A very nice run through Vermont on highway 7 heading south, along the corner of New Hampshire and into Massachusetts. All went really well until I ran into Worcester.

Nearly all day I floated past almost perfect shaker style houses of Vermont, manicured villages of Mass. It lulled me into a false alternate reality, to be slapped in the face when  confronted with the housing blocks of North Worcester – no windows, lost people sitting around on the steps, shuffling up and down the grimy streets. Creativity bursting out all over the graffiti walls, girls walk out in front of the motorcycle, attempting to stop me, angry that I dared to drive through their district. The bike wallowed along the worn highway and poorly signposted route – eventually I escaped back to the make-believe world of the southern outskirts.

Worcester Mass. –  not Montreal, where the rich tourists outnumbers the poor sitting on the park benches.

Back up onto the motorway and we are back to $199 a night hotel rooms.

I’ll take my tent.


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