Onwards, into the grey drizzle countryside that seemed to surround Lewiston. An endless suburban road lined with low, grey buildings leading eventually to our motel, where our accommodation was one of a cluster of semi-detached white painted cottages which looked like they’d been modelled on those barometers that are made to look like Swiss Chalets - the ones where a man or a woman pops out of two little doors to let you know whether it’s going to rain or shine. But if that was cute enough, then the introduction to mini Tootsie Rolls at the check-in was sensational.
However, the place was a way out of town and a bit damp. We decided to phone out for pizza which was a sensible if rather dispiriting choice: pizza around here seems to be of the doughy and cheesy variety, which rapidly looses appeal even when hungry. No fireworks visible to celebrate the 4th, and damp cycle clothes struggling to dry on the backs of chairs completes the scene. Goodnight John-boy, goodnight Edward & Ewa.
