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“Welcome to rural America!” |
Last stop: Vermont!
I insisted Carley, Andy, and I take a trip to Burlington in order to see Carley’s parents, Kelly and Steve, and to see the fall foliage.
Why I love Vermont:
1. Kelly and Steve live in a log cabin. No, really. The first time I saw it last fall, I felt like I was in ‘Lincoln Logs: The Reality TV Series.’ Also, I discovered that the guy who built the log cabin injured himself to the head with a chainsaw while cutting out the frame for the window. He hit a knot in the wood. I don’t love Vermont because people injure themselves with chainsaws, I just thought you should know the whole story.
2. The signs. Moose crossing. Deer crossing. DEAF CHILD. Duck crossing. Snowmobile crossing. Bridge freezes before road. Bear crossing. Your mom.
Big change from the ‘camel crossing’ signs I saw all over the desert in Israel and Egypt.
3. It’s impossible to feel stressed out there. If you’re stressed, it’s your own fault.
4. Food. <-- Inner fat kid thrived in Burlington. I ate like pacman. Vermont is big on buying local produce and using local ingredients in restaurants. The result? Local beer, organic salads, fresh breads…it was like being back in Israel, only better, because people make American food in Vermont, like flatbread and turkey sandwiches.
5. Bonfires! A pyromaniac’s dream. I am not a pyro. Steve is. Anyway. We spent Saturday night celebrating Carley and Kelly’s birthday; I made an excellent meat sauce for dinner, and afterwards we headed to their firepit to chat and make smores. It’s a very typical Vermont scene – sometimes people spend their entire afternoons and evenings drinking, doing drugs, and lighting fireworks by a bonfire, causing a huge ruckus and upsetting the neighbors. This happened the night before, when Kelly called the police on her neighbors after they lit fireworks in the pond. Carley and I paid a visit to these neighbors at around midnight – it was like ‘Adults Gone Wild.’ Apparently they never went to college and got the party bug out of their system, because I’ve never seen so many middle-aged people messed up in front of their teenage sons and daughters, but hey…it happens a lot in Vermont. It was an educational excursion, if you will. One that ended with ‘no, I won’t take a margarita equivalent to about five shots of hard liquor…’
But our bonfire was not like that.
Kelly, Steve, Andy, Carley, three neighbor friends, and I huddled around the fire chatting about who knows what and taking tons of pictures. It’s everything I love about fall wrapped into one (not so) little orb of light: the smell of the trees and grass around this time of year, the smell of bonfires as you drive through the mountainside, the anticipation of leaves changing, teasing you as they slowly grow into their yellows, reds, oranges, the crispness of autumn air…a sad reminder summer is ending and soon it will be winter…but not yet. And that is reason to celebrate.
The smores were even more reason to celebrate.
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The next day, I was taken to Baldwin Creek, a cute rural area about an hour from Burlington. The drive in itself was stunning – we passed elk and ponies (apparently the ponies are slaughtered and sold as dog meat?!), drove by mountain views that make your jaw drop – and arrived at the Inn where Carley and Andy are getting married. Apparently I am the only one getting a sneak-peek.
It is perfect.
Elegant but not overstated, in the countryside but not hick, intimate but not stuffy. It will be beautiful.
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In some ways I am still adjusting to certain facets of American life. Like the crap that often makes CNN headlines. “Man puts snake in his mouth; almost dies after snake bites him in the throat.” Or “More guys have bad bathroom hygiene.”
Seriously?
Or the vastness of the country. I’m realizing it’s not necessarily a good thing America is so large. Social networks are all over the place. Regional pride sometimes surpasses any form of national identity or allegiance. And the cultural differences. If I’m in America, why should it make a difference whether I’m in San Diego or Vermont – shouldn’t I be able to find an amazing fajita everywhere? And doesn’t everyone know to call it a ‘fa-hee-ta’ rather than a ‘fa-JII-ta’?
But it’s home. And people speak my language. (At least most of the time.) And I can read the signs, and I don’t need a passport to travel from city to city. And for the first time in three months, I’ll put the suitcases away and sleep in my own bed in my own home.
Yay.
previous travel blog entry
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