(paid subscribers can access the voice over of this post at the end)
“i should probably pee first” i told my car mate.
when we left for town we drove by a small gas powered square machine, buzzing with the power it provided the kitchen. our resort was out of power. the night’s winds had blown over a tree which (appropriately) fell onto the power lines that supplied light, heat, and water to our nudist resort turned queer forest retreat. our host bounced around the property making toilets flush with pond water, and portable kitchen eyes run with a generator; her ponytail flitted behind her, proof a body had been where you saw movement.
i asked the kind booksellers, and then followed their instructions next door to the chamber of commerce building where the nearest bathroom lived. the sun had come out making my base layer worn as a shirt a mini sweat lodge. i shed my down filled coat, knowing that 55 was pushing it for me to have it one on any way. thankful that Nicole made me bring it as i complained about being too hot instead of too cold. by this point i’m full on pee-pee dancing as i wait for my car mate to open the car.
we giggle. i had just said before the bookstore it wasn’t anywhere near urgent. i dart into the chamber of commerce and search desperately for the door leading to my relief. please god let there be no one in there. “oh i just cleaned it dear,” someone calls from the right side of the 1,100 square foot box. a slight, blonde woman exits the bathroom, a crunched paper towel and windex spray bottle in one hand, and a paper towel roll under her other armpit. “it’s all yours!” she cheered as i scurried past.
i take a deep breath as i’m washing my hands. embarrassed by my urgency, but not wanting to let it show. as I walk out of the bathroom i notice a kitschy map, covered in pins from all over the country. the many (mini?) places that people who visited this part of vermont are from dotted the frame like ants looking for sugar. I study the map in effort to distract the others from my bathroom usage, as if i’ve been here this whole time. “are you gonna put a pin on the map?!” my car mate asks.
“but don’t you think that’s kinda lame?” i replied. they laughed and shrugged reaching for a yellow push pin. if it was - they didn’t care. why did i? i grab a pin and search for the oddly round triangle that is jefferson county. quite a few of us from lou had been here. i could barely find our county. i put my pin in the final spot available just over valley station written in tiny serif letters. i guess the place i’m from is kinda hot shit.
as they go to the bathroom, i wander around the small square room. “everything here is free, unless you want the local paper. then i gotta charge you $1 for it,” the woman tells me. I look through the potential ephemera for my travel journal. my book filled with papers from the random places I’m grateful to visit. as i make my way toward the front counter where she stood eager to meet my needs, i asked the question that opened hoover’s dam “are you from this area originally?”.
i hear the words come out without me really thinking it through. so many conversations started this way on our road trips growing up. my step dad charming the shop owner or gas station clerk while my mom took care of business. what an artful question i realized. people love to talk about themselves.
she tells me that she’s originally from connecticut but after vacationing here for several years her and her husband decided to make the move. that was back in the ‘80s. she says that she’s always loved snow sports and she lives only 15 minutes from mount snow. and while i didn’t know who mount snow was i tell her that i’ve never done snow sports. she says hiking in the snow is the best way to get started. i thought about my trip to the blue ridge mountains last january where Nicole and i hiked up a mountain in the snow at peaks of otter. she marvels at the silence of winter. “the snow tells a story” she says. “i can always see who just became lunch. and it’s impossible to get lost since you’re blazing a trail on your way in!”
she keeps going on telling me about the difference between skiing, and snowboarding and snowshoeing. i’m nodding my head only half listening. where the hell is my car mate. they must be taking a shit. i see why they have her in here. she could talk to any person who came in off the street. lol you just came in off the street. i can’t imagine doing this all day for work. well what’s wrong with doing this all day for work? i wonder what kind of life she must have? i’m lost in thought while still periodically nodding my head trying to show respect - after all this is a conversation I started.
“well i’m glad you all have a place to stay tonight. there was an older couple came in here yesterday who tried to waltz up and find a room! i don’t think they realized it’s a holiday weekend.” she tells me as my car mate finally exits the bathroom. i include them in the conversation hoping they’ll cool the fire i accidentally set a flame. at the next natural pause, we smile respectfully and head to the car, thanking the sweet woman for her time.
as we close the door i wonder if this is what a slow life looks like outside the performance of instagram. you spend your days telling people whatever your heart fancies, and they listen. you are part of the exhibit after all.
“should we get maple creemees?” they ask me. on the nudist resort turned queer forest retreat people were saying that it was a must get while in this part of the country. soft serve that has local maple syrup in it. i was skeptical about it. would it actually be good or was this some white shit? (a refrain for the whole weekend honestly.) “why not!” i replied. “maybe we should ask her for recommendations?” i suggest pointing towards the building. so we head back inside to ask for the local scoop on maple creemees.
“you know they recently did a poll across the whole state…” she says waving her right hand in a clockwise motion. “…and won’t you believe it, the best creemee stand in the state is just up the road here! you’re gonna go out here and take a left on 100. then go until you see a yellow building called robs road house. right before that is woodshed. if you see river valley market you went too far. i’m telling you it’s the best in the state they wrote it in the paper! i tell my friend (who owns the creemee stand) she’s been running it for years, sometimes i’ll go there for lunch because it ‘s just that good!” she says. “the secret is extra milk fat in her soft serve. it makes it just that much more delicious.” so with inside scoop, we headed out for the best creemees in the state.
at this point i still didn’t really understand what a creemee was. like yes, it’s soft serve with maple syrup but i couldn’t quite visualize it. my car mate tells me that they get one whenever they’re in vermont, so i figure as a first timer in this state i must try everything - no matter how touristy. this time as we head out on our drive (full cell service in swing) we take a wrong turn and are glad we found the creemee stand on gps.
we pull into the creemee stand and i prepare to relish in this treat which is has been coined “best in the state”1. i’m shocked to see there’s many options on the menu board. they have a wide range of flavors and sundaes. i suppose this makes sense based on their standing as a prestigious creemee stand. the windows are closed, and inside looks dark. we stand at opposite ends of the stand putting our faces to the glass to see which one got a response. as they open the window - i wonder which one is friends with the clerk from the chamber of commerce…
we order our vermont maple creemee (keeping it simple) and find a spot to sit at the nearby bbq stand. the creemee isn’t brown as i expected. or even tan. it’s looks like regular ass soft serve. a white dollop in a white cup with a white spoon sticking out the side. i knew this was some white shit.
“are you ready for this!?” my car mate asks. i raise my eyebrows in anticipation, grabbing a scoop of my maple creemee. delicately i taste the dessert. cautiously curious. they watch in anticipation. i blink. “bruh, it taste like regular fucking ice cream!”.
“but maple flavored, riiiight!?” they reply. head nodding in undulation. “i mean… i guess???” i ask back. we burst into laughter. “this is what you get every time you come to vermont?!” i’m incredulous now, i was duped! they laugh, “well i mean, it’s just what you do when you’re in vermont… at least you tried the best in the state?!” they offer.
we laugh again. our chuckles ballooning and floating away, filling the space between the two food stands. what that fuck does it mean to live in a place where tourists are conned for ice cream that’s just…okay? the ridiculousness of it all makes me smile even as i write this.
as we finally make our way back to the nudist resort turned queer forest retreat, i’m curious about everything. if this was best in the state, what does the worst in the state taste like? i’m reminded of Zamariah’s constant refrain “everybody’s an influencer”.
that sort of possibility that only feels palpable while traveling. what kind of courage does it take to believe for yourself that anything is possible? to be present with what is, knowing that I am my best thing2. as we drive back i wonder what could become possible…
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