I think the majority of New Englanders will recognize the bridge in the photo above immediately. It is the Piscataqua River Bridge that lets Interstate 95 cross from New Hampshire into Maine and has let millions of travelers completely dodge one of the deadliest traffic circles ever built and simultaneously bypass the city of Portsmouth, New Hampshire for almost 40 years. I have early childhood memories of traveling to New Hampshire and sitting in monstrous traffic jams as my father slowly inched our car through the traffic circle and then across the old drawbridge, praying that the bridge would not have to go up and delay our trip yet another half-hour. The new bridge opened the same year we moved to Maine and transformed the trip forever.
Since I was obviously not ON the bridge in that photo, you can make the (correct) assumption that I was standing down by the riverfront in Portsmouth, which was the destination for this latest roadtrip. Oh yes, I have not forgotten about the roadtrips. I am simply having a profound lack of motivation to do almost anything these days, including these little adventures. I probably wouldn’t have even done this one had my friend Tony not e-mailed with the suggestion that we meet up and explore together, then cross-post to one another’s blogs. Here, for the record, is Tony’s post, telling about the roadtrip from his perspective.
Because of its location at the mouth of the Piscataqua River, Portsmouth’s fame and fortune throughout its history came from shipbuilding. The rivers made it easy to ship lumber and other materials downstream to build new vessels, and the relative shelter from the tides and rough weather made it possible to bring in ships that needed repairs. The Portsmouth Naval Shipyard went into operation in 1800 and built ships and submarines until 1969, when it was converted into a service yard for the existing U.S. Navy Atlantic submarine fleet. The military extended its presence in the area with the construction of Pease Air Force Base in the 1950s. As a military town for two centuries and as a crossroad for nearly every vehicle traveling almost anywhere in New England, Portsmouth had an economic advantage that many other New England cities and towns did not when the milling and manufacturing industries left the region. The military cutbacks of the last couple of decades have taken their toll, but Portsmouth has done well where other New England towns shrivelled up and died.
Which is to say that, on the balance, Portsmouth is not just another shit hole like most places in New England. And that’s good, because, quite honestly, after visiting Pawtucket I don’t know if I could have borne another one. But, having spent quite a bit of time visiting Portsmouth over the years, I knew what I was in for ahead of time.
The rainy June weather cut us a bit of a break and let the sun shine most of the day. The humidity was still quite high, but a gentle breeze from the waterfront kept things from being too oppressive. I couldn’t find a parking spot in the lot where Tony and I agreed to meet, so I parked in the downtown garage and wandered over to a tchotchke shop I knew to hang out until his arrival. (Tony’s post details his travel difficulties in detail, so I will let you read about all that there) Portsmouth’s downtown is several blocks’ worth of shops, pubs, restaurants and such. Apparently every waterfront town in America was forced to convert their downtowns into these giant tourist traps sometime in the late 1970s because I have been in dozens of identical ones from Camden, Maine to Alexandria, Virginia. In many places, these waterfront tourist zones have become the last bastion of small, independent retail, since the traditional downtowns have all long since been destroyed by malls and Wal-Mart. It is this unique and usually decidedly local character of places like Portsmouth that makes the commonality of the experience worth doing regardless of the town, because it’s about the only way left to buy things that are special to the place from which they came.
So, as I said, I twiddled away in one of those stores that sells all the goofy crap that people decorate their cubicles with — wind-up toys, naughty refrigerator magnets, rubber dog turds, ironic action figures, that sort of stuff — and eventually wandered outside to see if I could snag some free WiFi for my iTouch to check my e-mail. Tony soon arrived and we strolled to see what there was to see.
Portsmouth’s waterfront is still a working waterfront for the most part, so we wandered past tarp-covered piles of materials, assorted construction projects in various states of completion, a bit of road work, and not much else until we managed to find our way all the way down to the river’s edge. One particular attraction of downtown Portsmouth is Strawbery Banke, a museum focusing on the local history of Portsmouth, with an emphasis on the Colonial period. Having just returned from our vacation to Washington DC and Williamsburg, Virginia, I wasn’t really all that keen on investing the several hours needed to do yet another historical village. Instead, we headed back up toward Market Square and the shops.
As we wandered, we came across a sign for the “Portsmouth Museum of Fine Art” in front of a building that otherwise appeared to be office space. Neither of us knew that Portsmouth *had* a fine arts museum, so we investigated, only to discover that it really didn’t have one…yet.
Tucked into the corner of the front of the building, the museum was just a couple of days from its opening. It seemed an odd location, but from what was possible to see through the door, the space wasn’t really much bigger than an art gallery. I was actually a bit disappointed, because some of the promotional material in the lobby hinted that the first exhibition they plan to feature is going to be good. I snagged a quick snapshot of the “go away!” sign, but forgot to turn off my flash, which attracted the interest of a woman inside the space. She came out of the door and seemed like she wasn’t particularly happy to see us there, taking pictures of her sign. We muttered through some sort of an excuse and walked away.
By this point we were both warm, hungry and thirsty, so for lunch we agreed upon a barbecue place I’d walked by earlier. There was no shortage of places to choose from, to be sure, but I usually prefer to try places that seem like they might have a little originality to them, and Tony and I had recently been comparing notes about several barbecue places we like in our respective locales. The place was called Muddy River Smokehouse, and seemed to have all the requisite trappings of a decent barbecue joint — beer signs, posters for live blues music, etc. — so we walked in. It was mostly dark, with the bar up front and a few tables in the back. Things were clean and it didn’t look like any chairs had been busted over anyone’s head, and there was light jazz on the stereo, so it obviously wasn’t a real dive barbecue joint, but it is a tourist town after all.
The waitress had a great sense of humor and we kidded a bit about how much Diet Pepsi she should bring me. I knew she was a good one when she brought out TWO large glasses of DP just for me. I drained one almost instantly. The menu had all the usual offerings for the meat dishes. Tony went with a brisket and sausage combo plate, while I ordered just the brisket. For my money, the brisket is the real test of whether a place makes good barbecue or not. Too many places serve brisket that is too fatty and greasy and has a stringy texture. Good brisket has been adequately defatted and has been smoked all the way, not wet-cooked. Though not the absolute best brisket I’ve ever had, my sandwich was definitely way above average, with enough meat piled on that I didn’t even try to pick it up to eat.
The real highlight of the meal, though, was the fried pickles. Half-sour chips dipped in batter and deep fried and served with a spicy remoulade on the side. Pickles are a typical barbecue side, but most places just serve the 5-gallon-bucket variety. One place I like in my neck of the woods makes their own pickles, which are truly superior. This, however, was the first time I’d ever seen fried pickles on a menu, and the waitress vouched for them, so I ordered them. The batter *almost* overwhlems the pickle chips, but just enough of the pickle flavor comes through to make it work. The spicy dip did indeed kill any pickle flavor, so after trying a few that way, I stuck to eating them plain. You can’t eat many because of the deep fried batter — Tony and I together could not finish the app, though we did eat almost all of the app he ordered (chicken breast pieces wrapped in bacon and fried).
Satisfied with lunch, we wandered a little more, and we began to gripe that there really wasn’t much else besides shopping. As the words were leaving our mouths, though, we spotted a sign next to a large yellow house a couple of blocks down that said “Portsmouth Historical Society”.
As we came up to the house, we spotted this plaque identifying it as the “John Paul Jones House”. Well, that bore looking into, so we popped in. The woman tending the lobby offered some explanation: the house had not been owned by John Paul Jones, the famous naval captain of the Revolutionary War. Rather, he had roomed in the house for a period of months while his ship U.S.S. Ranger was repaired and then again while waiting for another ship to be built. The second ship was given to France upon completion as part of war debt repayments, so Jones never sailed in it, and shortly thereafter he left the United States and went to serve in the Russian Navy. However, the local historical society had used this somewhat tenuous connection to Jones to have the building designated a landmark and they use it as a small museum.
The first level of the house featured some furniture and artwork of the Revolutionary period such as these matching portraits of the owner of the house and his wife, but the featured exhibit was a collection of cross-stitch samplers sewed by Portsmouth girls. Some samplers dated back to the mid-1700s, while others were as late as the mid-1800s, but all were actual pieces made by girls aged 8-14 as part of their education as future housewives.
The second level had one very large room dedicated entirely to an exhibit about the “Treaty of Portsmouth” that negotiated peace between Russia and Japan after their brief war in 1904 over disputed territories in Northeast Asia. The treaty negotiations were held in Portsmouth at the behest of President Theodore Roosevelt and were hailed at the time as a sign of the emergence of the United States as a major world power. Because the major European powers had been accused of meddling in the war, Roosevelt seized on the opportunity to promote the United States as a neutral party and to enhance his own personal presence on the world stage. So, during the summer of 1904, Russian and Japanese delegations ensconced themselves in Portsmouth, and formal negotiations were held at the naval facility.
Most of us learn about the Russo-Japanese War in passing during our school years, and mostly only because of Roosevelt and the treaty. This exhibit, thusly, increased my own personal knowledge about the specifics of the war and the endless details about the treaty conference on the order of several hundredfold. It was a huge feather in the cap of the mayor of the time, who had persuaded TR that Portsmouth was a perfect location, and was treated by the locals much like a Hollywood movie shoot is treated today, with reports of the comings and going of the delegates like sightings of Brangelina. A bit too much breathless reporting for my taste, but it was interesting to see how little media coverage has actually changed in that regard.
Tearing ourselves away from that exhibit, we walked into the next room to be greeted by a “lifelike” mannequin dressed as John Paul Jones himself, and a few objects associated with his stay — the desk he used, the bed he slept in, some decorative panels. In truth, they don’t have much and are just hoping they’ve dazzled you with the other stuff in the museum so that you won’t notice. I’ve been in a lot of museums like that, actually.
We concluded our afternoon with a refreshing beverage at a sidewalk table of a local cafe, watching the other tourists amble around. In recent years, Tony and I don’t see each other very often, and when we do it is usually in the context of some other event or in the company of our families, so it was nice to have the chance to sit and talk for a bit. Just as we were about ready to part company, the sky clouded up and began to sprinkle a little rain, which seemed all too likely a sign that it was time to go.
