joke between Nish and I). Passing the magazine rack I stopped and pulled down a quarterly magazine that was meant to inspire the graphic designer. I flipped through the beautiful collection of images and like an epiphany everything I had collected all sort of fell into place – like I spent days collecting pieces of string and all of a sudden I had tied them all together. I put down the ridiculous Voltaire, and Kerouac because I already read ‘On the Road’ and left the bookstore with the magazine.

I drove home in no rush with lots to think about – still very introverted, though. I pulled into the drive way I looked up at my dark apartment and immediately wanted to get back in car and drive. Instead I went upstairs and straight to bed. I miss noise, I miss my girlfriend and I miss my home in the west.

My trip to Boston.