Burlington Trip June 3-8, 2017 (or “The Unreadable Letter”)

Preface: I write this after reading how one person wished their grandmother had kept a “travel log” of sorts instead of merely taking pictures of her travels. The grandmother had since passed, and the grandchild wished they could get inside her head (hopefully not literally) and read something written by her. So, alas, here is travel log from Elias Pasquerillo, June 2017

Pt I: Ain’t Too Proud to Beg


4 June 2017: Poison Ivy Blues…A Rebirth

     I finally rolled into town at 2:30pm, and the drive took half past an eternity because the more excited I grew the more time became dilated until at one point it seemed I had 44 miles left for what seemed like hours, but I digress. Eventually the constantly stretching line of time took a bite out of its own tail and the cyclical nature finally led me to this goddamn city. First task was find a place for my goddamn car. The Devil IS in the details and I Was staring lucifer right in his eyes. Burlington University parking lot had a cop in it (the paranoia was beginning to set in…not sure why) so that was a bust. The place where I was to tent illegally was behind a legitimate campground’s fence and so I had to try to sneak around but alas it seems half the “roads” in Burlington on google maps are actually solely for bikes. What resulted was me parking a 20-minute bike-ride away (thank you Seth, for knowing the spot) and moseying my way by bike to try to find a spot to set up camp. Well, I found a spot, but then I had to go back and get my tent from my car. But during this process:

This city makes me so happy. Biking on the bike trails by Lake Champlain is a treat. I feel like I’m actually a people person and the amount of smiles on that bike trail is wonderful (not to talk about the number of dogs and happy couples with their happy kids). And dear god the people are so attractive here. How can I return to Maine after all this? Who knows. I’ve done it so many times before…Everyone appears so inviting.

But after the nice bike ride I am forced to drive my car to the spot where google maps tells me I will end up but instead I end up at the end of a closed road. I begin to walk with my tent (I had left my car back in town, where my car was parked). I am at once enraged and excited as I walk along the bike path into the woods. I quickly realize it will not be the best spot where I will end up but the first spot I find. Well, I find a spot and walk into it headfirst, under tree branches and over ferns. I find a nice clearing and look down to find I’m in a goddamn swarm of poison ivy and I’m wearing my shorts. Toss it up as a failure. I end up having to walk back through the poison ivy just to get out of there. I drive my car back to its original spot, defeated, knowing I will have to sleep in the backseat of my car. I call my mom, she tells me poison ivy isn’t so bad (I was imagining me walking the streets of Burlington as the swamp monster covered in dried pus and tears). I finally ride my bike back to Burlington, buy some calamine lotion, and then buy an Arizona Iced Tea and then a Miller Lite, empty the Arizona Iced Tea and fill it with the Miller Lite. I walk up and down the street and varying shades of gray clouds fill the sky. There is a band at one end of the street comprised of high schoolers and their music is of an advanced civilization’s (and many of the pieces are originals, Jesus, who are these kids? Who am I, for that matter?…turns out it was the UArt Pennsylvania’s jazz band, and they’re all graduate students).

I listen for a short while more (God, they were so good) and resolve to bring my laptop back to my car, as it appears it will be raining soon. Before I do, I walk to the end of Church street and see a band setting up (the stages are outside). African drums, instruments I haven’t seen before, these guys look cool. After finally finding my bike on Church street I wonder if I shouldn’t just stay and put my backpack down while I listen. The rain would absolutely kill it and everything in it so I decide to ride my bike back. I finish off the Miller Lite and throw the can in recycling.

Once again, some of the most wonderful bike riding I’ve ever done. I put everything, save wallet, smokes, keys, in my car and bike back. I come back to the stage and on stage Sabouyouma was in full effect. There were two balafon players (balafon is like a wooden xylophone), a guitarist, tenor saxophonist, man playing a drum set, two men on African drums, and a man playing keys. The balafon player on the right had freshly recovered from chicken pox and near-deadly viral pneumonia three days prior to the show. He was from Papua New Guinea. He had a voice like a lion.

At first, most members of the crowd were maybe swaying back and forth or bobbing around, with a few putting a little more into it. One of those was a young woman (20) in blue-flowery pants and a belly-shirt with Nicaragua printed on the front. Well she was hopping around and getting into it, and so I did too. The music was just too good and I began feeding off her energy. A taller man (26) entered the scene and talked with the woman, shared some laughs, and began dancing too. There were a few children dancing their little hearts out, and I commented to a man beside me, “Young kids have such a natural swagger.”

He replied, “There’s just no pressure to be anything other than a kid.”

I said, “True. But we used to have that swagger. Where did it go?”

He said he didn’t know, but that maybe it could be found again.

I continued dancing, eventually making a few lighthearted comments to the taller man dancing beside the girl. He introduced himself as Austin, and he told me he was a street performer here in Burlington (a juggler). We keep dancing, talk some more, and then I meet the girl, Kelly, and these people are really cool. We dance under the gray sky for over an hour. Eventually the whole crowd is really getting into it, and man does it feel good. The style of music was some of the happiest music I’ve ever heard, truly. After the last song, Austin asks what I’m up to (“nothing”) and he invites me to join them to the Farmhouse (a restaurant and bar) where his friend is playing. Austin, Kelly, Kelly’s two friends (Ava and Katie), and I embark towards the bar and I’m feeling really good. (After I told them I was sleeping in my car that night Austin told me I could crash at his place.)

We get to the bar, and the band is a three piece (drumset, upright bass, piano) playing jazz versions of songs most of us all know, and man they are really killing it. They’re playing in a spot out back, which is outside, where there are a few picnic tables, a lounge area, and a small bar. I meet Ava and Katie and we talk about cooking. Austin knows the drummer of the band. They do a jazz version of Blackbird (the piano being the nice Nord stage 3 keyboard, sounding half between an electric piano and classic). They stretch Blackbird into a 4 minute jam piece. We all talk more, I get the Citizen Unified Press cider, and after an hour Katie, Ava, and Kelly are getting ready to leave. As they stand up, the band starts playing Aphex Twin’s Avril 14th and this immediately causes the women to sit back down. They finish the song. While Kelly and Austin are talking I get to learn about Katie and Ava’s backpacking trip through Europe (Ava was over there for 8 months, Katie 6, and they would meet up every once in a while). We talked about our plans for the future, how cool the jazz festival is, and an interesting piece about best friends. It appears when you’re out with a best friend, you’re much less likely to strike up conversation with someone new. We reasoned it was because when you’re with your best friend, most other people cannot simply compare to the magnificence of your best friend, so why even bother? This may be true, but it then introduces the idea that best friends may be limiting, and in a broader sense, that comfort may be limiting.

They head out, and Austin and I are left chilling with our drinks as the band plays. We go up afterwards and tell them how great they were. Turns out this was the first time they had all played together in a live setting after some practice. The keyboardist from a distance looked very young, but when I asked him how long he had been playing he told me he had started in high school, but now he had gray hairs, “I’m old.” He told me.

Austin gives me his address, and we resolve to meet there, because I have to go ride my bike to my car and then move my car to his apartment. He meets me out back as I’m gathering my belongings to bring inside. He saw his friend Jordan on his walk back and now Jordan’s hanging with us too. I ask if he’s from the area and he tells me, “Yes, I’m from New York” which makes me realize that in Burlington, New York is “from the area”. We go inside and tune up a few guitars and start playing them. Turns out Austin has been playing drums since he was 12, and he can work a snare and brushes like no other. I offer to play an original song, and I hit ‘em with Tents. I really love sharing that song with people, and after I’m finished it’s dead silence. “Wow, man.” Jordan says. I offer the guitar to either one of them and Austin says, “Yeah, I’m going to need a minute after that one.”

Language can be so limiting when it comes to communicating. We all know this. For example, I know I can never truly say to my mother how much she means to me. True communication comes through words and actions, and I have found that writing songs to communicate ideas and feelings is really powerful. With the right chords, rhythm, and notes, I can communicate all those feelings behind the words. That’s why I love Tents so much.

A sticker framed on Austin’s wall

Jordan heads out around 10:45pm. Austin and I stay up for a while discussing the area, how he likes it, how he feels comfortable here. We talk about Sabouyouma. I ask how Kelly and he met. He tells me he was juggling down by the waterfront one day and Kelly came down and sat nearby and so Austin rolled a ball in her direction and struck up conversation. Cool!

He heads to bed. I will give him a ride in the morning. I unfurl my sleeping bag and sleep on the carpet.

5 June 2017: A New Hope

I awake, feeling great. Austin is in the bathroom showering, and I roll up my sleeping bag, drink some water, brush my teeth (I actually flossed too). I ask if Austin got enough sleep, “No. But that’s ok.” Yesterday he told me he gets at least 9 hours of sleep a night. Wow.

We head out, and talk about where I grew up (Monroe and Hermon). Austin works at a sign shop, but the boss is in Italy, and has been for a few weeks now (he left after a huge project). Austin is left to try to find work, contacting various businesses now that there’s some free time at the workshop. I ask him if he has any recommendations on where I should go.

“What’re you looking for?”

“I want a spot where I can set up and do some writing.”

“Oh, cool,” he says, “if you want a café with a nice design, something or other is your best bet. But, if you’re looking for a more homey, cozy environment, Muddy Waters if your best bet.”

“Yeah! That sounds awesome!”

“Also, I recommend Myers Bagel Shop. They soak the dough in honey water before baking it. Try the Montreal Spice.”

“Shit, man. That sounds good.”

I drop him off and drive back to my trusted parking spot, ride my bike to Myer’s, and goddamn this bagel is good (Montreal spice, toasted, with vegetable cream cheese). I sip decaf coffee (caffeine makes me lymph nodes swell) and type away…


I bike back downtown. The weather is gray but it isn’t raining… yet. I decide to go to the Echo museum by the lake for the day. While at the bagel place I found a free mountain-biking trip for later in the day put on by Outdoor Gear Exchange, and I can’t wait. I am still amazed by the events of the previous night and already this trip has been worth the time.

I walk into the Echo museum and see a student deal ($2 off).

Man, mid-50s: “Hey there, can I help you?”

“Sure. The student deal, is that just for Vermont students, or any student?”

“Well, where do you go?”


(Hands man my Mainecard)

“Ah, well, Maine, I don’t know. Don’t want to be getting too friendly with them.”

“You’re right, I understand. Whatever you feel is best.”

“Nah, I’m just kidding. I’m actually a Maine-iac (like maniac) myself. Are you a Maine-iac too?”

“Yes! Grew up in Hermon.”

“Oh I know Hermon, great.”

“Yeah, and I played in the UMaine pep band for my four years there.”

“Oh cool. But you’re still a student there?” (Man winks, I realize my slip-up)

“Oh of course!”

“Great, $14.50.”

I walk in and suddenly find myself surrounded by children, children’s parents, everyone running around and screaming. Screaming, yelling, throwing their hands in the air! Hands pressed on glass. Tiny humans running around playing at the small laboratory experiments they have set up for the children, checking out the fish, having a great time. In front of a green screen three men, aged 7, are giving a weather report to the local news. It’s pure insanity. One boy has a pick-axe.

The fish are great: great catfish, fish with dumb faces. The American bullfrog has an external eardrum, and the males have eardrums larger than their eyes, the females have eardrums a similar size to their eyes. I discover this place may be more for children than 23-year old childless males. However, the little labs are fun and I partake in a few. Many young children say, “Hello” to me, which makes me happy. I walk outside after spending a half-hour inside. I feel minorly defeated. I decide to walk back inside. When I walked in the first time I was too nervous to walk inside the butterfly tent, but with my newfound defeat I need to rally to make these 14 dollars and 50 cents worth it. The butterfly tent is a nice 60% humidity, 70 degrees. Inside are 200 butterflies, consisting of 25 different species. One moth, the atlas moth, is beautiful but the male develops no mouth when it matures, so it only lives for maybe a week and a half. “Yeah, every morning I come in the first thing I do is pick up all the dead butterflies.” The man working inside tells us. Maybe that’s symbolic, but probably not.

After the butterfly tent I bike back into rainy rainy downtown Burlington to a café named “Muddy Waters”. On this chilly day I get a hot cider with a cinnamon stick submerged in the soft yellow. I sit at a spot by the window facing the street and read my Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail by Hunter S. Thompson before writing another scene for Parties. In this scene, Diane is meeting with Matthew for the first time after the incident and I think I crafted a realistic dialogue for them both. People under umbrellas walk outside past the window. The soft sprinkle of water and the gray skies send the people inward, looking mostly downward while thinking about something (how I wish I knew what that something was). A man beside me is reading a book in Spanish, and writing in a Moleskine notebook. The people here are beautiful. They all look unique. There’s a message on the facebook page for the mountain biking trip: “Cancelled due to inclement weather.” Inclement weather be damned, this is the perfect weather for a mountain bike excursion.

read it

The weekend before this one I went to a music festival put on by my friend’s family. The festival was called Stetstock, and I met Brandon and Delilah (boyfriend, girlfriend), both from Burlington, there. I mentioned I was going to be in the area the following weekend and Brandon offered an invitation to come hang. Brandon was working security at Bonnaroo so he was out of town, but he messaged me and said Delilah would be around. I had barely talked to Delilah but I messaged her on Facebook about hanging and she was down. She got out of work at 3, so I told her whenever she’s around let me know!

I finished my cider, and biked over to Delilah’s around 4. We hung out at her house for a bit, but she was exhausted due to driving Brandon into the airport at 5am, and then working 11-3. She’s a laid-back person, very calm and calming. She fire-hooped at Stetstock. On the walls are countless pieces of posters; art (Pink Floyd, Grateful Dead, Dali, a tiger). Brandon has a ton of cool books, including one of my favorites Acid Dreams (Lee). Delilah and I talk about books, where she went to school, what her plans were. She had gone to UVM for environmental sciences but none of the work she would be doing seemed to have any direct impact on the climate (longitudinal studies spanning many years) and so she moved to mechanical engineering. She wanted to build things that helped the environment, but within a year she realized it truly wasn’t for her (but she could do it, we talked about calculus and 3D modeling for a while). Now, she will be going to a place in South Burlington for welding, where she retains the dream to apply her skills to help the environment.

Before Brandon and Delilah knew each other, Delilah’s mother had gone to a music festival where Brandon was working security. Her mom being the person she is, she struck up conversation at one point with Brandon and ended up talking with him for quite a while. Upon learning that he lived in Burlington, her mom told her to meet this sweet young man. And she did. And here they are. I thought that was a really cute story.

“So, it’s kind of like my mom set us up.” She concludes, with a smile.

She plays guitar, trombone, and trumpet. We agree that going to see one of the middle school bands playing tonight would be fun, and that we’ll have spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. Jesus, and I thought I was going to be eating Progresso soup from the can all week. My main plan has quickly become a backup plan (sleeping in car, eating nothing but turkey and cheese sandwiches for lunch, cold soup for dinner, turning into the famed-but-never-loved swamp-monster of Lake Champlain).

We head out to get groceries. Delilah’s a fast walker and I respect with given my background as a door-to-door political canvasser.

We make a lot of spaghetti, objectively too much. Delilah is tired, and it’s starting to show. We walk to where the middle school jazz band will be playing and make it a few songs before Delilah’s pooped out. She feels bad and keeps apologizing but she has no idea how much she’s contributing to the cool-ness and uniqueness of this trip. We resolve to get Ben & Jerry’s and head back to the house. She heads to bed and I walk toward Nectar’s, where an “Anti-jazz fest” metal show will be taking place. On my walk there down the cool streets I hear my name yelled from across the street. It’s Katy and Ava, so I run across the street and see what they’re up to.

“We’re going to the Lamp Shop for a show.” Katy says.

So we walk off to the Lamp Shop club where a jazz quartet is playing. It’s called the Lamp Shop club because there are perhaps 300 light fixtures of all sorts in that goddamn place.

I light-heartedly learn that Ava is always “scheming” to some extent, that mild-mannered Ava will generally be hatching some nefarious plan throughout her day. When Ava launches into one of these schemes, Katy is left to simply improvise and play along, completely unprepared. They’re funny people, and I hate saying that without providing a well-written proof, but this is just a travel log and not a short story so I will skip the “good parts” that makes something worth reading.

Afterwards, I make it to the metal show to see Lightcrusher. They’re intense, with a great vocalist. The people there all look super tough, but I still have a good time. Sometimes at these hardcore shows I feel out of place, and that puts out of sorts. Here is no different. I don’t know why I have this inferiority complex based on the appearance of things. Oh well. I am tired and do not socialize. I paid $3 to get in so I figure I will stay the entire show. After Lightcrusher is Surf Sabbath, and the band comes out in dark hooded cloaks and long-hair wigs. They’re all wearing dark wayfarer sunglasses. They play surf-arrangements of Black Sabbath songs, and it’s one of the silliest things I’ve ever seen. (They remind me of a great surf-band I saw at Burlington a few years earlier, The High Breaks, and I later find out Surf Sabbath is just The High Breaks in cloaks playing Sabbath tunes).

The show was worth staying for, and I stumble home and crash hard into Delilah’s couch.

6 June 2017 Tuesday: The Parade Continues…

By some stroke of luck I wake up. It was dark in the living room. The weather is gray and rainy once more, so I fall back asleep. Later, I walk to the fridge and stick a fork into a cold meatball and eat it on the couch.

I trip out to Uncommon Grounds and order a decaf coffee and a sweet almond cake (cake & meatballs for breakfast…a new low…). The atmosphere is inviting, the cake wonderful, Fear and Loathing masterful. I spend a long time in there just reading, and after I go to the church where a middle school jazz band is playing. One of the saxophone players is a young girl whose instrument is maybe three-quarters her height. When she stands up and solos she gets really into it. It’s adorable. The band is super talented for a middle school band.

Afterwards, the rain is still coming down hard and I try Top of the Block for a sandwich. I order the Howard, which is a toasted-wheat sandwich with turkey, provolone cheese, Cole slaw, and thousand-island dressing. Masterful, life-changing, visceral, the sandwich takes me on a trip through space and time from the depths of the pyramids circa 2500 B.C. to the reaches of Stellagardarnia’s twin 90-mile-high gamma-probing towers circa 3016. It’s just raining. There’s not much to do. Walking around in the rain makes me sad, and gets water droplets on my goddamn glasses.

I return to Delilah’s, where she is doing a beautiful rendition of Jack Johnson’s “Banana Pancakes”. I don’t interrupt her, simply sit and listen. Her voice is wonderful. We jam for a while, learning Neutral Milk Hotel’s “King of Carrot Flowers Pt. 1” (but not part 2, I love you Jesus Christ) and then Bowie’s “Starman”.  I inform Delilah that Sabouyouma is playing tonight at Nectar’s, and she’s down to go!

We head down to the bar around 5:30pm. There are only 15 or so people inside, including Sabouyouma, which means we’re able to get real close and afterwards talk to the members. One of the drummers is blind in one eye.

I am now typing this account more than a week since the events transpired, so I may write more summarily just to get this piece of work finished.

Kelly’s friends Ava and Katy invited me out to Radio Bean to see a band called Honky Tonk. I love all music so I say why noy, and upon arriving there a man is playing guitar in the neighboring spot (Lamp Shop) while Honky Tonk sets up. The guitarist plays so quietly, and sings so quietly, that you can only hear him if no one in the club is talking, and the club is entirely silent save his performance. I envy his deeper, more resonant voice. The crowd loves him, and he seems like a friendly guy, a local who has many friends that frequent his shows. I go next door (Radio Bean) and Honky Tonk is underway. The band is comprised of a lead (electric, Telecaster) guitarist, an acoustic guitarist, an upright-bassist, a lap steel guitarist, and a drummer. They are all dressed up like some upstanding southern gentlemen, and after about the third song they invite a woman onstage named Mia to sing with them. Katy and two of her friends (no Ava) arrive and I catch up with them between songs. In one song, written by Mia, she is talking about how she needs a “real man” to love, and at one part in the chorus I hear her sing, “…Well buy me an ounce, and fancy clothes” and assume she means ounce of weed. I think this is the coolest song, despite the rest of it not sitting well with me, until the final chorus when I realize she’s saying “house” and not “ounce” so I’m kind of bummed but the musicianship was wonderful.

Midway through the show, I skedaddle on over to Nectar’s to catch “Deadset,” a Grateful Dead cover band that plays every Tuesday (which Delilah has been ranting about all day). I am exhausted at this point. The music is wonderful but I feel shy and don’t socialize with anyone other than Delilah during the show.  At around 1:30AM Delilah and I meander back to her place and I crash (hard). In the few minutes before I fall asleep, the ringing in my ears is so pronounced that my brain starts to imagine its own music as I drift off to sleep.



7 June 2017: A knocking at the door…rum cake diaries…topless sunbather, Jesus, the Holy Ghost…Frisbee in the park…

Wake to a rapping at the door. Thud thud thudthudthud…I hear Delilah scramble from her bed and walk to open the door. “Hey there, I’m Phil, here to work on the bathtub?”

“Sure, sure, come on in.”

Phil is an older man, and walks in carrying a toolbox. I’m on the couch in the living room and I feel the need to act like I have been awake since a responsible hour (it is now 9:30 AM) so I try to read some Thompson while lying down but my eyes just aren’t working right. I finally manage to sit myself upright and can stomach some of the book. Delilah makes some coffee and offers to a gracious Phil.

He leaves eventually and by then I am upright. It is an absolutely gorgeous day. With newfound life, I return to Uncommon Grounds for rum cake, coffee, and more Thompson. The air is warm, and all around me are people celebrating the sun. I make small talk with a few people at the café, and then move on to my car to retrieve my skateboard. The skateboarding is wonderful. I ride down to the waterfront and contemplate trying out the skatepark but I have no helmet or protective gear and am also generally bad at things (I haven’t seriously skateboard, like with tricks, since I was maybe 13). On my excursion along the (paved) waterfront trail, there are two women lying out in the sun. However, one of them is topless and lying on her back. These people have waited so goddamn long for a sunny day they’re losing their damn minds. Great.

I go downtown and buy some Ben & Jerry’s, sit on Church street and listen to a middle school band, walk to a bar by another stage that has outdoor seating, am blinded by sun, order a beer, sit outside and listen. I walk back to the mainstage and along the way I find Kelly walking in an exact straight line down the center of Church Street.



“What’re you up to?”

“I’m walking along this line of gray bricks,”

Which makes me laugh, and then, “I’m almost done!”

“Do you work today at all?”


“Want to throw some disc?”

“Hell yeah! Let me just finish this first.”

She runs the final twenty feet of gray bricks and scurries back.”

We catch up. I tell her about everything since I last saw her. We find ourselves in City Hall park on this beautiful day. There are people sitting on the edge of the fountain with their legs in the water. There are plenty more people sitting on benches, or on the grass. We start tossing throughout the small park (which is pleasantly shaded due to the fair number of trees), and Kelly offers to play a game that is a mix between “ninja” and “ultimate frisbee”. In the game ninja, players stand in a circle and go around trying to get each other out. When it’s your turn, you have one move to try to hit another person’s hand to get them out. If you are the one being targeted, you get to try to dodge the move (considered a “defense move”). So, Kelly and I toss the frisbee, only we are freezing in place each time after we throw it. When it’s thrown to one of us, we can do what is necessary to catch it, but it’s encouraged to be one fluid motion. What results is many throws from a prone position, many from a one-footed balanced position, etc. Four others join in, and they’re super friendly. After the game, one of them offers us to join them in kayaking, but obviously I have no kayak so I am forced to turn them down.

After all this, Kelly goes to get something to eat, and I go back to Delilah’s for some food. I bike over to Winooski, where Sabouyouma is playing a show in the middle of “Rotary Park” at 6pm. Rotary park is, as the name suggests, a fairly large park in the center of a two-lane rotary. The music is once again amazing, and I develop a small crush on the 30-something female balafon player.

I bike back downtown Burlington to try to catch Austin’s juggling street performance, but I just miss him (due to accidentally entering a labyrinth of one-way streets leading me further and further from downtown). Austin is with his friend Mike, another juggler, and we go juggle in City Hall park. He gives me a newbie lesson, and after an hour of trying I can almost juggle three balls. It feels good to work at something I am so inexperienced at. Three men walking by join in the juggling too. After twenty minutes or so, a police officer walks up to our circle.

“Hey, I think can do three.” He says, right before juggling three balls.

“Juggle your guns!” Austin says.

The police officer makes small talk relating to juggling and then walks off.

Though we want to continue hanging out, Austin has work in the morning, and so we part ways.

Delilah has been riding her bike with her friend all afternoon, and when I text her at 9pm she tells me she’s at a sports bar. “Is it worth checking out?” I text her.

“Yeah! The music’s about to start!”

So I bike down to Ruben James where I meet her really cool friend Brian, who is the manager at the Ahli Baba’s Kebob Shop in town. Talking to him is easy and we watch San Francisco play Cleveland (basketball, SF won). I offer to buy things to make salad, and meet back at Delilah’s with all the ingredients. Delilah fries the chicken and we make a delightful midnight Caesar salad. After two bowls, I am stuffed, and then head to bed.

8 June 2017: A return home…

Another quick run to Uncommon Grounds (why not) and I’m off to hit the road! Before I leave, I hug Delilah and thank her for the hospitality and tell her how I owe so much of the enjoyment of this trip to her.

On the drive home, James Comey is testifying to congress, McCain is on another bender, and the weather is sunny.

If you made it to this far, I love you, and bless your heart.

Until next time I remain,

Elias Matthew-James Pasquerillo

(Published 13 June 2017 from a “Coffee by Design” in Portland, ME)


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