Days Traveled, Unraveled: Vermont

Having gone to Vermont for the majority of my life’s winters and summers, it was a side home for me. I found a lot of comfort in going to Vermont for a classic (millionth) trip into the Ben & Jerry’s Factory and seeing my friend Catie at UVM in Burlington. And comfort was just what I needed. Though I was probably taking Mely’s company for granted. I knew this was true when I gave her ‘tude over her excitement for our Ben & Jerry’s Factory trip. I hadn’t mentioned that’s where we were going (because to me, it was obvious), and she didn’t find out until the GPS said “Starting route to Ben & Jerry’s Ice Cream Factory.”

I tried to relax, and the constant driving wasn’t doing it. But finally our arrival consoled me. Graced in white snow, there stood the factory. And there we followed the tour. And there is where I bought $50 worth of Ben & Jerry’s merchandise (no regrets).

I knew we were so close to the family resort, Smuggs, to which my family owned those weekly timeshares in Summer and Winter. I grew up there. I learned how to ski, how to swim, made friends. I considered stopping there to show Mely, but I knew it wouldn’t be all that impressive for her. For me, it would have been a trip down memory lane. It would have been a trip based on nostalgia. Vermont was a state that made me happy, but it also involved memories of Garth, so there was a lot of pain paired, too. Even at the Ben & Jerry’s factory, I thought of the Chubby Hubby magnet I swiped on his death date, since that was both of our favorites. I thought of the ice cream shovel spoons they sell that he would brag to his friends about. Garth was with me everywhere and Smuggs was not excluded from that. Though I wanted that sense of private happiness, I knew I could find happiness in Burlington with Catie.

So we parked at Catie’s house and just hung out. Even in those silent moments at her house, I was satisfied to just be away. That night, her friends came over for a dinner party. We all shared Woodchuck Cider (my favorite), baked ziti, and laughs. We all discovered the popularity of DubSmash and eventually called it a night. It was quite a normal night, so I was in my element.

The next morning I awoke with the sun. Mely (a late sleeper), Catie, and her boyfriend Kyle all slept in. But I grabbed the only thing I could truly focus on without getting anxiety: a book.

Rewind to over a year prior: I was in school at Syracuse and typically busy with classes and work. I stayed home for Thanksgiving break and I only had few floormates and one book that I had bought the summer before: My Boyfriend Wrote a Book about Me by Hilary Winston. This hilarious, easy read was good for my self-esteem as I learned about all the uncomfortable and awkward boy-social upbringing Hilary went through. It made me feel less like a pathetic loser, even though she was prettier than me tenfold, with apparently a much better ass, according to male counterparts in her novel (given that my ass isn’t that great anyway). I never finished it, since I got too caught up in finals after Thanksgiving break, and then depression that winter.

For my road trip, the only unfinished book I owned, was her’s. I wasn’t quite sure if this would be better or worse for my broken heart, and even as I read on, that question was never clarified into an answer. The part where I had last left off in Syracuse was right after Hilary’s boyfriend of five years had broken up with her. She was miserable because she expected Kyle (book Kyle, not Catie’s Kyle) to be the one she was marrying. I was hooked, though I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why. I was extra sad with her, I laughed with (or at) her. Her misery, was my misery, and I finally felt normal for feeling this way. I knew it was normal, but I was never consoled into a normalcy feeling. And here was my consoled confirmation: in writing, in a book (which happens to be about and written by some weirdo/normal cat lady, but that’s aside from the point).

I kept reading all morning, even by the time everyone else was awake. After I read this one crazy bit in the book, I had to take a break to explain what I just read to others. I later told everyone I knew about this part. Still to this day, I’m excited to relay this unbelievable chapter.

It started off at this party someone threw. At the party, they hired a psychic for fun, where all of the guests kept coming out one after another elated that they’d been blessed with good fortunes like marriage, job promotions, kids, and such. Finally it was Hilary’s turn. She goes in to get normal readings for everyday’s life components, except love. In the love compartment, the card that kept turning (yes, over and over again) for her love life was a man jabbing his eyes out with sticks. Finally, the psychic turned the tarot cards one more time in regards to love and Hilary was handed Death. The psychic freaked out on Hilary, yelling at her, asking why she can’t love! Hilary had no response, left, and told everyone else at the party of some exciting and happy fake fortune.

Some time later, Hilary eventually visited New York City. She explained how she frequented a psychic for tradition every time she went to New York, which wasn’t very often anyway. At this psychic, Hilary was given good fortunes in terms of job and other life aspects. Hilary had to ask her about love. The psychic explained there was nothing to be found nor said for her for love. Hilary explained her predicament with the previous psychic, and the New York psychic told her about this one lady who found a regression therapist. The psychic believed regression therapy to be load of horse crap, but she explained how her client got some much needed answers from her regression therapist.

Back home, Hilary searched regression therapists and found them to be very expensive, but thought it was worth a shot anyway. The one she landed on did his work in a condo and it essentially only involved a reclining chair. He kept asking Hilary questions, things she thought he should be able to answer without her help. But eventually, next thing she knew, she could see her past. No shit. A completely different woman, but she knew it was her.I think of it like a dream: like when you know some random dude you’ve never seen before is your father, but in your dream, YOU KNOW it’s your father. And this is what regression therapists do; they explore your past lives for answers of problems in your current life.

He asked how Hilary was born, and she explained by very conservative parents in Texas, by C-Section of her mom. Then Hilary was suddenly able to see these two hippie characters who loved their newborn baby very much, and were so proud. The therapist told her that this is how she should have been born: with lots of love. That real life C-Section already kept her from the loving, natural birth that would have helped her soul (or something like that).

Anyway, she could see in the past. And she said she was in the late 1800s in New England, and she walked in on her father having an affair with another woman that wasn’t her mom (again people that she knew to be her mother/father). Her best friend explained that everyone in the town knew, and that he should be ashamed of himself. From there, she was missing the love from her father. She ended up dying alone.

Next thing she saw was herself in the 1920s in Berlin. She was waiting for a man that was to be her husband. An arranged marriage. She was waiting because he had actually left when he found out he was to marry her, but he came back, only out of duty or pride as a man. And they lived a happy life with children, but it wasn’t with a true call of love. She committed suicide.

I thought this was all insane and I truly couldn’t believe it. All of her jokes aside, in this comedy-genre’d book, I still believe she told true events the entire time. And I thought to myself, “If her past lives are the reason why she can’t truly trust men and love, maybe my past lives explain why I am unloveable. Why every time I commit to someone, they eventually lose interest in me.”

As an agnostic, I don’t firmly believe that anything is or isn’t there, or that past lives have or haven’t happened. Maybe these things she saw were dreams of the subconscious and it was just within her this entire time. Maybe reincarnation does exist. I have no proof. And I won’t have any proof of anything until I find a true and lasting love that was just as real as my brief time spent with Julian. So as much as the regression therapy amazed and bewildered me, I was also depressed by the thought of something else that is completely not in my control, holding me back from our simple unique human quality.

I snapped back into reality with Catie and Mely. Where regardless of what I read, I had to keep trudging. We walked over to Church Street, Burlington’s only excited, frequently populated street, and perused the expensive, yet earthy stores on the brick-built walkway all the way down. The wind blew against our cheeks and knuckles so harshly, we finally turned back for Catie’s apartment. There, my sister informed me of an order she had made with the Citizen Cider brewery, that was available for my pick-up.

We grabbed the craft cider, and already headed back to New Jersey. I had work the next day, and the trip had to continue. Our stay in Vermont was short and sweet, unlike so many other cities that were just short, exhausting, and not enough. But Vermont’s my earthy, green, outdoorsy counterpart. Besides, there can always be a next time for Vermont for me.

Days Traveled, Unraveled: New Hampshire

The drive to Portsmouth was a short one. I told Mely of the famous liquor store right off the highway in New Hampshire. It’s only famous in that when I was a kid, people raved about it. Their eyes lit up with excitement because there was a huge liquor store, easily accessible on a popular highway. However, at, I don’t know, seven years old, and only familiar with alcohol-related words such as “beer,” “wine,” “you-wouldn’t-like-this,” and “for-grown-ups,” I kept hearing “Lick-er Store.” So thinking that the only things I could lick were lollipops, my mind immediately thought of candy. I was also open to the possibility that this store would only serve licorice, but Twizzlers would suffice fine, too, right?

So when my family jumped out of our van, and basically ran for the aisles of alcohol, I wondered where all the good food was stashed. I didn’t understand what they were so excited about until we were checking out.

“Where are all the lollipops?” I asked my sister.

“Lollipops?” she asked.

“Yeah, or is it licorice?” I could tell Stacey was trying to calculate and connect my mind to the liquor store. “It is a lick-er store, right? Do I get to taste lollipops or something?”

Stacey laughed and immediately sympathized with “awwww.” And this, folks, is when I learned about adult drinks, while tears welled in my eyes.

Passing the liquor store at 22-years-old, I still can’t help but smile at that story. This was one of many times that my siblings made fun of me, but looking back, I wonder if they thought I was mature for my age. Probably not, since they still tell me to be careful while holding a cup of water, or other things of similar nature since my mechanical skills fully developed.

Minutes away from Portsmouth, I glanced at the gas tank. So low. To the point where I wasn’t sure if we were going to make it. A beacon of light came from our exit of all places, and I quickly hopped out of the car, ready to refill (as if my speed could replace the mistake of not filling up sooner). A man greeted me and asked what I would like. I hesitated.

“Uh, fill it up, regular,” I said to the kind man. I felt awkward since I was already out of the car and handed him my debit card. I didn’t want to just ditch him. “Uh, so I thought you fill up your own gas in New Hampshire?”

“You do. This is one of two places that serve gas for you,” he said happily.

“Oh. That’s nice. I’m from Jersey so I’m used to not pumping my own gas, but I was just really surprised to see you here to help.” So I made up for my awkwardness and hopped back in the car. Then we arrived to Heather and Eliot’s.

Heather and Eliot were friends of my sister, Jodi. Since Jodi lived in Portsmouth for a good chunk of her life, she had friends that were able to open up their homes to us last-minute nomads of the road. Heather and Eliot were very kind and welcoming for us to stay on their couch. They offered us a lot, but we told them all we needed was WiFi and a roof.

Early the next morning we packed back up, and headed out to embrace Portsmouth fresh-eyed. Though Portsmouth has a lot of great boutiques, restaurants, and cafes with an emphasis on local shopping, I saved my money and my stomach for the Big Bean Cafe in Newmarket, just outside of Portsmouth.

Growing up in tiny town, Belmar, I definitely grew to love that sense of community. I loved all the local dining options (that I too often remarked while living in Syracuse. My roommate Aliza would tell me to shut up). I loved that I knew all the in’s and out’s of my town and area. But growing up so close to New York City, I also loved the hustle and bustle, the fast life, never without another person around (stranger or not).

While Portsmouth is not comparable to New York City, it is still a small city with a popular downtown life atmosphere and apparently good breweries always in close proximity. It’s not a suburb like Belmar, but has the kid-friendly environment. I could already encourage myself or others to live here in order to raise a family. Portsmouth is the perfect articulation of city meets suburb, and progressive with New England charm.

Options always seem available in environmentally conscious New Hampshire. I always love when a city is proactive on important issues, but not to severe old-school mindset extremities.

Right across from Portsmouth is the border of Maine, to which we waved happily to and took pictures. The top attractions for Maine seemed too far away for the winter time with such little day time and limited time in getting to other states as well, so we decided to skip it. I don’t know what difference it would have made if we touched Maine soil, because even if we had, and someone asks, “Have you been to Maine,” Mely would only say, “Yeah, just for a second, but I didn’t do anything.” It really makes very little difference than her answer being “I saw it.” (Whereas I’ve been to Maine).

So we breezed through historic Strawberry Bank, and broke through to Newmarket. Finally!!!! Breakfast!!!!!!!!

The Big Bean Cafe is where all delicious needs are met. Fresh coffee. In season specials. Fresh-made, homemade, wide-variety muffins. Oh no. They were sold out of muffins. It was only 11AM or so, and they were already out of the muffins. I had earlier bragged to Mely about their white-chocolate-chip-raspberry muffin that I hoped they would have in stock. When I saw none in the baskets, I prayed they had even a corn muffin on the floor somewhere that I could lick (okay maybe a little exaggerated!). But no dice.

Their empty muffin shelves were made up with the chocolate-peanut-butter-chocolate-chipped-banana pancakes with a side of fresh fruit. The peanutbutter and chocolate drizzle over 3 large pancakes made my mouth water and my stomach full. I still have the photo saved on my phone for bragging purposes.

(And since breakfast is one of Julian’s and mine favorite things, you bet your ass I tried to make him jealous of this. I really often tried to raise any kind of emotion out of Julian, because any emotion–good or bad–was better than no expression at all. He felt bad for breaking up with me, filling our conversations, and my confused thoughts with ‘sorry’s’ and ‘:/’s’. While his sympathy and his virtual presence during this time for me was appreciated ((Don’t forget, this was March, and my brother’s birthday was coming up, and I was already having a hard time without Garth before Julian broke up with me)), I just wanted him to feel something, anything. Even if you’re texting someone you just met 30 seconds ago, anyone can tell you that being told off is better than being ignored. It’s all the same feeling.)

So New Hampshire was a better accomplishment than Boston. And my heart was still broken, but I was in the process of healing. A very slow, annoying process. But Julian didn’t ruin my breakfast at the Big Bean, and he wasn’t going to hurt my Ben & Jerry’s experience along with the rest of our Vermont trip.