About a year ago, my older brother, my mother, and I decided on a whim to shoot up to Burlington, Vermont. We had no idea what there was to do or see, but we had heard about the city’s vibrant culture and atmosphere. We made the decision to go in June, so we had to take what we could get.
The day we arrived, we went around town. We found a pretty little beach on the lake. Usually, the volume of the tourists bother me, but I found myself being unusually content in the mass of people. The sky was a peaceful overcast, and my brother and I sat on some rocks that were half submerged in the lake and talked for a good while. Meanwhile our mother had a nice walk along the shoreline walking path. He was still attending college then, and we talked about what types of jobs his Political Science degree might bring him. I can recall those conversations being so hopeful. We continued on and ended up coming across Oakledge Park, a public treehouse in a small section of forest. Names of lovers, and obscenities had been carved all over the structure. Briefly, we were alone, despite being only a couple of minutes away from the droves of tourists that lined the beach. After some appreciation of the carpentry, we left and went back to our room and rested for sometime before finding dinner. That night, we explored Burlington’s expanse of shops and vendors in their outdoor mall.
The following evening, no one had any real ideas of what to do or see, so we headed south. After about 30 minutes we found a little farming town called Charlotte. Giant bales of hay rested on the golden fields and cattle pastures stretched on. We saw a sign saying that a ferry terminal was nearby. We did not anticipate getting to New York and the Adirondack Mountains, so my brother and I were elated. Our mother was concerned about getting stuck in the town across the lake for timing reasons. We must have pestered her for 15 minutes before I got tired of arguing and began to side with her. Finally, from the persistence of my brother, she gave in and bought the tickets. While on board, we marvelled at the jagged mountains ahead of us and the voluminous, indigo clouds behind us that blanketed Charlotte.
The town we were heading to was Essex, New York. It looked like the classic New England town, and it was unscathed by the constant flow of tourists, so the charm was even stronger. We had no idea where we would eat, but after walking just about 5 minutes we found the Essex Inn. Upon being greeted, we found that we were the only ones there. Our waitress sat us down and made us feel as if we were family that came to visit. We all got something different, but everyone’s dish looked cooked to perfection. It would have been helpful if the table had been a lazy-susan because we all picked off of each other’s plates. By the end of our meals, it felt as if the seams of our stomachs might pop, but we pushed ourselves to see more of this gorgeous town. Soon enough, we had to turn back for the ferry.
On the way back, we reminisced of both Charlotte and Essex, expressing our favorite views and scenes from both towns. We emphatically declared that we would have to return. We have not returned to them yet, but the memories always seem to return to us.
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