Right about the time my New England cohorts are posting “OMG It’s fall!!!!1!” status updates and breaking out the woolens, Hawaii prepares for what I like to call “wet sock weather.” Just as it is described on the tin, the weather in Hawaii in September and October is like living in a sock freshly peeled from a triathlete’s foot. There is no breeze to stir the fetid, soggy air and the humidity is ever-climbing. I don’t miss winter, I was always neutral on spring (possibly because in Maine it lasts for two weeks between mud/thaw and construction season and we never get a chance to properly bond) and Hawaii’s endless summers are glorious. However, I always get homesick for New England during autumn, because getting a pumpkin spice latte over ice and leaving cinnamon-scented housewares displays to see limp palm trees is depressing. Fall is Hawaii’s one lousy season.
Luckily, my good friend K decided to spare me for a few days and went and got herself married in Vermont last weekend. Wasn’t that good of her?
Really, she is too kind. It’s actually been almost twenty years since I was last in Vermont; since Maine is essentially the same except with beaches I never felt the need. However, I shouldn’t need to tell you that Vermont in September smells like fir and pine and magic.
We stayed at the Old Tavern at Grafton, which I think comprised most of the downtown area. The air was delightful, nice and crisp, and there were handy blocks of cheese put into every room with a darling little cheese knife. I wish I had taken a photo of the wax crumbles and odd streak of cheddar, since that was the only sign that cheese had ever been outside of our bellies, but take my word for it–it was a lacto-massacre.
It’s hard for me to return to New England, especially in the fall. Usually I find myself wishing that America would come under direct fire from Halifax, thus justifying the need for an outpost of Tom’s job to set up somewhere that smells like the woods and has a preponderance of local dairy products around. Just as birds migrate in the winter, so too am I programmed to love New England. The return is always tough, even when travel is at its romantic peak (i.e. the baby is at home with her father and I can veg out alone).
Fortunately, when I return tomorrow I’ll have a list of the highlights of the trip, most of which involve the word “bush”, near incidents of molestation in the form of a racy game of tag that we invented, and several blurry shots of me looking drunkabulous in a push-up bra. You’ve been warned.