BRATTLEBORO — Walking into my first night at writer's group felt like walking back to New York. The concept of a writing group was new and exciting to me. I didn't have any expectations except to put pen to the paper I forgot to bring.
Funny how new things, places, and people always remind you of old things, places, and people. I could almost imagine the honk of horns, the constant reminder of people outside the window walking, talking, laughing, fighting, making up, and making out in the street below.
The apartment was out of New York, with an eclectic mix of objects and people: the mini kitchen, the beaded lamps, windows large with generous, rich drapes and books piled high in every nook and cranny. It was all so familiar yet not, like the chocolate stout I'd never had before and the friendly, welcoming faces I've never met.
Yet the quiet was there, the peace that never existed in the city. I still marvel at the sounds I would have been deaf to 15 months ago, like the droning fridge, the dancing click of laptop keys, the steady breath of Fred, barefoot, bespectacled, trim, William Powell–esque mustache, intent over his writing tablet. I noticed that everyone is barefoot except me, and I wondered if I should have asked if I should remove my boots.
* * *
The last year since I've moved here from New York has gone by fast, with so many changes, it's hard to keep up. I thought my life here would be slower somehow, that fleeing the frenetic energy of the city would magically give me more time.
Fifteen months later, and I feel like I've been shot out of a cannon. Every new face reminds me of someone else. I guess it's true what they say: you live long enough and everything starts to repeat itself, patterns jump out at you.
In the midst of it all, I revel in my quiet, those selfish, lazy moments when I bask in silence, standing on the little porch to my cottage, and stare up at the moon and stars on clear nights. I could never see the stars in the city; the moon occasionally when I wasn't staring, mannequin-like, at the sidewalk, skipping over dog poop and ignoring cat calls, aggressive stares, and the unexpected updraft of urban cologne, Eau de Wee Wee.
Now I have to consciously retrain myself to look others in the eye, greet them, speak a courtesy, exchange salutations. After 10 years in New York, Vermont feels like a foreign country where I'm attempting to teach myself how to be a native.
At Bickford's I had to ask the waitress what “hamburg” was - a native delicacy? She answered without judgment. Thank God they're so close to the interstate exit; she must see a lot of foreigners.
What is a “flatlander”? What's a resident of Maine? Who are “the Pats,” and why are people rooting for them? Where am I? I keep thinking the Brattleboro police in their RoboCop cruisers are going to pull me over and ask to see my passport and papers.
A few months ago, I made a comment to a coworker about how productive “you Vermonters” are, and she cheerily replied “Well, you're a Vermonter now too!” and I was startled. Really? I almost thanked her. I didn't believe places like this still existed in America. I've jumped around the past 15 years: New Jersey, California, Arizona (it seemed like a good idea at the time), back to New York and then to the city proper. I moved twice in every state I lived in for more than a year. But Vermont was the first place that felt familiar, like coming home, though I knew I'd never been here before.
Gracious. Welcoming. Kind. Community. These were the words I used to when I got back to Brooklyn after my first visit, having already made up my mind that's where I was moving to. I talked about Vermont like it was my new boyfriend. Everyone thought I was crazy. I thought it was crazy to stay in New York. With the optimism of a sixteen year old with her first crush, I had already started packing before my visit. No car, no job. Goodbye, New York! I was smitten. Smitted? Is that word? Who cares? Vermont liked me, it really, really liked me and I blabbed to everyone who had the misfortune to ask me how I was doing.
But, magically… It did work! Everything sort of fell into place. Five days after I moved up here I had my second job interview and was hired on the spot. I think my mother was disappointed that I had gleefully (and not for the first time, or the twentieth, for that matter) ignored her prophecy of gloom and doom and she had to choke back her prepared condolence speech. She is still amazed at my reckless disregard for 'shoulds' and can't believe I still manage to land on my feet… I'm still wondering if I should offer to remove my shoes.
Vermont has embraced me and I have embraced it. Yes, it's official. I've taken its name, it says so right on my driver's license. I've met its parents, Farmer and Organic Co-op and even its crotchety grandparents, Minus Zero and Ice Storm. They've accepted me as a transplant, a recovering New Yorker. I even drive a Subaru. I drank the Kool-Aid and asked for seconds.
Think I'm off topic here. So back to this new now; I haven't written in a group since college. Maybe this should have been some fictional rambling instead of this. Laurie and Ross look so intent. Ross looks young, collegiate, gentle; I bet he's a great dad. Laurie reminds me of one of my favorite elementary school teachers. Suzanne hugged me when I came in, and I expected her to smell like sandalwood and lemon verbena; I think she and I would have been friends in college. I felt like I wasn't new in this New York reminiscent apartment. But I still think I should have removed my shoes.