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Author/driver Alyce Cornyn-Selby drove from one side of the United States to the other
— AND, of course, she ate out alone!
In April 2002 author/driver, Alyce Cornyn-Selby got into an "open cockpit," very topless roadster
and drove from one side of the United States to the other.
Subsequently, Cornyn-Selby contacted SoloDining.com: "I am not a restaurant critic by ANY stretch but I
found some places that made me feel wonderful and I'd be happy to share them with your visitors."
We were THRILLED to hear from the celebrated author of several books, including, One Thing Worse Than Being
Alone — Wishing You Were: Craving Solitude and Getting It.
While driving an open cockpit vintage roadster SOLO coast to coast, she experienced first hand the surprise
of finding wonderful people and restaurants on her nerve-racking and hilarious three-month trek.
This is the first excerpt from a "Drive-of-a-Lifetime" adventure by Alyce Cornyn-Selby which originally
appeared in SoloDining.com, the newsletter.
(Order HIT THE ROAD — 1-800-937-7771 or click: Going
Topless.)
The following excerpts appeared in past issues of SoloDining.com, the newsletter:
JACKIE'S TOO in Perkins Cove — Ogunquit, Maine
I crossed the Piscataqua River into Kittery, Maine and read the welcome sign: "MAINE, THE WAY LIFE SHOULD
BE." No argument.
I still wasn't "there." Past the outlet stores, the greasy fish and crab smells, past the signs for "beaches"
and ever northward we went.
Eleven days ago the idea of making it to Maine seemed an overwhelming impossibility, a wish-upon-a-star that
wasn't going to happen. I was intimidated by the expanse of Wyoming and Nebraska, robbed of my cash and facing
problems only money could solve and remembering the predictions of the runes that I'd have a hard journey, "slippery
slopes, unsure footing." But there had also been indications that my usual good fortune was smiling on me
again — the surprise of the Palace of Gold, the vacancy at the Ironmaster's Mansion, the Victorian glory at Cape
May, the amazing lunch in Manhattan. The rain had nearly drowned me twice but it hadn't dampened the spirit. Now
that I was getting close, a General George Patton-like resolve was urging me on.
Finally, Ogunquit.
Off Highway 1 and through startled pedestrians, I headed to Perkins Cove. Only one parking space left in a tourist-choked
Saturday noon parking lot and it was right next to a restaurant's front door. I parked, shut the engine off and
reveled in the absence of vibration for several minutes before I unbent my body and climbed out of the car at
Jackie's Too (207/646-4444; Perkins Cove, Ogunquit, Maine).
A Maine native greeted and seated me. Martin, a man of average height and build and yet a polished sparkle to
his eye — and how did I just know he was from Maine? The canvas baseball cap? The I'm-comfortable-and-I've-been-here-forever
body language? If there was any doubt about his New England heritage, that disappeared with the accent.
The veranda was enclosed in a white tent that whap-whapped in the stiff sea breeze. The sun was fully out and
brilliant and warm enough for some people to wear shorts and show their white bird legs. I sat there trying to
convince myself that I was there — really there.
The intense sapphire blue of the Atlantic gently pounded the black cliffs of rock. I sipped a quart of iced
tea with extra lemon; the physical sensation of doing that helped convince me. It was not a dream. I was in Maine
and in some sort of "Alyce Nirvana."
The menu was everything a Maine menu should be. I was treated royally, like a returning serviceman — and I was
a stranger in town. Granted, a stranger with a wild, purple car, but a stranger.
I had such a jolly time at Jackie's with the staff and enjoyed the crab cakes so much that I bought the only
T-shirt of my entire trip, a purple embroidered Jackie's shirt.
There was something — I asked myself, what, specifically — about this little town that had drawn me like swallows
to Capistrano, butterflies to Pacific Grove or vultures to Hinkley Ridge. This was my fifth visit to Ogunquit.
Yet, the best was yet to come.
When I asked for a referral of a place to stay with off street parking for my attention-grabbing roadster, Martin
volunteered to call around for me. Now, that's service above and beyond.
Jennifer, also working at Jackie's, and Martin posed next to the purple roadster in their purple shirts and
sent me on my way, tummy happy with crab. I left to find "Nellie" because they promised she would provide
safe haven for my traveling billboard.
I considered not telling anyone about Ogunquit and it may be a big mistake to describe it because the place
gets thick with visitors. For me there was just the right amount of stained glass, perfumed candles, embroidered
windbreakers and stuffed toy lobsters. Charming bed-and-breakfasts, old inns, well-kept lodges lined the twisting
street that goes back to "town," an off-balanced little intersection of angled streets with galleries,
hand packed ice cream, emporiums and Carpe Diem Coffee.
White porches with white rocking chairs, white picket fence and white columns, the Nellie Littlefield House was the Maine bed and breakfast, only better because there
was no weird owner to assail you with stories about her cat and try to get you to drink herbal tea.
"Two nights, please."
From the recessed lighting and sprinkler heads in the ceiling, I knew the renovated 1889 house had been a major
gut job. The photo album in the library documented the down-to-the-studs effort. My house should be this lucky.
"Nellie" was resplendent in all new everything. Doors, latches, bathrooms, furnishings, paint. She was
an old shell completely redone new, like a '40 Ford with tilt, air and cruise.
Eric Haselton was literally up to his ankles in house ash in the photos. Looking vaguely like Benjamin in the
film, "Good-bye, Columbus" (only better looking), Eric had even stripped the roof tiles, cleaned and
then reused them. We discussed the spirits that seemed to occupy our respective houses. The breakfasts of raspberry
French toast and an egg concoction with fruit were his doing. He also wrote poetry, played guitar and was an accomplished
photographer. Evidently he didn't sleep. Ever.
I settled in and watched the world go by from one of the white rockers on the second floor balcony. There were
grandpas pulling red wagons with quiet kids, trike and bike riders, couples dressed alike, an old duffer with a
prissy little dog, two handsome, trim men with flying hand gestures, plump women with shopping sacks. I enjoyed
a doughy thing from the local Bread and Roses Bakery while rocking and gazing.
My dad had a phrase for moments like this. He would say, "I wonder what the poor folks are doin' right
now?" I heard him say that in a $5-a-day rented rowboat out in the middle of an Ozark lake. I heard him say
it while watching 4th of July fireworks with Jim Beam in his hand. He didn't have to be in a luxurious place, just
a luxurious state of mind to say that. Sitting in my white rocker on the balcony of the Nellie Littlefield, I thought
to myself, "I wonder what the poor folks are doin' right now?"
Roadster Lesson #10: If you keep going, you get there.
Amazon.com readers/reviewers loved HIT THE ROAD: Across America in A Topless Car — ".
. . great insight into human motivation."
To buy this book, click: here
Planning a trip? Visit our sister website. Click here: SoloTravelPortal.com
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