Have you ever wished you were a dinosaur? Raaaaaawwwrrr!
C and I went to Dinosaur Park where they built dome over some dino tracks in the Connecticut mud. Dinosaurs walked here! Right here!
It was pretty awesome. I’d forgotten how much non-science-nerds also love dinosaurs. We all had a very good time.
I love Triceratops best of all the dinosaurs. (Read my book, it has ’em!)
Mystic seaport has a Mystic Psychic; why don’t they have a Mystic Mystic? That would have made so much more sense to me.
The town of Mystic reminded me of Pismo Beach but not quite, you know?
I came in cold, not knowing what to expect at all. We took a quick spin around the tiny village (an old map store! a cute sun hat at half off! pizza! Though we ate at a nice fish place). It was small. And quaint. Well, it would have been quaint if there had been less construction (or if there had been sidewalks).
Anyway, after that, everyone asked if I wanted to go to seaport village. How in the world would I know? Thinking about the kitschy seaport village in San Diego, then thinking about the warm, sunny waves, I agreed. I didn’t expect a sudden shift in weather, I knew it was going to be cloudy and slightly chilly but, with everyone looking at me expectantly, I suppose I would have agreed to leaping off a cliff since I had no better plan.
I’m not sure what I expected from Mystic Seaport Village. I’ve never been to something like this before. It is billed as a re-created nineteenth-century coastal village. With some ships, some historic ships. And a working shipyard. I didn’t realize that we were supposed to go into the houses but C saw the grocery store and took me in there. The docent explained that it was set up as a nineteenth-century grocery and here were the things we could touch and over there were the antiques we couldn’t touch.
Ok, I’m getting into it… we went to the chemist’s and saw cure-alls and pickled leeches. The docent suggested he couldn’t keep live leeches fed (I found this surprising given the number of 10-year old boys running around, I’m certain they’d be willing to dare each other into feeding the leeches).
We went into a garden area and then into a house that had a roaring fire. The docent explained about cooking fires (though not about the attendant dangers to the cook) and how the oven was used to bake bread. She said the kitchen was built in 16-something and moved into the house. I think I lost the thread a bit, there is some havoc with people (school groups) coming in and out and the docent tries to have a narrative that can work within that constraint but it is difficult.
We wandered and saw a historic fishing ship, one that launched in 1921 (I didn’t remember, had to look it up) and then it sailed around fishing for awhile, got refitted for cargo and then bought so it could be historic. As others went below to look at the sleeping quarters, I chatted with the docent about dogs and leeches. (What am I doing here?)
For the most part, the docents were interesting and knowledgeable. I would have like to talk to the cooper but he was on break and to the printing press folks but they had a huge group of kids. Ahhh, the clockmaker, this I could like.
That, of course, was where it all when wrong.
I read about Black Bart and watched a movie about the Longitude Prize which detailed how marine chronometers are critical to knowing location. It is hard to sail around the oceans if you don’t know where you are. So I kinda knew that and I bet my father-in-law knew it . And we ooh’d over the telescopes and ahh’d over the compasses. We were invited behind the counter to look at the pendulum (land) clocks. I didn’t go, instead asking if he had any gyroscopes.
He said no one had ever asked. And he thought gyroscopes came later.
I tried to subtly wander off and check to see what Wikipedia said. The docent followed and wanted to know what I found: 1860s saw the first gyrocompasses, marine gyrocompass was patented in 1904. So, yeah, a nineteenth century clock store would be interested in the up and coming gyroscopes and the effect they would have on navigation. I bet he went home and read up on gyros of the time; I walked away feeling a like a complete nerd and a little silly.
(Note: the gyro wouldn’t have much of an effect on marine navigation since it couldn’t be used as an inertial measurement unit (IMU) for a long time. I worked on IMUs for Crossbow, back before they sold the division to MEMSIC. It is a hard problem even now though the problem is making it cheap and accurate (and not just one or the other).)
We went to the rope shop (neat), watched kids climb rigging on old ships, had a snack, and wandered around the historic whaler that was being gutted in dry dock. It was edutainment, not as good as the Frozen Planet TV series but a nice walk. I had a good time but came away a little confused. What year was it supposed to be in Mystic Seaport?
One hundred year spread was too big. For the twentieth century, the spread would be the Wright Flyer and international telegraph to commercial space flight and the iPhone. In a hundred years, if a museum town is built and puts an iPhone next to the Wright Flyer, visitors are going to get a whacko picture of our age. I wish they’d choose a year and narrow in on it, helping people to understand what came before the year and what came after, what was common and what was rare.
I suppose this is the where I rant a bit about museums having the responsibility to curate as well as collect. A well curated display is about determining how to display a collection in a way that makes sense. A lot of it is about selecting what not to show, eliminate the cruft to help outsiders to the creamy center.
Ahh, well, that rant will have to wait. We are off to an art museum. I think our hosts are going to give up on history** since after the paintings, we are either going to the science center (three of four people in our party will be thrilled with this) or the dinosaur park (I think maybe it will be the same three nerds who are excited about dino tracks in the rocks).
** Give up on history until we get to Plymouth where, of course, we will see The Rock.
If I could wish for a superpower it would be a seven second redo. When we got our first Tivo-like device, we found that we could skip ahead for 30s to get rid of commercials but if we went too far, there was a seven second back functionality. I wanted to be able to do that with the world. Take back the idiocy that just came from my mouth. Skip back and prevent accidents. Seven seconds seems like the right amount of time to foil small disasters but not enough put me on the hook for large ones.
However, I already have a superpower. I break things. Usually, I use my powers for good. Though, I have been known to profit as well.
In my engineering world, having everything around me break is a good way to create a system that is more robust for customers. In fact, in medical devices, I can be more confident that my products are functional because, if they were going to fail, they would have failed on my desk. I’m not usually that person who says “I can’t reproduce that error” because, if it is a crash or fatal issue, I can always reproduce it. Many of my oddest engineering skills have come from having to fix the things that break most often (solder and a glue gun are totally in my superbelt, I carry a toolbox when I have a cape and tights on (ahem, which is never)).
This isn’t just being inattentive to my surroundings (there is some of that); it is a true knack for destruction. I mean, I crash my Apple devices regularly (I’ve seen the Leopard screen of death several times, you?). I crashed the DC Metro’s ticket taking machine. Never go into the self-checkout line behind me.
Maybe I should have gone into testing but I love building things, creating new things. Plus, development usually pays better. I know the superhero lore: using my power for profit is certain to lead to sadness but I’m sure Clark Kent used his X-ray vision a time or two to get a story.
Unfortunately for me, my power is not limited to the flow of electricity. I also break physical things. While I like pretty and expensive vases, we don’t own any because the Tiffany one we got as a wedding present fell to the sink one day with a giant crack. Things in my hands tend to end up on the floor. Glasses with liquids get spilled even when I’m nowhere near them. Things on the floor end up stepped on or tripped over, repeatedly. I can trip over a crack in the sidewalk, it doesn’t have to be uneven. I did major damage to my hip falling out of my desk chair.
I’m not an idiot: I don’t go in china shops. And I would say our house is configured for safety and acceptable levels of casual destruction. I let C control the TV and most of the household electronics. The pathways I move along are free from clutter and likely damage. It is ok if I run into or trip over the cat tree. (I stopped giving the cat guilt-treats when I would walk on his tail and now he moves his tail when he sees me coming. I’m pretty sure he was moving in front of me when there were treats at stake.) The kitchen counter is mostly devoid of things, partially because we like the clean look, partially because it is easier to clean up, partially because it limits my range when my talent misfires.
It is with some trepidation that I visit my in-laws home. I have seen many magazines with showcase houses that are not nearly as lovely as this one. Each room is done up in a way where everything is perfect. I’ve been in much worse museums than this house. I feel huge and ungraceful.
My father-in-law was worried about me tripping down the stairs (a quite reasonable fear) but I was far more concerned about tripping down the stairs and bringing two stories worth of antiques with me. I will have care on the stairs.
Right now, I’m sitting on the floor of a sitting room (seriously, there is no other word, it is not a bedroom, bathroom, living room or kitchen; long ago, it might have been a nursery or governess’ room). I’m sitting on the floor because I don’t know which chairs or sofas are suitable for sitting. And if one of them is suitable, I don’t know which pillows should be moved from it. I can assume all of them but then where do they go? Not on the floor, I know that much.
Even down here, I’m a little stressed out. There are dolls and animals that I nearly set my backpack on and then almost kicked when I stretched out my leg. I am being careful. Really. And so far nothing has been touched but the rug. And I refuse to think about the rug and whether or not it should be sat upon or have my gear strewn about it. I’ll assume yes on that even though there are rugs in this house that I know I’m not to loiter on (though I don’t know which ones).
I should tell you more about the house and I probably will, possibly in detail. For now, I’ll summarize: it is an amazing, beautiful, detail-designed house. My mother-in-law has a fantastic sense of space and color. (Yes, I do know she’s been reading this blog, that isn’t just sucking up.)
But I fear for her lovely house; I fear my out-of-control superpower and the destruction I could cause tromping around here. All I can really say? Thank all mercies that French antiques don’t have electronics.
Many years ago, on our honeymoon though it could have been an anniversary, my husband and I went to Carmel-by-the-sea. It is a quaint little place with lots of antique shops and art galleries. Now that I’ve been to a cute New England town, I would say it feels most like that.
I saw a cute, tiny painting in a window and wanted to go inside to see what the gallery offered. As sometimes happens in Carmel galleries, the artist was there to greet us. It was his gallery; all of this was his work.
When I find a painting or photo I like, I want to know more about the artist. Is this an example of their work or some odd little piece? Do I like their vision of the world or am I enchanted by the frame on the one that caught my eye?
I’m easily swayed by trivial things but when I live with them for a week or two, I lose interest. And then I start to actively dislike a picture that shows only the easy, plain surface. However, looking at more work by one artist seems to be a good indicator of how I’ll feel about a piece in the long term.
Once we walked in, we realized that it wasn’t our sort of gallery. I have nothing against different styles of art but this was more Thomas Kinkade’s style, not the impressionism that I’d taken it for (remember, it was a miniature painting that had me amused). I could tell C felt the same way: this was the sort of candy-like art that makes me unhappy in the long term (and that he seldom falls for anyway).
The artist was garrulous, wanting to tell us about each piece and his career, exclaiming, “I was the original painter of light!” We were the only ones there; probably the only ones who had entered in weeks and he’d been hoarding all his words, waiting to share the bounty with the first unsuspecting tourists that entered his domain.
“Wait, wait! Let me get another masterpiece to show you!” He had a light dimmer and would raise and lower the light levels on each painting, extolling its virtues. How fast can one realistically leave in the face of this niceness and pride? We didn’t think we could sneak out at this point, he’d totally catch us. Each time he stepped out to get another painting, we did that couple thing where you mumbled quietly to each other to figure out a plan, hoping the communication is inaudible to others.
We tried to say that we’d come back later (liars!) but the artist took that to mean we truly wanted something and assured us he’s be happy to ship anywhere. We cried that we had a budget and he swore he’d help us with credit.
He went off to get another painting, he was sure we’d adore (I remember, he said the word adore with such happy elfin joy that we nearly cracked up, hidden in coughing fits). C and I mumbled again, I think I suggested faking appendicitis but it could have been him. Sadly, we failed to determine who would be the one to writhe on the floor in agony before the artist came back.
We reached the point where I was worried we have to actually buy something to escape. I didn’t want to hurt the nice old man’s feelings and he wouldn’t stop talking long enough to really let us get a word in edgewise.
I don’t remember how we got out of there, probably pled a fictitious lunch date. I do remember getting out of the gallery, walking on the sunny street and laughing with C, demanding that we come up with hand signals or something so one or the other of us could properly fake appendicitis when the need arose again. And it has occasionally but we never did come up with those signals.
I admit I felt a pretty poorly this morning with the homesickness, forgive me if I forgot to miss you. I almost certainly do.
Anyway, I think the wave of homesickness was because we arrived at my in-laws in Connecticut. At some point after we crossed the Mississippi, C referred to his parents’ house as “when we get home” even though he’d never been to their new house (well, they’ve had it for a decade but we’ve never seen it). But it is home of sorts so getting here reminded me more of being home than our adventure so far.
It is a little odd, even for me (relatively new to the family having only been married to C for 14 years), to see the hew house with all the furniture and stuff that used to be in C’s childhood home in San Juan Capistrano. There is some cognitive dissonce with seeing that painting there when it used to be on a slightly similar wall in southern California. It adds to the dreamlike quality of the trip.
However, I’ve been very cold since we got here. My thin California blood is not up to the task of sitting still in temperatures of 60F. I get fairly miserable when I’m cold. I exacerbated the situation this morning: I thought a walk would warm me up but it was raining and chilly. I never got warm (or particularly dry) despite cuddling up to the radiator.
The bed was warm but when you are staying in family’s house, there is some call to be social; you can only spend so much time huddled under the down comforter.
Finally, a trip to REI and our first purchase that was not food, gas or hotel (we have acquired no souvenirs yet) and I feel a ton better, mentally and physically.