Cool morning air caught us head-on as the road stretched ahead, each mile pulling us closer to the day’s first adventure. Salt from the harbor drifted in with the breeze, mixing with the warm scent of asphalt as the sky grew brighter with every turn. We weren’t just riding, we were chasing two very different stories: one whispered in the creak of Salem’s oldest house, the other steaming from bamboo baskets in Boston’s Chinatown. The day promised history and heat, shadows and spice, all bound together by the hum of the motorcycle beneath us.
📷 Fleeting Expressions. ISO 200 · f/4.0 · 1/1600 sec
POTW - Derby Wharf Lighthouse, Salem Harbor
She caught my eye with her bright yellow top, phone raised against the sky, framing the lighthouse at the harbor’s edge. The wind blew her hair and rippled the water where sailboats bobbed beyond the breakwater. Derby Wharf Lighthouse is a watchful little sentinel that’s seen a century of tides roll in and out of Salem Harbor.
Salem
We rode through Boston’s bustling streets, weaving between honking cars and the gleam of glass high-rises. Heat shimmered on the pavement, the late-morning sun steaming everything up with each mile. I grinned like a kid as we passed the patchwork skyline, sleek steel towers alongside brick buildings that looked older than the country itself. Salem was just over twenty miles up Highway 1, but the crawl of traffic made the trip drag on. By the time we arrived, lunchtime would be just around the corner.
Wanting to save our appetites for a meal in Chinatown back in Boston, we stopped for a cool drink before facing the heat on our way to the Salem Witch House. The building loomed at the corner of Essex and North, its black timber frame hunched like it had been watching the street for centuries. Inside, the air was cool and faintly musty, carrying the scent of old wood and something even older.
Floorboards creaked underfoot. Our guide spoke of Judge Jonathan Corwin and the trials. Still, it was the strange medical practices that caught my attention. Remedies made from human fat were mostly taken from executed criminals, as they were believed to be the most potent. It was said to cure headaches, gout, and even rheumatism. I imagined the grim deliveries of the executioner, jars sealed tight against the stench.
After the reality of the past, I needed something green and alive, so we wandered into a garden down the block. The scent of flowers and the hum of bees slowly eased the heaviness the house had left behind. Then we hopped back on the bike, Boston-bound, returning to a city whose beauty is built from centuries of shadows and light.
Boston: Chinatown & Little Italy
The return ride was a slow, white-knuckle roll through road merges, with cars weaving in and out to try to improve their spots while simultaneously answering text messages and applying mascara. But we made it to Chinatown in one piece and entertained passersby as we climbed off the bike and kissed the ground in gratitude.
The streets were crowded and bright, and the air vibrated with energy. Each tiny eatery spilled a different temptation, and the narrow street was thick with the scent of soy sauce caramelizing in hot woks and the smoky perfume of roasted duck hanging in the window. Inside, we went for the familiar: fried rice with chicken. Boring, maybe, but trustworthy.
After dinner, we made our way to Little Italy for dessert at Mike's Pastry. We got lucky: the line was inside the building, not down the block! The Boston Creme Pie is a local favorite, so we had to try it.
I used the ride back to the campground to reflect on the day, which was a blend of old and new worlds. We let the rhythm of the day carry us from one to the other and back again while we explored new places. The best part? Jody finally made it to the REAL Salem and not that pretender over in Oregon.
