You Can Take The Girl Out Of The City
But you apparently can't take the city out of the girl.
This was sadly proven this past weekend, when I ventured up to Pennsylvania for a weekend away from maddening Manhattan. The city clears out most weekends, with everyone cruising east to the hamptons, north to Connecticut. or - like my friends and I - west to the middle of nowhere PA. In theory I love the idea of getting "away from it all." In reality, however...
Friday afternoon five of us crowded into Regan's trusty 4-Runner, along with bed linens and towels for the next 4 weeks, a canoe, two (count 'em) guitars, various electrical chargers and iPod players, and some fishing gear. And a boston terrier puppy (and his food and wee wee pads). And a partridge in a pear tree.
Three hours later, after emerging from the grimy holland tunnel and escaping the dirtier parts of the dirty Jers', we were surrounded by trees and lakes and nothingness (save for the massive highway we were on) for miles. It was definitely beautiful and lush. Our heart rates slowed down as we took in all of that green. As we approached the freeway exit we all got excited. Would our house be cute? What would our neighbors be like? Will it feel, like some of our past rental experiences, haunted? And what would the lake look like, the lake in which we'd be swimming for hours every day and diving into from our private dock?
The problem with going somewhere rural is that there isn't a lot to do. Yes - I think that's a problem. This was made all too obvious when we hit the "main" intersection of our quaint little town. At the flashing red light we saw a dilapidated antiques shop that, despite the "OPEN" sign dangling by a wire in the muddy, cracked window, was most definitely NOT open for business, and the civic center/baseball field/art school/post office/daycare center was the size of my apartment. It was not promising.
I know this is meant to be relaxing. I get the point that I'm supposed to relish the fact that I'm not sweltering in the city and I am communing with nature. The irony is I love nature, I really do. Just not that much. The problem with nature is that it's just so...natural. The bugs, the bees, the bullfrogs? Not entirely a group I feel comfortable with.
The house was actually lovely - decent furniture for a rental, a full kitchen (with a blender for making that Pennsylvania Lake staple: the margarita), and enough board games to keep even me satisfied. My bedroom had a bunk bed, 2 single beds, and summery blue walls. I did get a bit neauseous every time I went upstairs, though, courtesy of the lopsided walls and extremely caved-in hardwood floor. Every time I walked towards my dresser I had the odd, trippy feeling that I was starring in my own real life Alice in Wonderland. I sort of loved it, but it sort of made me sick. Maybe the original Alice had dramamine.
The best part of summer houses is the BBQ, and lucky for us we had a slew of men who enjoyed meat in the house. While they fired up the grill for spicy pork sausages, roasted red pepper chicken sausage, and hamburgers, the girls busied themselves with the tidy work. We created a blue cheese, greens, pear and pine nut salad, some mushroom and herb couscous, and sweet summer corn (to me, that is the end all, be all of summer foods - fresh sweet corn). As we putzed around the kitchen I couldn't help but think to myself that had I been born many years earlier this life would've been my fate: Setting up the kitchen and making dinner all nice and neat while the men speared meat over hot coals, drank beers, and enjoyed the sunset. I did find it odd, in a way, that we all fall so naturally into these roles. I honestly wouldn't have had it any other way. (I really AM old fashioned after all.)
After dinner, drinks, and a very competitive few rounds of our new favorite card game, Mao (think Hearts-meets-Uno-meets-good old fashioned communism), we gabbed a bit and then headed to bed. This is when the real fun began. While I was about to crawl into the top bunk of my huge bedroom (just like camp! only better food and fewer hormones, and you don't have to sneak if you want to go to a boy's cabin), I heard a violent scratching behind my closet doors. I called Regan up. Who in turn called Jordan up. Who, upon hearing the fiesty animal trying to get out, came back with reinforcement: flashlight, broom, bucket, dustpan. In what order (or how) he was planning on using these things I was afraid to ask. But in the event that we needed to do some impromptu house cleaning in the dark, we were sufficiently prepped.
As Regan and I crouched in our PJs on the tiny bunk bed, I had images of movies from years past. Specifically, The Great Outdoors. Jordan's life - at least the next five minutes of it - flashed before my eyes. I imagined a squirrel, or a possum, or a rabid raccoon, flying out and gluing itself to his face as he wrestled it to the floor. I have GOT to stop watching so much TV.
Turns out nothing was there. The flashlight probe showed no animal anywhere, and after donning my infamous Burberry eye mask (ask any girl who was a Kappa between 1998 and 2002 to hear about my mildly high-maintenance sleep habits), downing half a xanax, and clutching a flashlight, I had a perfectly pleasant sleep.
The next two days would've driven me batty if it weren't for the new New York Magazine, in which I read every single word, punctuation mark, and even the cheap, tacky advertisements in the back (if you ever need a good massage parlor with happy endings, I could probably provide a few recs). I read over a hundred pages in my book. I created my own olympics: CarbFest '07. What else do you do when you're surrounded by farmland? My friends were, as always, the saving grace, providing me with many good talks, much laughter, and interesting insight.
When the weekend came to a close we hit what our neighbors called "The World's Best" ice cream stand, set on a real working dairy farm. That was surely the highlight of the trip. I found the huge silos a bit unnerving - really, how long does milk keep in those things? - and there was a faint manure smell, but it added to the authenticity of the experience. Even at 8pm the place was hopping, and after one tasty lick we could understand why: deliciousness. My butter pecan ice cream tasted like salty, sweet, toasty caramel, and the brownies in my Charlie Brownie (seriously) ice cream tasted like globs of fresh-out-of-the-oven, gooey homebaked treats. There was a rich, alkaline cocoa taste to the ice cream base that gave it the depth of true dark chocolate (and you know how I feel about good dark chocolate...). Our only compaint was there weren't enough goodies inside the flavors - I could've done with many more pecans and brownie bites, but the mouth feel was luscious and thick and smooth and dense, and it was not sickeningly sweet, like so many ice creams today. We drove away past the fields while the last of the sun set, and I remember thinking at that moment "Well, I could definitely do that again next weekend."
Until we came back at midnight and hit traffic on the GW bridge. And I came home and slept in my cushy Park Ave apartment with 400-thread count sheets, DVR, internet, dishwasher. I wish I could be that person, the one who enjoys relaxing and not doing anything and getting into "the zone." Often, in other arenas, I can be. I love the beach. I can relax on a beach for hours, but only if I know there's somewhere to go at night. Some place to mingle with the locals. Get a little action. But I need to accept the fact that I'm not remotely a little bit country, maybe slightly rock & roll, and 100% metroploitan.
Some pics from the weekend for your enjoyment:
Regan and Jordan and the cutest puppy on the planet, Miles (also the house mascot)
World's Best Ice Cream
SIlos full of maybe/possibly/quite probably tons of spoiling milk
The ladies enjoying their Sunday night treat (and me looking a bit worse for wear. i am about this close to pulling my hair out. need...city...life.)
This was sadly proven this past weekend, when I ventured up to Pennsylvania for a weekend away from maddening Manhattan. The city clears out most weekends, with everyone cruising east to the hamptons, north to Connecticut. or - like my friends and I - west to the middle of nowhere PA. In theory I love the idea of getting "away from it all." In reality, however...
Friday afternoon five of us crowded into Regan's trusty 4-Runner, along with bed linens and towels for the next 4 weeks, a canoe, two (count 'em) guitars, various electrical chargers and iPod players, and some fishing gear. And a boston terrier puppy (and his food and wee wee pads). And a partridge in a pear tree.
Three hours later, after emerging from the grimy holland tunnel and escaping the dirtier parts of the dirty Jers', we were surrounded by trees and lakes and nothingness (save for the massive highway we were on) for miles. It was definitely beautiful and lush. Our heart rates slowed down as we took in all of that green. As we approached the freeway exit we all got excited. Would our house be cute? What would our neighbors be like? Will it feel, like some of our past rental experiences, haunted? And what would the lake look like, the lake in which we'd be swimming for hours every day and diving into from our private dock?
The problem with going somewhere rural is that there isn't a lot to do. Yes - I think that's a problem. This was made all too obvious when we hit the "main" intersection of our quaint little town. At the flashing red light we saw a dilapidated antiques shop that, despite the "OPEN" sign dangling by a wire in the muddy, cracked window, was most definitely NOT open for business, and the civic center/baseball field/art school/post office/daycare center was the size of my apartment. It was not promising.
I know this is meant to be relaxing. I get the point that I'm supposed to relish the fact that I'm not sweltering in the city and I am communing with nature. The irony is I love nature, I really do. Just not that much. The problem with nature is that it's just so...natural. The bugs, the bees, the bullfrogs? Not entirely a group I feel comfortable with.
The house was actually lovely - decent furniture for a rental, a full kitchen (with a blender for making that Pennsylvania Lake staple: the margarita), and enough board games to keep even me satisfied. My bedroom had a bunk bed, 2 single beds, and summery blue walls. I did get a bit neauseous every time I went upstairs, though, courtesy of the lopsided walls and extremely caved-in hardwood floor. Every time I walked towards my dresser I had the odd, trippy feeling that I was starring in my own real life Alice in Wonderland. I sort of loved it, but it sort of made me sick. Maybe the original Alice had dramamine.
The best part of summer houses is the BBQ, and lucky for us we had a slew of men who enjoyed meat in the house. While they fired up the grill for spicy pork sausages, roasted red pepper chicken sausage, and hamburgers, the girls busied themselves with the tidy work. We created a blue cheese, greens, pear and pine nut salad, some mushroom and herb couscous, and sweet summer corn (to me, that is the end all, be all of summer foods - fresh sweet corn). As we putzed around the kitchen I couldn't help but think to myself that had I been born many years earlier this life would've been my fate: Setting up the kitchen and making dinner all nice and neat while the men speared meat over hot coals, drank beers, and enjoyed the sunset. I did find it odd, in a way, that we all fall so naturally into these roles. I honestly wouldn't have had it any other way. (I really AM old fashioned after all.)
After dinner, drinks, and a very competitive few rounds of our new favorite card game, Mao (think Hearts-meets-Uno-meets-good old fashioned communism), we gabbed a bit and then headed to bed. This is when the real fun began. While I was about to crawl into the top bunk of my huge bedroom (just like camp! only better food and fewer hormones, and you don't have to sneak if you want to go to a boy's cabin), I heard a violent scratching behind my closet doors. I called Regan up. Who in turn called Jordan up. Who, upon hearing the fiesty animal trying to get out, came back with reinforcement: flashlight, broom, bucket, dustpan. In what order (or how) he was planning on using these things I was afraid to ask. But in the event that we needed to do some impromptu house cleaning in the dark, we were sufficiently prepped.
As Regan and I crouched in our PJs on the tiny bunk bed, I had images of movies from years past. Specifically, The Great Outdoors. Jordan's life - at least the next five minutes of it - flashed before my eyes. I imagined a squirrel, or a possum, or a rabid raccoon, flying out and gluing itself to his face as he wrestled it to the floor. I have GOT to stop watching so much TV.
Turns out nothing was there. The flashlight probe showed no animal anywhere, and after donning my infamous Burberry eye mask (ask any girl who was a Kappa between 1998 and 2002 to hear about my mildly high-maintenance sleep habits), downing half a xanax, and clutching a flashlight, I had a perfectly pleasant sleep.
The next two days would've driven me batty if it weren't for the new New York Magazine, in which I read every single word, punctuation mark, and even the cheap, tacky advertisements in the back (if you ever need a good massage parlor with happy endings, I could probably provide a few recs). I read over a hundred pages in my book. I created my own olympics: CarbFest '07. What else do you do when you're surrounded by farmland? My friends were, as always, the saving grace, providing me with many good talks, much laughter, and interesting insight.
When the weekend came to a close we hit what our neighbors called "The World's Best" ice cream stand, set on a real working dairy farm. That was surely the highlight of the trip. I found the huge silos a bit unnerving - really, how long does milk keep in those things? - and there was a faint manure smell, but it added to the authenticity of the experience. Even at 8pm the place was hopping, and after one tasty lick we could understand why: deliciousness. My butter pecan ice cream tasted like salty, sweet, toasty caramel, and the brownies in my Charlie Brownie (seriously) ice cream tasted like globs of fresh-out-of-the-oven, gooey homebaked treats. There was a rich, alkaline cocoa taste to the ice cream base that gave it the depth of true dark chocolate (and you know how I feel about good dark chocolate...). Our only compaint was there weren't enough goodies inside the flavors - I could've done with many more pecans and brownie bites, but the mouth feel was luscious and thick and smooth and dense, and it was not sickeningly sweet, like so many ice creams today. We drove away past the fields while the last of the sun set, and I remember thinking at that moment "Well, I could definitely do that again next weekend."
Until we came back at midnight and hit traffic on the GW bridge. And I came home and slept in my cushy Park Ave apartment with 400-thread count sheets, DVR, internet, dishwasher. I wish I could be that person, the one who enjoys relaxing and not doing anything and getting into "the zone." Often, in other arenas, I can be. I love the beach. I can relax on a beach for hours, but only if I know there's somewhere to go at night. Some place to mingle with the locals. Get a little action. But I need to accept the fact that I'm not remotely a little bit country, maybe slightly rock & roll, and 100% metroploitan.
Some pics from the weekend for your enjoyment:
Regan and Jordan and the cutest puppy on the planet, Miles (also the house mascot)
World's Best Ice Cream
SIlos full of maybe/possibly/quite probably tons of spoiling milk
The ladies enjoying their Sunday night treat (and me looking a bit worse for wear. i am about this close to pulling my hair out. need...city...life.)
posted by Chaden at 12:27 AM
1 Comments:
I really liked your blog. Where in Pennsylvania where you? I think it was in my territory. Also any of those massage parlours you really recomend I have a client in New York if you know what I meean.
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