When traveling, always take advantage of lounge access…
Each morning, we take Sylvie for a walk down Sparrow Bush Road. It’s our new routine. And every morning of this first week, we’ve seen Canada geese on the wing in the brightening light.
When I was growing up, I loved the sight and sound of geese in the late summer sky above the valley. Their mournful honking always filled me with a thrum of longing I never quite understood. It was something about their moving on, homeward bound, when we were already home, and the way their passage marked the end of something beautiful.
After two days of wrestling with moving boxes and feeding on corn nuts left over from our cross-country drive, I ventured out of our new nest in search of provisions — hopefully not corn-based.
I landed in Hudson, 12 minutes of beautiful countryside from our house, parked my car (25 cents an hour!) and found the Farmer’s Market…
The market is a fraction of the size of our old Santa Monica Farmer’s Market, but a fraction of the size is what we were going for when we moved here. I happily wandered around and picked up “local” everything to tunes provided by a folk singer doing her best Joan Baez.
“This is going to work,” I thought happily to myself as I headed back to the car, deposited my fresh veggies and headed down Warren Street to Dogs of Hudson, which, I had been told, was charming purveyor of canine provisions. On the way, I passed more high-end antique stores than I could count, each more refined and inviting than the last. And yet, I somehow found myself longing for the early morning grit of the Pasadena City College Flea Market.
In Dogs Of Hudson, I learned all about the evils of Western Veterinary medicine and the miracle properties of blackstrap molasses for canine well-being. As I walked back to the car, I wondered if Sylvie had “farm-to-table” needs. And is there such a thing as a free-range Milk Bone?…and then I passed one too many folk singers.
“Seriously?” I thought, “What IS this place and how did I get here?” And just when I was plummeting into a sour and decidedly unfolksy mood, a herd of beefy, tatted bikers thundered down the street.
And just like that, I felt happy again.