Massachusetts is a pretty spectacular state. We adopted the same plan as in Maine—set up camp in central locations and drive out from there. We stayed on the Atlantic shore, first at Salisbury Beach, then at Shawme-Cromwell State Forest and finally, Scusset Beach. Waking up to the pounding surf is amazing.

On the way to Boston, we stopped in Salem. Until we came here, we’d never seen a flashing green traffic light. The Salem visitor center really downplays the whole witch trial business, but all the tourist traps go the other direction. There’s even a Witch House Motors car dealership here. Boston was fun, even though we didn’t get to spend much time there. Our original idea was to take the train, but we chucked it and braved the traffic that all the tour books warned us about. The city is probably about ten times bigger than what I expected and is reminiscent of a scaled-down, tidy New York. We traipsed around Boston Commons (their version of Central Park, but with an old cemetery in it) and the beautifully manicured Public Garden next door. We found Cheer’s, but didn’t stop—we needed to beat it out of town before rush hour began.

Cape Cod proved to be good for a few day trips. Ferrying the truck to Martha’s Vineyard is crazy-expensive, so we just ferried ourselves and our bikes. That’s the way to go. We visited Oak Bluffs, full of gothic style cottages; Edgartown, full of old whaling captains’ houses; and Vineyard Haven, full of non-touristy shops. (They even had two Mac sales and service shops! Go, Mac.) The sights and scenes between each of these towns made the journey as much fun as the destination. At some point we rode past a lady wearing a kilt and platform work boots. Whaaa? We also biked in the Cape Cod National Seashore area, at the very tip of the Cape in Provincetown. The trail winds through a sort of woods and dunes mix and ends up at Herring Cove Beach. Half hidden behind one of the beach dunes was a guy sunning himself in his tighty-whiteys. We didn’t need to see that. On the drive back we stopped in the town of Wellfleet, home to many an oyster. The fried ones were dang good, but the raw ones on the half-shell were to die for.

After wanting to visit here for the past three Thanksgivings, I finally made it to Plymouth Rock. Being a plain, grey boulder, it’s not exactly action-packed, but there’s something about standing next to it and thinking about all that history that makes it really stirring. There’s a replica of the Mayflower docked there too, which adds to the effect.

Holly and I took a break from our usual campground lifestyle by spending a marvelous night at Whistler’s Inn, an elegant bed and breakfast located in the Berkshires, as a gift from my sister Sandy and family. The house is a palatial English Tudor, built in 1820 by a railroad tycoon. Our room was plush and pink. We basked in the lavishness, but it was the little things that we appreciated even more—a long bed, cable TV and a phone line that we didn’t have to share. I wasn’t ready to leave, but after a French toast breakfast and a long talk with the owners’ daughter, we knew we had to get back to Connecticut and feed the boys.