don't fear the reaper

While we were in Baltimore I threw out the idea of visiting the Edgar Allen Poe House. However, after researching the site and conferring with the friends we were staying with, we decided not to. The house is in a bad area of town, and walking there could be potentially dangerous. Instead, we visited the graveyard where Poe was buried, which in many ways was much more exciting for me.

For most people the words "graveyard" and "exciting" never enter the same sentence. They never even enter the same paragraph. But for me, graveyards are exciting.

OK, maybe exciting isn't quite the right word to describe my fascination. I find graveyards beautiful. They are peaceful and quiet. Each is unique, with a personality that can be read the moment you step into them. Whether it's a crooked mishmash of historical cemeteries or the geometric lines of a military site, I can't help but take photos.

My fiance finds this extremely weird.

He understood seeking out Poe's grave. After all, the man is famous, and it seems fitting to visit this particular writer's final resting place. The cemetery and adjoining church are in the heart of downtown Baltimore, but once inside you hardly notice. There are also huge crypts and other unique grave markers that made it a nice photography experience.

He was less thrilled to enter the Copp's Hill burial ground in Boston, but since the Freedom Trail passes right by it, we went in. That proved to be a very interesting stop. We learned about common pre-colonial grave stone motifs and saw a black cat. Yes, an actual black cat was hanging out in the graveyard. Spooky.

He was, again, less than thrilled to visit the cemetery in Salem. But by now he knew I was "kind of into cemeteries" and suggested we go before our tour at the Salem Witch Museum. I was thrilled to recognize some of the motifs I had learned about at Copp's Hill. It's always fun when little pieces of information overlap the places we visit.

By the time I voiced my desire to see Benjamin Franklin's grave in Philadelphia, my fiance was resigned to the fact that this is just another one of my lovable quirks. At least, I hope that's how he sees it. He did navigate me to Franklin, which I doubt he would have done if he was morally opposed to hanging out in a cemetery.

I fully acknowledge that my love of graveyards is strange. Maybe even a little morbid. But it is what it is-- a hobby that I enjoy, even as if creeps the people around me out.

And I'm probably not alone. Our tour of the Mark Twain House was mostly comprised of couples over 55, but there was one family with a daughter no older than 11. At the end of the tour, the guide asked if anyone had any questions. Without hesitation the girl piped up, "I saw in the movie downstairs that one of his [Twain's] daughters died in this house. What room was that in?" This girl posed her question with such earnest reverence that I couldn't help but smile. I half expected her to ask the guide if she could lie down in the bed where it happened. It was so odd, funny, and at the same time adorably cute.

Even my fiance agreed on this.

on the road again

Before taking this vacation I hadn't driven for six months. I really have no need to do so in Sydney. My work is within walking distance. The bus is a more economical and eco-friendly way to visit the city. The few driving lessons my fiance have given me usually end with my heart racing, or worse, with me in tears. So while I will eventually need to learn to drive properly on the left side of the road, for now I'm happy letting someone else drive.

My fiance has a similar driving deficiency when visiting the United States. All of the driving is up to me, while he navigates from the passenger seat (or worse, falls asleep, which I often find very irritating). This arrangement has led to some interesting "adventures."

There was the time I almost turned the wrong way on a one way street in Boston. My fiance gave his famous "turn right when you can" advice, and then suggested I turn at the next light. Thankfully, our hotel was in the financial district and it was a Saturday morning, meaning there was no one coming towards us. The only witness to my stupidity was the lone taxi driver who honked and shook his finger to indicate I was going the wrong way.

Then there was the night when we drove all over upstate New York looking for our hotel. We got into Cooperstown around 5pm, and immediately visited the Baseball HOF thanks to their awesome summer hours (open until 9pm!). Three hours later we finally ate dinner at a local restaurant, and set out for our hotel. I was reasonably sure I had booked something within three miles of downtown, but the Google map directions led us out of town and down a windy, dark country road. Once we passed where the hotel was supposed to be, my fiance discovered I had read the address number to him incorrectly. No problem: he inputed the correct address and we were off. Unfortunately by this time it was dark, and backroads don't have streetlights. The quickest way back to where we needed to be was through more dark, windy roads. The kind that pass creepy farmhouses, go through thick woods, and where deer cross the road (all things we actually saw). After another half hour of driving, losing and regaining cell signal, and general anxiety at being lost-ish, we finally called the hotel for directions. Turns out the hotel was south of town, not north like we had been going. So back to Cooperstown, and what do you know! -- we find the hotel within ten minutes.

Then there was the delightful time we accidentally went to New Jersey. This is actually the second time I have accidentally been to New Jersey. The first time was much nicer, as it involved getting an ice cream at Dairy Queen. This time involved missing a turn in Philadelphia, and getting onto the Ben Franklin Bridge thinking it connected to the I-95 in the direction we were going. Nope: it goes to New Jersey. I got off at the first exit so we could get back onto the bridge, and ended up in a very very bad neighborhood. After several tense minutes of driving down one way streets and obsessively checking that the car doors were locked, we were headed back into Pennsylvania. After paying a $5.00 toll to get back on the Ben Franklin Bridge. Oy vey.

Needless to say, I am very excited to not drive for awhile.