Traffic up North stinks. I blame their Departments of Transportation for everything that happened negatively on the road between Bennington and Bar Harbor, whether it is construction or volume that makes the trip longer than I would like.

	"Why does this map show Maine in Canada?"

8 a.m. - Up by 6:45 and out by 8, we turn further northeast towards Bar Harbor, Maine, adjacent to Acadia National Park.

With two vehicles, me and Dad ride in his Jeep, and Danielle chills with Pat in her Sebring. To get there we go up, around, over and under Vermont via Rt. 9, dip south into northern Massachusetts, skirt Boston up to New Hampshire, pass through Portland and take a right at Bangor (Bangor? I hardly know her!). See? It's just right around the corner.

	"Bullwinkle, is that a Jeep headed for us?"

Rant: Northern interstates trick you. Signs tell you that a gas station and restaurant can be found at the next one, but in reality they are sometimes miles away! Down South if the station or fast food joint isn't within 500 yards of the exit - with a sign clearly visible from the highway - then nobody will ever visit it. Who wants to search for something that is supposed to be convenient?

The ramps on and off the interstates are even more puzzling. I have a feeling that most of them were designed by the same guy who drew the illusion of the stairs that go everywhere but end up nowhere.

11:30 a.m. - Getting off in Portsmouth, New Hampshire (motto: "We don't put anything on the signs because we'd rather you not get off the highway.") we drive a couple of miles before turning around when the Mexican joint we decide to stop at isn't open yet, circling a roundabout and ending up at a place called Bickford's next to a hotel. At least it was quick so we could get back on the road to Maine (motto: "Hi! Did you forget about us?").

Following an incident with a disgruntled customer at the restaurant - and a few later in Boston - I have realized a big difference between Northerners and Southerners on the trip. Northerners will speak up very quickly when they notice an injustice, and consider it their sworn duty to let the people know that they feel slighted by poor service or rude behavior. Whereas Southerners like me will be upset by the offense, but keep our mouths shut and still act politely in an effort to appear civil, accepting the disservice and grumbling to ourselves and/or to our companions later.

Many a snappy remark I made went to Dad, Danielle and Pat, never the one who actually deserved it. I don't think either way is necessarily better, just a different culture.

3:30 p.m. - The house we rented at The Bayview in Bar Harbor is. ... well, I think my expression was: "Jackpot!" Homies, if this were 'Yo! MTV Raps', I would say it is da bomb! It's phat! Word!

Our favorite hangout is quickly established on the deck overlooking Frenchman Bay. The house itself contained two bedrooms, two bathrooms and a loft overlooking every room (that's where I crashed on one of the twin beds and frequently used the table by the stairs), and we even had a breakfast nook. I always wanted a nook. Makes up for never getting nookie.

	Oh, yes, it is now officially a vacation.

I suspect that the house is haunted, though, since twice the door to the downstairs laundry room/bathroom closed by itself. Can't blame the guy (or gal), since I wouldn't be too eager to move on from such a happening pad, either.

You'd think being in Stephen King's home state in a dark and creaky house would be a bit scary, but nothing compares to the shock of walking up the stairs and looking to the right only to find your Dad sprawled across the bed reading the paper while Danielle sits at the edge giving him a pedicure. *shudder* I still get chills.

6 p.m. - We walk the mile into Bar Harbor for dinner at Maggie's (the restaurant, not Maggie's home), which as was typical of the trip, being an expensive place for vittles. I had Salmon With Many Fancy Words Behind It (some sort of butter and veggies, I think) and even worse still felt hungry because of the energy expended in ripping apart the crazy-glued bread.

The menu says that "Ninety-percent of the restaurants in Bar Harbor don't use local fish. They use Canadian fish." I'm not sure what the difference is, unless the fish are reeled in wearing Mountie hats and asking: "What's all this aboot? Why you picking on me, eh?"

Danielle was regretful that a popular Bennington diner had - literally - 100 varieties of pancakes, yet not one that she saw or picked had blueberries. But no despair, as Maine loves it blueberries. Not five minutes after turning onto Carriage Street on the walk to dinner, we see a restaurant to our left with a blue neon sign announcing that they serve Blueberry Pancakes, and every place has blueberry something. I'll pass on the blueberry corn dogs.

9 p.m. - Dad, Danielle and I lazed about watching "Big Brother 2" (here's hoping Will can win since at least he's honest, and that whiny crybaby Bunky leaves soon). I miss "Junkyard Wars" on TLC, though. Too bad, since this week the teams are building Scud missiles from a '65 Mustang.

	"Brrr...this is awesome!"

Meanwhile, Pat spends an hour or so on the deck lying on a deck chair wrapped under a blanket, enjoying the cool breeze coming off the water and the dark darkness of it all. It's always nice to be somewhere on vacation away from city lights where the sky is actually black. You know, the kind of place that you hear on Art Bell people calling from after seeing strange lights in the sky.

Being the journalist I am, however, watching the news now and then I couldn't help but hark back to the last two years on our vacations, expecting a major news event to happen during our trip. Two years ago in Rio de Janeiro was when JFK Jr.'s plane went down and last year we heard about the Concorde crash while in Windsor, England. Nothing major happened this week, save for Al Gore growing a beard. As you can see, an uneventful news cycle.

TUESDAY, AUGUST 14 - NATIONAL CREAMSICLE DAY

Hmmmm, nope, nothing. Last night we had ice cream cones, but I don't do creamsicles.

	Sunrise over Bar Harbor.

5 a.m. - Walking the walk after the talking the talk, I do as promised: I wake up to see the sunrise over the Bay (and I had to use my weak watch alarm to do so). Walking the 150 yards down the stairs to the rocky shoreline I spend a very peaceful half-hour with the birds, the water and the good Lord above.

I'm surprised to be the only one awake. Or at least the only one on the shore or balcony of the hotel rooms above me. I did hear later that many drive atop Cadillac Mountain in Acadia National Park a few miles down the road in order to see the sunrise from there.

11 a.m. - After a nap, continental breakfast-plus (today's entree was quiche, which I turn down due to my policy of not eating foods that begin with the letter Q) and figuring out the schedule for the day, the four of us drive to Acadia to find out why it was such a playground resort for the rich and famous at the turn of the 20th century; multi-millionaires J.P. Morgan, Joseph Pulitzer and John D. Rockefeller were among those who owned 'cottages', and the latter had 50 miles of car-less roads built to preserve the island's beauty.

The island is a haven for outdoor enthusiasts; every other car has a bike or canoe attached to the roof, and there are several campsites full of visitors who would rather enjoy a tent than a house. Cheaper, too, I'm sure.

Acadia National Park: Acadia National Park, 47 miles southeast of Bangor, possesses an unusual combination of ocean and mountain scenery. The park includes more than 50 miles of Mount Desert Island, the largest rock-based island on the Atlantic Coast. Dominating the park are the ancient, rounded peaks of the Mount Desert Mountains, worn down by the countless centuries of erosion. Great granite cliffs, undermined by the pounding surf at their bases, rise from the ocean. Nowhere along the Atlantic seaboard is the 'stern and rockbound' coast more picturesque. Samuel de Champlain sighted Mount Desert Island in 1604 and named it 'LiIsle des Monts Deserts,' which means island of barren mountains. It was the site of a short-lived settlement by French Jesuits in 1613, and for many years was part of the French province of Acadia, from which the park derives its name. Source: AAA Tour Book

At the Visitor Center we squeeze through the crowds to pay the $10 fee, grab some maps and chase Dad as he practices Speed Touring: He should have his own show on the Travel Channel - a No Nonsense Holiday Guide. You pull up to a site, read the sign, take a photo and speed on to the next one.

Although at Thunder Hole he did frolic on the rocks with me. But most of the time today he stands above in safety with the others, wondering how he raised an idiot like me who is willing to risk his life climbing on rocks over steep cliffs - esp. at the Grand Canyon - or along the ocean just for fun and a great snapshot.

In the food tips part of Dad's No Nonsense Holiday Guide, if there's more than a three minute wait to eat in the park, drive 15 minutes if that's what it takes to find a place where you can sit down immediately. This could have come in handy later at Jordan Pond.

Just to be fair I will place myself at the other end of the spectrum, wanting to stop at every insignificant marker, take three rolls of film and read a 20-page booklet on why I should care that a 16th-century fisherman carved a picture of a stickman on a rock.

Unfortunately the day is cloudy during our tour of Acadia, so some of the more colorful vistas lose their luster. Case in point was our first stop, the aforementioned Cadillac Mountain, at 1,500 feet the highest point on the Eastern Seaboard. The view is nice, but drab under the gray skies. But the weather is cool, so no complaint there.

After Cadillac Mountain comes Thunder Hole, celebrated for its crashing surf. The AAA Tour Book describes it as "a wave-cut chasm producing loud reverberations when waves and tides are right." Otherwise it elicits a baby gurgle. Thankfully we come at a good time when the water rushes into the cut and booms several times a minute. Just as much fun is the rocky shore, where Dad and I hop the fence (shh! don't tell the Ranger!) and climb the adjacent rocks.

2 p.m. - Lunch at Jordan Pond, where we waited an hour to eat because Pat and Danielle are adamant in making sure we have their popovers, which to me are just glorified Super-size rolls. Pat insists they're fancy bread, LOL.

Unfortunately the hour wait leaves moods sour for a few minutes, as Dad stews impatiently, Danielle sighs as she tries to ignore Dad, Pat feels bad for making us wait to eat and I shrug and figure that we'd wait in long lines anyway. We finally have our food with the little bees outside, and the scenic Pond as a backdrop. Yes, I'll admit that the buttery popovers are tasty, but the pasta is nasty.

Thus, consistent theme rears its ugly head again during the vacation: Thus far New England cuisine has been largely under whelming. Many times we leave hungry. Maybe I'm too used to Rio's huge portions and England's gigantic fish & chips platters from my previous big holiday trips, but for this to occur at virtually every meal is disappointing.

	Ansel Adams, eat your heart out!

3:30 p.m. Lastly on our sojourn around Mount Desert Island and Acadia is a half-hour drive to the southwest corner of Mount Desert Island to see the Bass Harbor Head Light, or what we laypeople call a lighthouse. It's not a reconfigured head light from a '72 Duster, but that would be neat.

Pat is a lighthouse freak, so we're always on the lookout for one, and there are four near Acadia. Bass Harbor is the most accessible. By this time, though, Pat and I are on our own in going down the steep path to the rocky shore that provides the best pictures, while Dad decided he'd stay above with Danielle, claiming he had been kidnapped for the second-half of the afternoon.

I think he just wanted to drive around longer with the top down on Pat's convertible Chrysler Sebring (sweet ride, and she lets me drive it all afternoon; what a gal), pleasing us greatly in the front seat while the ladies huddle in the back seat like they're at the South Pole.

5:30 p.m. - Dad's right. He'd been mentioning it the last few days, and I have to come out of the closet as a bona fide shopper. Not in the all-day-at-the-mall sense, but I'll browse and buy with the best of 'em at the right time.

I accompany Pat and Danielle to the central district of Bar Harbor again, not to eat but find a few trinkets and pick up film, while Pat and Danielle look for a gift for Scott and Marcy's as-yet-unborn baby. The sun setting over the Bay, we find that downtown Bar Harbor is quite the festive place. We walked by the shore and enjoyed the view of dozens of boats reflecting the last bit of sunshine in the day, and the Calypso music emanating from a party on a pier.

In the end, I carry back to the house three sizable bags to their little one, including an all-weather jacket at the Timberland Outlet Store. It was only $100 and should last a long time, but I've really got to watch the spending until Boston!

9 p.m. - Dinner is pizza back at the house for the guys, Greek salad for the ladies. Our pie isn't all that great, and another example of the below-par food in New England. The only bonus is that the deliverer is a cutie and I get to see her twice since Dad had already ordered a pizza before we got back, and then we ordered again 10 minutes later.

12:30 a.m. - The Braves blow a lead in the ninth and fall to Colorado. It's their sixth straight loss. *grumble*

Tomorrow we go to Boston!