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Going north. I'm looking good and hard at this part of the country. I remember it. My first American winter escapes. I have plenty of childhood memories of New England. It's a mixed bag. I'm more than happy to make substitutions and changes so that my final take on this places comes off as a positive.
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As we cross from Massachusetts to New Hampshire to Vermont, we lose the leaves. The air gets colder too. We stop for a cup of coffee and comment on the chill. They’re making snow at nearby Killington tonight.
Killington. I skied there thirty five years ago! I remember the week-end: I briefly contemplated downhill racing then (my ambitions were often out of line with my skills). I was fast! And afterwards, I kissed a man with complete infatuation and abandon. Even though we never really exchanged more than a dozen words. He was from Canada, I was from New York and I never saw him again after. We truly had nothing in common.
My daughter and I pass the village of Quechee, Vermont. We’ll be back here for dinner. Right here, in this room hanging over the river and the dam. Right next to the covered bridge.
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The sun is pretty much done with the day by the time we get to Woodstock, our place for the night.
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That’s okay. We’re tired from the drive. We stop at the Woodstocker, an inn just off the road.
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It’s a good time to be here. Off season. The stars outside are just as dense now. More so, I should think.
I pick up a bottle of Vermont wine for later at the butcher’s. Vermont wine. With a cow on the label. Weird confluence of symbols, no? Life’s funny.
