We were once again trying to figure out something to do when Plymouth Rock came up as “the most underwhelming school field trip ever.” Would it be less so in adulthood? Or would we find… a rock, an ordinary rock? It was time to find out!
I didn’t really know what I was heading into. My school wasn’t swank enough to cart our little asses to something like this so I’d never been. When we pulled up there was a truly pathetic little parking lot fit for two cars or so (OK, slight exaggeration but not by much!) that was entirely parallel parking. Nooope. Not going to do that. So I turned around and parked at the beach a few feet down the road which did have proper parking thank you very much. We put money in the parking meter and made our merry way into Pilgrim Land.
Obviously, we went to check out the rock first. I’d seen it on TV before but what I hadn’t seen was the absolutely enormous structure built over this sad little rock. The thing was penned in on all sides with iron bars like it was some sort of ferocious beast.
“Is it a dangerous rock?” I asked. “Why is it in a cage?” This is the sort of humor you’re in for if you travel with me. Grade A dad humor. Even though I’m childless and I guess technically female.
An older lady, who must have been a local, actually answered me. Well, this was new.
“See that camera there?”
“Yeah…”
“They put that in a few years ago. Someone came in and spray painted a bunch of things. It was a mess.”
“Oh no…”
“And people keep throwing their kids in there to get the change.” I looked into the pit and at the change in the sand. Was this some sort of lucky dirt fountain? Having no idea what to reply she went on. “I can’t imagine that. I mean look at how they must come out! Through the bars. You know how many 911 calls we get because some kid has tried to cut their nose off trying to go through them? All for what? 20 cents? Hope it was worth it!”
OK, now I really didn’t know what to say. I was just smiling awkwardly and wondering where this was going. Not that I am unfriendly I just have trust issues when it comes to random strangers telling me things… was she a tourist guide? Or just a lonely old lady? You never can tell.
She went on. “So you from around here?”
“No, we’re just visiting…”
“Well, you see that stairway across the street?”
“Yeah…”
“If you want to climb it there’s a crypt up there with the bones of the pilgrims and a really nice place to sit. Plus it’s a great view!”
“Ooooh… thank you…. We will definitely check that out…”
This we did. But before I get to that part I’d like to take a moment and talk about the rock because it is, and was, for all intent and purposes – just a rock. Not only was it just a rock it was a rock that’d been bust in half and glued back together after they attempted to move it to a better spot. Even more despairingly it says all over the place, on every plaque, that we think this is the rock the pilgrims adopted as their mascot but in reality we have no idea where they actually landed. It could have been 5 miles down the beach for all we know and this rock might be – get this- just a rock. And here’s where it gets really funny. Nearby there is a gift store and I swear to God – it sells rocks. Tiny polished rock babies so you too can have a Plymouth Rock. This is capitalism at it’s best.
There is also a replica of the Mayflower floating out there in the bay. We didn’t go on it. I’m a bit sketched out by boats and have kind of decided the only time it’d be worth getting on one would be if someone was kind enough to bring me to a good shipwreck to poke at. New England has to be littered with them. Shame the visibility is probably slim to nil with sharks and whatever cruising through the darkness looking for a snack. Oh well. Maybe someday…
In the meanwhile, we did climb the stairs across the street and found all kinds of historic goodies up there. Just as promised we found a terrific view of the building the rock was in as well as the bay and a big rectangular monument with the bones of some of the original pilgrims. Apparently, they’d been discovered at various points through archeological digs and were carried back to be buried here. Some of the plaques stated these original graves were forgotten because they had wooden markers which decayed but this monument said most of the graves weren’t marked at all because the pilgrims didn’t want the locals to know how many of them died and just how easy it’d be to kill off the remaining. It’s hard to say if this was paranoia or just karma biting them in the ass for treating the indigenous peoples like converts for Christ. It is super telling that one of the first things they built was a fort.
Here too was a statue of a local Chieftan, probably the one they first met. I couldn’t help but feel uneasy in his presence. For one he was wearing a loin cloth. In cold-ass New England. An unhelpful completely historically inaccurate stereotype put up by “the improved Red Men” some years ago probably in an attempt at inclusion. Cringe. To top it all off he looked forlornly across the bay – at a bunch of boats and white tourists. OK, now I’m uncomfortable.
There were plaques everywhere talking about all sorts of things – even the first women who don’t really get mentioned a lot. And then a few weird mentions of things like a bridal tree planted in the 1800’s which… didn’t result in a wedding… and honestly I’m confused why we were still talking about it. Maybe it was to add flair to the rock. Look, now it’s a rock and a tree. We ambled through a nearby park/garden and read even more interesting tidbits before walking up the street to Burial Hill which was by far my favorite part of the day.
