February is hands down (at least amongst my New York City tribal kinsfolk), the most difficult month of winter. Once that first week of this impossible month, makes its initial turn, panic and a painfully urgent need to escape Brooklyn, irreregardless of destination, becomes my only, desperate obsession. While most people opt for warm caribbean vacations, I belong to that group, for whom projecting ahead is not a viable option. So, each year, I am ready to settle for any alternative to the caribbean vacation I should have booked five months earlier. For the last couple of decades since I have lived in NYC, I have done the exact same thing. Come February, I take a "wintering vacation". THIS year, President's Day once again came upon me as an unexpected surprise. A five day weekend was quickly upon us. A wintering vacation was the logical, and at this point, the only affordable option.
Having grown up in warm sunny places, I have in actuality, always found snowy winters particularly exotic. The prospect of sitting by a roaring fire, wrapped in an afghan and warm (preferably red) woolen socks, while sipping hot cocoa and watching snow flurries daintily tumble from the milky skies, warms my heart and soul just as well as any bahamian breeze ever could. A quick google browse for Bed and Breakfast settings within the 2 hour travel range, revealed one and only available room in an inn perched atop a hill of a tiny upstate town overlooking the Hudson. The views of the river promised to be splendid.
I'm not sure whether it is due to the fact that rivers are not a significant element of the floridian landscape where I spent many of my formative years, or that my indigenous roots, have subliminally embeded in me romanticized images of local native tribes building fires and fishing along its banks, but I do hold a mysteriously lyrical attachment to the Hudson River. On Friday afternoon, we packed into our ambiguously colored and cosmetically compromised 1994 Buick Century and began inching our way up the East River Parkway toward the town of Milton--a place about which we knew nothing.
After an arduous 7 hour ride, we arrived at the bottom of the hill where began the driveway of the B&B. As we began our ascent, tired and famished, we were soon to discover that our brakes had not held up any better than we had. Frazzled and bewildered by both the length of the trip and now the irreverent behavior of our
voiture, we parked and proceeded to enter the inn through the first obvious door we could readily identity. From behind this opening, we heard the gentle, welcoming protests of our inn keeper as she, a little too late, tried to intercept our snowy muddy entrance into her kitchen. Our hostess, attired in a beige leather elbow patched sweater, is a demure proper lady doning a neatly coiffed french twist. She explains to us that the
usual entrance is out and around the house and that
next time, an appropriate path along the property will surely lead us there with ease.
I have always thought the word appropriate to be a highly versatile, practical and extremely useful term in matters that require delicate maneuvering. Our hostess is an appropriate lady, dressed appropriately for both her surroundings as well as her role. She looks age appropriate, acts age appropriately, and behaves in an appropriately reserved manner. At this point, it can safely be said that this appropriate lady possesses, in her appropriate form and style, some characteristics suitable for appropriate tribal labeling.
No, I don't think it at all inappropriate to note that when one tribe meets another tribe, a heightened state of bilateral suspicion quickly ensues. This initial reaction appears to be universal and can be expected in cases from the most rudimentary to the most complex of tribal encounters. This was no exception.
Two long haired and dreaded, haggled looking, middle aged urbanites with long haired, ipod plugged tween renegade in tow, could also be considered, at least by some, somewhat of an identifiable tribe.
This is the moment when the two tribes meet.
Proper lady-- hippie brooklynites.
Well, I have never felt altogether comfortable with the term 'hippie" though I have been identified this way more than a few times before. Once a client, upon our first meeting, practically yelled out to me "Oh! You're Hip!" Hip? I was more than a bit taken aback, but what could I say?-- Would it have been alright to ask her to elaborate on her diagnosis?-- Should I have feigned ignorance as to her references?-- Is it not obvious that I have unusually long hair when this style has been officially
out of style for more than a few decades? that I don't use, nor have I ever used blow dryer or hairspray?-- Is it not conspicuous that I improvise my wardrobe and utilize my body as a canvas on which to shamelessly flunt my need for expression?! --Oh, but I do digress... Yes, I may not be altogether comfortable with the 'Hippie' label, but it has been cast, struck, stuck and for lack of a better, more descriptive and accurate alternative, I must succumb, if only temporarily and for the sake of contrast--which is really, my ultimate point here. Apparent contrast.
We enter the premises, yes, through the wrong door--my pre-adolescent daughter dragging her overstuffed rolling bag across the oriental carpet, which begins uncomfortably to retreat along with us into our room as it is dragged in by the weight of her pack. I am feeling cranky, tired, horrified at the awful first impression we have just bestowed on our hostess, with whom I am now sure --given our newly discovered malfunctioning car brakes-- we will be spending plenty of idle time. As I glance at my spouse, who is busily engaged in explaining our car troubles to our lady, I notice that he is wearing oversized striped paperclips on the lapel of his hooded jacket... new fashion statement or forgotten closures from our half consumed travel snacks? I assure you, the latter. With severely knitted brow, I lean over and remove them. We chuckle uncomfortably. I roll my eyes. I am too tired to explain. Our hostess offers that we choose a time for breakfast the next morning. Trying not to inconvenience, we suggest 9. I want to say noon- I am exhausted. I want to sleep--late. This will never happen, I think. That's one thing about B & B's you can always count on. Breakfast or sleep, never both. Our hostess suggests 10-- I am surprised, and relieved.
Morning comes. Now we can see out the windows of our room, and confirm that the views of the river are indeed breathtaking. We descend to breakfast. We are all alone. None of the other guests have yet arrived. It is only Saturday morning. Our breakfast consists of a delicate and ample assortment of various delicious courses. The coffee is strong, the cream fresh. I savor its complexity, bask in its warmth. Along with our hostess, there is also a host. He is gentle and soft spoken. He delivers our dishes, then silently retreats. A perfect breakfast.
We have the car towed and discover that being that it is a 3 day holiday weekend, the one repair shop in the vicinity is only working a few hours today. We will not be seeing the EpsteinMobile again until Monday morning. We wave goodbye to our car and resign ourselves to exploring the town on foot, and to enjoying the inspiring views.
The center of town consists of a post office, a "Free Library" (is there any other kind?...), a brewery named after the town I just traveled here 7 hours to escape (huh?!), a church with an ancient graveyard, and a mediocre cafe that serves good coffee and excellent apple oatmeal, but which closes at 2pm. We have the oatmeal and some more coffee and continue our pedestrian exploration to the further fringes of the town-- abandoned farms and intricate victorian homes, both providing ample photo opportunities, an abandoned railroad station. In fact, it appears that most of the town is just barely hanging within a threadbare cobweb of uncertainty. Even the properties which are still inhabited, appear to be in a state of extremely poor to nonexistent upkeep. The entire town is in a perpetual state of progressive abandonment. How do people make their living here? They become inn keepers? This too, seems to be a dying prospect. What draws travelers to a sleepy town with barely any amenities-- not even a hiking trail to speak of? --Desperation in deep winter.
We return to our inn, aware now of how rare this setup actually is. A beautiful victorian home, immaculately kept by an elderly couple who appear to be, outside of their relationship, completely independent. How and why are they doing this? By this time, it is time for dinner and we are all too aware that there is not a single restaurant within walking distance of this place-- but out of necessity, we still inquire. We are told of the two closest eating establishments, both only accessible by car. We are offered roundtrip rides to dinner. We gratefully accept. On the ride our hostess is cautious, but in the stilted conversation, reveals that she suffers from wanderlust-- I am easily impressed by people's dreams and vulnerabilities--especially if they mirror my own. I begin to understand.
Now sitting by the fire, well wined and dined, three of us snuggle with respective reading material. Always in a functional marriage, there is a yin yang that goes on. The interviewer and the interviewee, the abstract thinker and the concrete calculator, the chef and the gourmand, the gatherer and the reaper-- both members of the team can share said qualities, but they are not to exercise them simultaneously--or all hell will break lose--resulting in an abstractly verbose superfluous undigestible disaster. My betrothed and I work well together in this way. We have learned to balance the scales of excesses. During this particular event, my husband is the interviewer. While I discretely lounge in the adjoining room, he chooses to interview our hostess about all manners of things that I would never dream of bothering with. He uncovers that she is planning a trip to Costa Rica. To my great chagrin, I overhear him sharing that his wife's family has been living in Costa Rica for many years and that she is in fact, somewhat of an "expert" on the subject, having traveled there countless times...! I cringe, and cower deeper in my afghan.
He also uncovers that our hostess owns a farm several towns away, which she manages and rents out to vacationers...hmmm..., I'm thinking.... He discovers that this is our hostess' second marriage and that her new husband has suffered a history of strokes. In the time that we spend at the inn, we learn other interesting facts that help put together the puzzle about how this woman came to be our hostess. How she has survived an apparently dying town. She bought this property in the 60's and has made this place her objet d'art in progress. She is familiar with all of the major and minor art centers in the area. At one point she reveals that her social needs are largely met by her guests. Some guests have even maintained contact for many years after their departure, she tells me. Running this inn is both her work and her play. It pains her to consider what her life would become if she were ever to become unable to run the inn. Her casual chat feels like a confession.
I do offer my assistance advising on the prospective Costa Rica trip and am impressed to learn that our hostess has well researched her trip. She already possesses a listing of all the places I would have recommended she visit. Some of these are quite off the beaten path. I also feel alarmed to hear that she will be renting a car and driving many hundreds of miles from coast to coast. I try not to sound overly concerned, though i am, knowing full well how potentially dangerous an undertaking this plan is, in a country where unfortunately, crime statistics targeted specifically at tourists, have tripled in the last ten years. I do not want to sound condescending, but supportive. How often does it happen, after all, that a couple in their 70's plans a driving vacation in the backroads of a central american country-- and decides to leave the tour bus at home? I do, however, strongly recommend they arrange for a foreign GPS.
The morning we are to depart, we wake up to an enchanting and intimidating snowstorm. Over six inches already cover the ground and the fall is quick and steady. At breakfast we enjoy a lively chat with the other various guests. The theme of this morning's discussion centers around public exposure on social networking sites. We share our work, where we live, our car troubles. These are themes that I usually find agonizingly dull. Most of these are not people I would pursue to be my friends. The likelihood of a future reencounter is nearing zero. But here we are. We have all somehow ended up in this quiet, nearly dried out, barely existent town, vacationing in the dead of winter, at this anomaly of an inn... Strange.
We mention our intention to drive back to Brooklyn in the late morning while the storm may still be manageable. Our hostess heads out of the house, shovel in hand. She proceeds to clear the steep and icy driveway--an intimidating prospect, all on her own. We watch her from the upstairs window of our room. She is agile, quick and efficient, and within a quarter of an hour has completed this arduous task.
We bring our bags out to the car and begin to wrap up our business dealings. There is a slight but bittersweet tension in the air. Our hostess walks us out to the car and bids us farewell. As we close the doors behind us, she requests we send an e-mail message to confirm our safe arrival. The parting feels awkward. We have shared these people's home. They have cooked our meals, neatly tidied our room each day while we visited abandoned orchards, collected slate. We have shared our morning coffee and theorized together about what creatures might have left their tracks in the snow. The ones by the large evergreen behind the compost heap look like bear tracks, we think. They differ and propose they might have been made by squirrels jumping from the trees....hmm....a possibility. Possibilities are like that. Things happen that you never imagined. Things are different than what you once thought. Your preconceptions are disproven.
Spring has now arrived. Impossible February has been survived and now seems far behind us. I am already thinking about Summer.
I'm not sure whether it is due to the fact that rivers are not a significant element of the floridian landscape where I spent many of my formative years, or that my indigenous roots, have subliminally embeded in me romanticized images of local native tribes building fires and fishing along its banks, but I do hold a mysteriously lyrical attachment to the Hudson River. On Friday afternoon, we packed into our ambiguously colored and cosmetically compromised 1994 Buick Century and began inching our way up the East River Parkway toward the town of Milton--a place about which we knew nothing.
