I'd had big plans for the spring break of my senior year since my freshman break of the same name. That fateful week four years ago began with a nine−hour bus ride to New York City and my first (and only) gypsy cab experience.
As I sat outside the hotel where I was supposed to meet my snow−stranded family hours before, locked in the front seat by a cabbie who was demanding 30 bucks and an additional 20 minutes of heated, one−sided discussion on Liberian politics, I couldn't decide which I was dreading more — being locked in the trunk of this musty green Volvo or playing Coke−and−Pepsi at my cousin's Bar Mitzvah the next day.
This is so not what college spring break is supposed to be like, I lamented silently as droplets of angry−fake−cab−driver−spittle landed in and around my eyes. Where is the chlorinated water and suntan lotion? Where are the intestinal parasites? Next year, I promised myself, but the next year found me in Ohio, and the next nursing a third−degree sunburn in the Southern Hemisphere.
This year was my last chance to live the dream, but as my friends and I attempted to recreate "Sex and the City: The Movie," (2008) minus the broken marriages and the incontinence, it became painfully clear that our bank accounts just couldn't accommodate a week of swim−up bars and irresponsibility. And so my staycation was born.
OK, so technically it wasn't a staycation. What it really was could be described as a weekend trip, padded on either end by a borrowed car, some unwanted timeshare points, a lot of cheap wine and a box of Goldfish. We started in Smugglers' Notch, Vt., at a family−friendly resort affectionately called Smuggs. Apparently whoever did the naming wasn't very knowledgeable in the categories of "words that mean conceited" ... or "words that mean vagina."
Determined to make the most of our short time there, we headed right to the local hotspot — Brewski's — conveniently located 500 yards from our door. My friend's vegan diet went out the window as we devoured macaroni and cheese, beef chili, pierogies and sweet−potato fries. Our waiter watched with a mix of disgust and admiration as we cleaned our plates. We then proceeded to make the long journey home, drunk off of saturated fat, to watch a few too many episodes of "Dawson's Creek" (1998−2003).
The next days were a blur of going to various locations where we learned how things were made and then bought those things and consumed them (ice cream, beer, cheese, maple syrup ... Vermont is not low in calories). We attempted a hike, on which we saw bear prints (which, in retrospect, may have belonged to a large dog). We raided the Smuggs General Store for bottles of wine under $10 and pints of Ben & Jerry's while tweens browsing the video section stared at us with looks that said, "My health teacher was right."
Clearly, my time at the notch was not quite the all−inclusive 80−degree escape I had dreamed up so long ago. I may not have a Facebook.com album titled "Fun in the Sizunnn" featuring me wearing a bikini and a cute stranger, but I'm OK with that. I don't look good tan anyway, and we did find the back cover of a phone book under the windshield of our car that read "Call us — the hot guys from Brewski's."
Considering there were no hot guys at Brewski's, we'll never know for sure who put it there (or how they knew which car was ours), but just knowing they're out there is enough. Or maybe it's knowing that with friends and a little Chunky Monkey, you can have fun anywhere. I'm satisfied with either one.
--
