Burlington--the biggest little city in Vermont

Most weekends, Aaron has to coax me away from my home base to get out and see new places. I am what they would call in North Carolina a home skillet. I am happy most Saturdays hitting garage sales and making homemade pasta. He, on the other hand, feels as if he hasn’t had a weekend unless he has gone somewhere, and Burlington—the largest city in Vermont—was on his short list of day trips. I remember meeting a woman shortly after I moved here who described Burlington as a “real city” with lots of people, restaurants and shopping and “woo hoo” events … whatever that means. (She was also the same woman who told me that she had spotted a bear in my driveway just a day after we moved in). Anyway, her description of Burlington made snicker to myself, since I knew the city only had 10,000 more inhabitants than Claremont, CA, where we lived previously—a small suburb of Los Angeles that I certainly would not call a “real city”. Nevertheless, that Sunday we made the one-and-a-half hour’s drive to see it.

I can honestly say that outside of the Black Forest in Germany or a few treks through the countryside of Austria, I have never seen any landscape more intoxicatingly beautiful than the drive up Highway 89 from White River Junction to Burlington. (OK, there is still the French countryside.) It is not just the densely packed trees and rolling hills beneath a pristine blue sky (we got lucky that day with weather). But it is also the white church steeples, patches of farmland and red or yellow barns that dot the way, reminding you that people do actually live here. It is not just a backdrop for a Disney movie. And then there are the signs for Moose or Bear Crossing along the way that seem almost planted, like some local joke. And they always make me laugh, especially as I hang out the window with my digital camera trying to snap a picture of one to use as my new Facebook photo so when people pull up my profile, they will see a yellow diamond-shaped sign warning of Moose. Only, these signs are real and serve important purposes, the first of which is literally to be careful not to hit a moose. Apparently they don’t scare as easily as deer and come with a much higher center of gravity and body mass, which puts the odds in their favor—even if you are in a Hummer. A little something Aaron learned during his first day of orientation at the hospital. I have since seen one of these creatures—stuffed and on display at the local Montshire Science Museum--and they are quite impressive. So, as much as Aaron has been bugging me to make moose chili a la Sarah Palin, I don’t think I could after seeing one up close and personal.) But I believe these signs are also here to remind me that, here, nature still reigns supreme.

Signs or no signs (well, partly because there are so few signs except those that alert you to animal life or the next exit), the drive is simply spectacular … the way the highway snakes through a series of connecting valleys, the whole drive gives you the feeling that you are somehow protected from the rest of the world—encapsulated and safe—from crime, graffiti, neon signs and billboards. I have yet to see a McDonald’s outside of White River Junction. As we drove, I suddenly understood what my husband meant when he called this God’s country. Because if you don’t question the existence of God while traveling up Highway 89, then there is only one possibility—you are blind. I can hardly wait to see the drive again in all its colorful glory during the peak of Autumn.

As you approach Burlington, it begins to look like many other suburbs of America, if not cleaner, greener and less crowded. I spotted a Michael’s craft store and a few of my former haunts, but we kept driving into the heart of the city. It is simply adorable full of many old buildings independent coffee shops and restaurants, art galleries and something I don’t see everyday …. French Canadians. They simply dress better than we do, and it was nice to see women with a stitch or two of make-up, bold sunglasses and fashion other than that which one dons while kayaking. (In Norwich where I now live, I feel like a tart if I leave the house in lipgloss). But here, I caught a whiff of the Europe I love.

We had something planned to satisfy everyone in the family, starting with lunch and a drink followed by a ferry boat and cross Lake Champlain to touch base briefly in New York. I wasn’t too keen on being in New York, since anytime you nearly get hit in a crosswalk in Vermont, you can be sure the license plates are from one of two places: Massachusetts or New York. I am fine staying on this side of Lake Champlain, thank you very much. And besides, the ferry trip turned out to be too long with a toddler so we opted for a shorter, scenic cruise. I wish I could tell you more about the lake’s history, except that Isaac was in rare form that day, and the guard railings were a bit too precarious for my taste—and in my state—I am hyper-vigilant to anything that might harm my family. All I can say is the lake is immense, has a beautiful shoreline (if that is what you call it) and several tree-laden islands with walls of red rock peering through. Apparently Lake Champlain played a significant role in many of our countries early wars, but I was too busy chasing Isaac around the boat and moving between the decks so no one person had to "enjoy" his behavior for any length of time. I was beat. I couldn’t wait to disembark, and I almost cried as we passed a martini and oyster bar on the way back to the car knowing I couldn't drop in for either of them.

Here is where it gets interesting. I was just explaining to Aaron how I was reading Chris Bohjalian’s novel, The Double Bind, which I chose because, like most everything I buy these days, it was written in Vermont and about Vermont (well, partly). It is a thriller about a young social worker, who, after a brutal attack on a rural bike path outside Burlington, dedicates her time to two things: her photography and her homeless clients. In particular she becomes obsessed with the life of a schizophrenic man who dies and leaves behind a stash of mysterious photos. Her obsession grows as she becomes convinced that a relative of the man (whom she believes is a real-life descendent of Daisy Buchanan from The Great Gatsby) is trying to take the photos away from her before she can put them in an exhibit to earn money for the shelter—ultimately causing the reader to question just who the schizophrenic really is. I won't spoil the rest because I know you are all going out to buy the book.

So, as we approached the parking garage on our way back home, I spotted a young woman, well-groomed and fashionably dressed in a black logo T-shirt, funky spectacles and wide-legged pants, pacing the sidewalk in front of the parking garage. Her hair looked freshly cut and styled … she could have been an up-and-coming hair stylist from an avant garde salon. She looked distressed as if she had just lost something important or had been mugged. As we got closer, she approached us and went straight for Isaac's stroller, leaned in and said to my husband, "He's not your baby, he's mine." She was very clearly about to reach in and take him. My husband got between them and asked her to back away (that would be the edited version of what he really said). I was stunned. At first I thought it was some strange way of paying us a compliment ... that Isaac was so cute she was going to steal him, but when she turned to me pointing a finger in my face and told me how much she wanted bad things to happen to me, I realized that there was something really wrong with her. She yelled a few more things about Jesus and fiery deaths, but did not follow us into the garage. We were both so rattled, that we didn't speak for several minutes until Isaac fell asleep in his car seat. I couldn't believe that I had just been reading about schizophrenia, Burlington, young women and paranoia only to be faced with it in the very town in which the novel took place. And after what I had just gone through ... having someone claim my baby was not mine was a bit too much to take. And I thought about the advice my neighbor gave me the morning she saw a bear in my driveway. “As long as you never get between the bear and her cub, you will be alright.” And once my initial shock and fear wore off, I remembered that this poor girl was someone’s baby too.

Maybe next time I go to Burlington, I will have more … or less … interesting things to tell about the town itself.