Travel Notes II: Salem, Massachusetts

Hi everyone! This is a long overdue update. I wasn't going to continue my Travel Notes series but someone asked me the other day why I hadn't, so on the off-chance that this is even slightly interesting to at least one reader, here goes:

The next literary trip I took during my stay in the US was a day at Salem, the notorious town known for an infamous witch hunt that took place back in the 1690s, and immortalized in such works as Arthur Miller’s The Crucible, among others. I honestly didn’t know what to expect of Salem; I think I expected a creepy, ghostly, eerie town haunted by its macabre past. It was anything but. If anything, Salem has made the best of its history by becoming a modern-day witch-themed tourist attraction. A little disappointing for someone who had conjured up images of dismal, Puritanical severity like me, but once I got over it, I thoroughly enjoyed the lighthearted attitude towards witchcraft and all things associated with it. Rather than denying the existence of witchcraft, I think what they tried to do was debunk myths about the wiccan religion, separating it from Satanism or the worship of the devil, which is a common misconception.

Salem has a touching tribute to the heroes and victims of the witch hunt and subsequent trials of 1692 by way of a museum and a lively retelling of the story with life-like figures of Abigail, John Proctor, Tituba and all the major players of that oft-told tale. It was a cold reminder of the power of society and human vengeance, and most of all the evil that comes out of fear of the unknown – the persecution of innocent people in the guise of morality. Although I was familiar with the story already, I think we all came out of the darkened room quite shaken after having heard the dramatic rendering of the tale by our narrator, complete with sound and visual effects, I might add.

Hawthorne’s model for The House of the Seven Gables actually does have seven gables. We went on a wet and rather gloomy day to visit his birthplace as well as the aforementioned seven-gabled house, which seemed oddly befitting.

Salem, other than the obvious nods to its traumatic history as well as Harry Potter-esque influences evident in the commercial enterprises lining the streets, was all in all a small, pretty, little village. One imagines how quiet and quaint it would be minus the touristy trappings and how someone like Hester Prynne (of Hawthorne’s The Scarlet Letter) could have been ostracized and cast out of society for transgressing against society’s norms in days long gone.

Travel Notes - I

I had wanted to visit the New England area for a very long time. Many years ago,when I studied American literature at University, I realized that most of America's best known, highly influential, and most beloved writers had hailed from the region, and I knew I had to see for myself the region that had produced such great minds. Besides, Harvard University is there. So, finally, one of my long-cherished dreams was going to come true for me. I was hyped up, super- excited, and ready to be overawed by pretty much everything I encountered.

Our first stop was Boston, Massachusetts. As we disembarked from the bus and went into the bus depot, the first conversation I overheard went thus:

Police officer/ Security Guy: [Looking at a Buddhist monk who hurried past] Is that the Delei Lama? (Dalai Lama)
Woman standing nearby: I think so...Yeah, I think so. But I don't think he'd be taking a bus here....

They were both completely serious. So much for first impressions. My friend and I exchanged looks of horror - and burst out laughing.

Anyhow, after a series of subway transfers, we reached the Bed and Breakfast that we were to stay in, run by a gay couple well past their prime but still full of life and drive. I won't digress into the very interesting art work placed strategically all over their beautiful home. Suffice it to say that they had quite a collection of gay art. Bruce, one of the hosts, was a great cook and we had a merry Fourth of July dinner with all of their other guests and some neighbors. This was one of the more harmless pieces in my room (not the most incongruous, though)

Boston decided to put on the Fourth of July celebrations including a concert with The Beach Boys followed by fireworks on the 3rd July because of the impending Hurricane Arthur predicted to hit the next day. So we went and enjoyed the show (sidenote: they must have a huge budget for fireworks) and then got caught in a downpour that took everyone by surprise on that balmy summer evening. I had worn a thin cotton shirt which turned out to be quite see-through when soaking wet. I felt like a Hindi movie heroine of yesteryears when they would stand and sing songs under waterfalls to avoid charges of blatant nudity on screen. But I digress.

Harvard University, which is a short train ride from the heart of Boston, was everything and more that I had imagined it to be. The "more" because it was VERY touristy, complete with tour guides shepherding various groups all across the campus, a Scottish wedding party marching to the tunes of bagpipes, Harvard souvenirs in all imaginable shapes and sizes and forms - you get the picture. Here are some, anyway:

World Cup football (soccer here, arrgh!) fever riding high, we even took a moment to catch a game at a sports bar in Hahvahd. Which was pretty cool.


Of all the information crammed into our heads by the tour guide, the one (probably useless) tidbit that stands out is the fact that the face of Mr. Harvard in the statue above is not actually his, because there are no records to show what he actually looked like. It is said that the statue's face is modelled after a certain Leonard Hoar, who was an ex-President of the University. Most ex-Presidents and other important people are remembered at Harvard by having the residential houses named after them - for example, Lowell House, Adams House, Mather House, and so on. But to have a house named after Hoar was a bit of a problem. So they commemorated him in the face of the great late and faceless Mr. Harvard, who, by the way, was not the founder of the University. Hah.

Of Subways and Voices

(Note: One of the reasons I have deferred updating my blog for so long is the huge turn my life has taken as a result of relocating for a while to the United States, initially in New York City, the Big Apple, the City that Never Sleeps, the Capital of the World, etc etc. If I were to update my blog, it had of necessity to be of things in my everyday, personal experience, but there was also the fear of sounding like a travelogue; and I am most certainly not a travel writer. I forget to take note of important places, or things; when my wind wanders, I even occasionally ignore the landscape and wonders of nature that travel writers are so wonderful at describing. Here is my attempt at a more personal account of impressions and scenes imprinted in my mind rather than a detailed description of places and landmarks).

New York City. In the city that never sleeps, I never slept either. Or hardly did. First because of jet lag, and later on because of a combination of bad habits, genuine insomnia, and the sirens that would so often cut across the silence of the night with alarming insistence. I never did get used to the sirens. Police cars, ambulances, fire trucks, and the occasional car alarm. Upper Manhattan.

The boroughs of New York are connected with an impressive network of underground trains - the subway system - that take you almost anywhere you want to go, any time, night or day. Our train, the one that took us downtown, was the A train. Oh, the A train! What sights, and smells, and visions, and experiences I had on the A train. Let me leave it at that.

But what remains for me the essence of the city is the remarkable talent of the subway performers - singers, dancers, and musicians. Imagine walking for miles (because you got lost trying to reach your destination which googlemaps told you was a ten minute walk, but that is a different story), tired feet adding to your frustration. Imagine being all alone with not a single soul to talk to or even smile at (New Yorkers are paranoid that way); imagine waiting in a cold, damp, dirty underground station, hungry and burdened with baggage both emotional and physical; imagine traveling what seems an interminable distance in the train, eyes resolutely downcast or deliberately kept blank so that you are not caught looking at any of your fellow passengers - who by the way, are doing the same thing - eye contact must be avoided at all costs; imagine wondering to yourself if it's all worth it after all; and then imagine the most soulful, earthy, raw voice belting out a bluesy note that you recognize in the midst of all that, or a lone, melancholy violin wafting through the air, or even a group of particularly acrobatic band of young boys playing music and hanging upside down from the poles inside the compartment. It's a little piece of heaven; a reminder that there is beauty in the most squalid of places, a little nudge to let you know that you are not alone. It is art doing what it does best - elevating your soul and transporting you to the realm beyond the mundane. Cheers, you brave, unsung heroes!