Another Weekend in the Country

The Loved One was sent to Vermont for eight days to open up a store.

I was going to let the time pass, lonely and depressed, but after suffering an unwarranted amount of self-imposed stress and anxiety at work, I decided it might be best to get out of town and join him. Unfortunately, this meant missing "Ruined" with the Muse on Sunday; a play I still have to make a point to see (and which, I'm expecting, will be announced as a Pulitzer Prize winner in just about an hour).

I left work early on Friday evening to catch a 5:43pm train to Albany, the closest station to Manchester, VT. I actually had some work to do last week, intermittently, and was trying to negotiate a deal pertaining to an industrial that my company is producing in the Bahamas in June. The details of the negotiation are pointless and boring but the factors around it were completely unmanageable and I was convinced, in my crazy head, that the deal would fall apart (it did, today) and that I would be held responsible (I wasn't). But in my head I was. And it kept repeating like a broken record. And I was negotiating in my head. And I was thinking of what I could have done differently. And the Producer was out of the country so we'd only been going over the details of the negotiation over email. Thus, my stress. I can't gauge her mood or state-of-mind through written word. So I heap these feelings and thoughts upon myself. Unhealthy, yes. But out of my control at the moment.

Perhaps, I thought, a weekend in Vermont would be good. It would be nice to be with the Loved One and not alone. And I secured a dog sitter at the very last moment. I was off.

Amtrak was slow. It seemed to take forever to get from Penn Station to Poughkeepsie. It was obvious we were running 15 to 20 minutes late. The Loved One would already be on his way to meet me though, so to call and warn at this point was pointless. I restlessly paged through Mary Roach's "bonk" and stared at the setting sun through the dirty train car window. I didn't feel like listening to music. So the noise of the machine on the tracks and the conversations of strangers around me where my soundtrack. When the final bit of sunlight disappeared I put on my iPod.

The Loved One was waiting for me when I stepped off the train. He had been working without much time for food all day so he was starving. I was dealing with never really being hungry as a result of the anti-depressant. It was late though and something needed to be done. The restaurants in the Vermont hotel, over an hour away, would be closed by the time we got there. We decided to eat in Albany.

God bless the citizens of this city. We drove around for almost as long as my train ride looking for a parking space -- Friday night in a college town. The streets themselves though were oddly quiet and empty. We went to a Mexican restaurant, whose name escapes me, that the Loved One had been to before. Another symptom of my depression is that details are fuzzy. I'm unfocused and not quite here most of the time. I can get through the days but I function on a different plane; one somewhere above the level my body inhabits. I'm assuming its a protective measure. If I'm too present, I'll feel too much. And if I feel too much, I won't be able to function. So, I float in a fuzzy hemisphere, in a fog.

Where was I? Mediocre Mexican food! Yes, and a margarita. So much for not drinking when on the anti. Then the long car ride to Vermont. I can't describe the scenic drive because it was pitch black outside the car window and so nothing to see. The Loved One and I made infrequent conversation and I tried to quell the voice in my head that kept repeating "Gabrielle Reece. Gabrielle Reece. Gabrielle Reece.

Miss Reece is the former athlete whose presence I was trying to negotiate for the industrial. A week ago, I had no idea who she was. I'm still not entirely sure. But she was on "repeat" mode in my brain.

The Loved One had described the Equinox Spa and Resort as "The Hotel Fauchere but on a bigger scale." As we drove up to it, he was right. The long white columns stretched up to the heavens. Green rocking chairs were lined up on the porch, matching green shutters graced both sides of every window. We drove around the front entrance, past the town houses the Equinox rents and to the back parking lot. As we wrapped around the property I was able to see just how big it really was. Three floors in some places, four in others, the Equinox's arms wrapped around the property like the piazza in front of the Vatican in Rome. It also reminded me of the Dreams Tulum hotel the Muse and I stayed at for a few days while in Mexico. The pool, gym and spa area were housed separately from the main building in a complex all their own. A huge bubble-like enclosure a few feet away housed tennis courts. The falconry school was to our left.

The Loved One was exhausted from working all day and had to be up early the next morning to be back at the store. We went to bed, my mind still racing (Gabrielle Reece, Gabrielle Reece, Gabrielle Reece) and the anti-depressant keeping my awake. A few hours later as I was drifting in and out of a dream-like state, I was awakened by a loud noise above me. It sounded like a stampede that was moving furniture on their way. I was shocked by the severity of the noise because the carpet was so thick. It took a lot of energy to be that loud. I looked for the clock but realized the Loved One had turned it over, face down, because it was so bright. I put a pillow over my head and tossed and turned til daybreak.

With the Loved One off to work, I took a walk. The streets of Manchester are, oddly, paved in marble. I was fascinated by this as I followed the trail away from the hotel, down past beautiful houses and into the woods. The marble ended abruptly and I found that the path I was on ended at a private home. My shoes covered in mud, I headed in the other direction. People in cars stared at me as they drove past, as if no one walks in the suburbs when you can drive. But I'm a walker. I said hello to the few people I passed. I stopped in a home store that sold some of the brightest, ugliest home furnishings and decorations I've ever laid eyes upon and went back the hotel. It not even 11am yet but I assumed the stores in Manchester Village would be opening soon. First a bite to eat.

I had walked around earlier looking for breakfast, which I was told was in the Marsh Room but wasn't. On my walk around the property I had seen the room where in fact breakfast was. I had pulled a random book off my shelf as I was running out the door that morning because I knew I was almost finished 'bonk'. So I had Martha Quest by Doris Lessing in my hand as I walked into the bright breakfast room. But much like the title character in the first few pages, I was restless and couldn't concentrate on anything. And I wanted attention. I ordered some waffles at the grill station and waited. It was late for breakfast and few people were in the room. A couple and their 20-something child who struck me as not a very nice young woman. I couldn't hear what she was saying but the know-it-all tone of her voice carried through the room. Waiters carried tray after tray out the door. I guess a lot of people order room service. A waiter finally came by and asked if I wanted orange juice. Then disappeared.

My waffles were ready. I piled them high with fresh fruit and then some warm Vermont maple syrup. They were slightly undercooked but I was hungry. A few strips of bacon and I was set. I passed on coffee when the waiter finally came around. My eyes ran over the words in the book in front of me but nothing really computed internally. Finally, I finished and I wanted to leave. The waiter and the grille chef were having some sort of argument, not even behind closed doors, so I packed up my bag and stood around awkwardly waiting to be noticed. Story of my life. Finally I was seen and the waiter came over with the check. "One breakfast buffet," he said. Well, not really. I just had waffles. I opened the bill. $25! For waffles and fruit! That's more money then I spend on two meals in the city! I grudgingly handed him my ATM card and made a note to avoid that mistake again. $25 for undercooked waffles, bacon and a glass of OJ? Ridiculous.

I asked the concierge for a ride into town. The staff here were no where near as friendly as at the Fauchere. I was greeted cordially, but not warmly. My request was weighed heavily as if I had asked for something out of the ordinary, not clearly defined in the amenity section of the hotel's information guide. Each concierge tried to push off the duty to another until, finally, a crazed looking man with an orange toupee on top of some white tendrils came bounding towards me. "I'll take you, sir!" Thanks, I said. And please don't call me sir. I looked at his name tag. Howard.

Howard opened the door for me and bounded around the SUV like an excited child off to playtime. "Where in town do you want to go? Do you have a coupon book?" Oh, anywhere really. No, I don't have a coupon book. "You can't go out without one!" And before I could stop him, crazy Howard was out of the SUV and bounding into the hotel. He was more like a baby golden retriever actually; all energy and eager to please, limbs akimbo. He came back down the stairs with things in his hand. I couldn't find the button to put the window down and he opened the door, instead of just going around to his side of the car, getting in and handing me the papers. "Coupon book and a map!" Great. Thanks.

He bounded around the SUV again and took a seat beside me. "Now. Where did you say?" Uhm, I think there's an old bookstore in town, kind of in the center. I think I'll start there.

"Well, it's not actually an old bookstore. It sells mostly new things. There's a nice cafe inside as well. I'll point out some things on the drive..." And he kept talking but I tuned him out, finding the safer shores of my invisible depressive plane a welcome respite from Howard's conversation. Every once in a while, I would tune back in. "There's the Maidenform outlet. But I guess you don't need anything there, huh? Ha ha ha ha ha." Away again.

When we pulled up to the bookstore Howard handed me a card. "Call us when you want a ride back. Just tell us what store you're at and give us about five minutes or so to get there." Ok. He made a move to open his door and come around to get me but I stopped him. You don't have to do that Howard. I'm perfectly capable.

I offended him. "We're a four star hotel. We like to provide four star service." I appreciate that. But I've got it.

And to offend him even more I said, Listen. I don't have any cash on me so can I leave you a tip at the front when I get back?

"That's not why I was doing it," he said, puppy dog eyes and wounded ego.

Thanks, Howard. And I got out of the car. I hadn't meant to hurt his feelings. I wasn't assuming anything about him. Besides the fact that he was a little off-center. But, so am I. A bookstore would remedy that. The Northshire Bookstore is very large. It's badly laid out and difficult to find anything specifically. Luckily, I wasn't being specific so I lazily browsed the shelves and made mental notes about books I'd want to buy at a later date, when used copies go on-sale on B&N.com. But I did need something to read. I picked up a few things but still couldn't concentrate. My depression had locked me in limbo and not even books could break me out.

I walked down to the Loved Ones store and he took me on a quick tour. From there, I hit the J. Crew outlet. Suddenly, shopping became the sole cure. Stacking my arms full of clothes, I wandered the second floor like a man on a mission. These deals were too good to pass up. $29 for a shirt regularly priced at $69? I'll take two. Shorts for $30 a piece instead of $70? I need three pair. Oh! Blue-striped pants. I can't have enough of those. $25! Add them to the pile. I've always wanted a pair of Seersucker pants. I'll try those on too!

Luckily I was able to ween down the pile of clothes once in the dressing room. Mostly because some things did not fit me and I refused to go out in search of a larger size. This medication had better take some weight off of me.

At the register I remembered the coupon book Howard at given me and I paged through it to see if a J. Crew one was in there. Score! $10% off purchases over $150. Done. And I walked out with a bag overflowing with summer clothes. Now, I needed shoes. I crossed the street to the shoe store and picked up a pair of Clarks. Nothing in Ralph Lauren. Nothing in Michael Kors. Nothing in Maidenform...

I called the Loved One and asked if I could dump my purchases in the car before heading back to the bookstore, by way of the GAP outlet. I picked up a short-sleeved button down shirt at GAP and a pair of jeans for $12. Nice. Thrifty. And as I carried those things to the bookstore I suddenly had the thought, It's probably not the smartest idea in the world for someone thinking of quitting their job to be going on a shopping spree.

The realities of retail therapy far outweigh the high of buying. And never had it struck so quickly and decisively. I retreated to my plane, happier (?) in the hazy hemisphere.

I remembered reading something about a memoir that sounded interesting. I thought it was called "If You Find This Letter..." or "If You Find This Note..." or something like that. I had picked it up a few times at Barnes and Noble in Union Square and then read about in a magazine recently. It's about a woman going through a terrible divorce and in the midst of it she learns that her sister has been murdered by her boyfriend. The relatives find a letter that basically says, "if you find this that means that X has killed me..."

But I wasn't certain that was the title. I didn't know the author. And I couldn't find paperback non-fiction. I asked one of the clerks who said, "They sometimes get mixed in with Fiction, actually. Also you could try the Biography section." I had to bite my tongue from saying not every memoirist is James Frey. They don't belong in fiction. And you have about 100 shelves of fiction, I can't possibly go through each and every one. Instead I huffed over to Biography because it was a smaller section. Book by book I went though to no avail. The entire time I was listening to two men on the other side of the stacks talking about the local theatre scene. One of the men was in Blithe Spirit somewhere in town and the other was asking why he wasn't in some musical at the other theatre in town. "Well," the first man said, "They asked me to do it. But I'm just so happy working at the other theatre and the artistic director really gets me that I don't know if I wanna work at the other place anymore." And I thought, could I possibly make a life in the theatre for myself in a town like this? In Vermont? Is that even possible. The Loved One and I spend lots of time of moving to the country, opening up a store or a B&B or both. Would I be directing Community Theater at the local Rec Hall and would that be enough? It would be more than now.

I couldn't find the book. I walked over to new non-fiction and kept picking up a new book on the Columbine shootings but it was $26 and did I really want to immerse myself in that. I really wanted the 10th Anniversary edition of Nerve photos and essays but that was $40...and not after a $25 breakfast. Columbine weighed heavy in my hand. I looked at my watch. I had hours before the Loved One was free. My bag was in the car and I didn't feel like going back to get it to write. I picked up a copy of a book called The Kindly Ones that sounded fascinating. But it was huge and $29. So, Columbine it was.

I grabbed a coffee, pulled up a chair in the cafe and started reading about an American massacre.