Leo 8°

There is something about driving North. You’ve heard our Graham Nash story which we just told to Justin Vivian Bond the day after their show at the new Glow Festival. Viv had never heard it and it was timely since their show was all about slut-shaming the women of Laurel Canyon. It’s a week since the show and I’m still singing John Phillips, Young Girls are Coming to the Canyon in my head.

Leaving Portland, we put a pin in it, not sure whether its exactly right, but surely understanding what is exactly right about it. It’s only about two and half hours from Portland to Lincolnville where you get the ferry for Islesboro. We didn’t reserve the ferry because it’s overly cautious and too expensive to do so but just showed up. We had no traffic except for the last half hour where we were stuck behind a white car from FL going thirty five miles an hour across SR90 then up Route 1, through Camden, on to the ferry. Of course the pulled into the drive to take the ferry right in front of us and just stopped; the man behind the wheel was too old to be allowed to drive from FL. Stella jumped out to get ferry tickets and she had no sooner left the car before a woman in an orange and yellow reflector vest starting calling us on. I had to ticket, so I said I’m waiting for my wife to get tickets, only to learn I’m in the reservations only line and there is a hold behind me of many cars that also just showed up, we had jumped the line. I’m getting chewed out by orange and yellow; and Stella, I soon learn, is getting even more chewed out by another lady inside being more than just a little local-eccentric. And anyway, the consequence for being shady with Stella is far more severe than it is for those being shady with me because I’m used to it.

Well the first people to pull behind me/us, the first car I’ve in effect cut in front of, was my sister- and mother-in-law and Stella’s niece—Stella’s father and two brothers had already gotten on the ferry in a separate car. So it was touch and go. I had to pull over and let all the cars I cut off go before us. But there was room for us after all, so all three carloads of our party heading to the home that was given us for a couple weeks by its owner, a popular TV actress from the ninetiees, headed there.

Typos happen—I don’t have time or an intern to edit.*

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