New England is just so goddamn cute

And I'm including the Adirondacks in that statement. Mom and I struggled a bit through two long days of driving, and finally made it to Keene Valley, NY. It was so damn cute. We kept pointing out the "colonial" houses; anything that we liked earned the moniker "colonial." I think we have officially changed the meaning of the word "colonial" to include anything with brick and a porch. We also kept pointing to the churches, and saying something profound like, "look at that church!" and then driving on. Or perhaps, "look at that barn!" followed by a short squeal. We were instantly ten years old, looking at doll houses.

We had our first northeastern hike, which for mom was kind of short-lived, as these hardy people enjoy placing a trail directly up a rocky mountain. I made it to the peak of Slide Mountain, after scrambling up giant rocks with Marvin, often pushing him up as his claws slipped around the granite, attempting to find a hold. We looked over the mountains, all the biggest peaks in New York, and spoke with several New Yorkers: the young man who'd gone to boarding school in the area, where he'd worked on a farm and said he hated the term "character building," and who told me about the 46-ers, people who attempt all of New York's 46 peaks over 4000 feet; the father and daughter from Rochester, who pointed out the names of the peaks nearby and talked about how "nice" Oregon seemed. It was all so damn pleasant. Mom said she thought that all of New York would be crowds and noise, and here we were in the heart of quiet mountains, gasping over the cuteness.

Mom and I played Scrabble that night, drinking Bloody Marys made with pickled asparagus we bought at the local store and cursing our draws: "I've got nothing but I's," "You just can't make a word with these letters." We had a perfect dinner, outside, our second night of sea scallops and wine from the Northwest. Mom said that New York was the prettiest state she'd seen, and I thought it was close. I'd put it behind Oregon, Montana, and New Mexico.

Now we're in Waterbury, Vermont, surrounded by steep mountains and old buildings. We went to Stowe today, to the Ben and Jerry's factory and then to some rocky, steep cliffs at Smuggler's Notch. The B&J factory was cute enough, with its giant silos marked Milk, Cream, and Sugar, and its flavor graveyard. But the children were a bit much for us; I overheard a woman demanding to her 8 year-old: "you better smile for this photo or you're not getting any ice cream!" We drove to the cliffs of Smuggler's Notch and walked around birch trees clinging to the sides of rocks, their smooth bark pulling back to reveal layers of reds and pinks. Mom loved the rocks themselves, which had a strangely metallic look and chipped into knife-blade edges.

Now it's time for more Bloody Marys and Scrabble, and the eternal quest for the perfect draw. Tomorrow we go through New Hampshire to Maine, in pursuit of the cutest goddamn place we can find. God forbid these states should have something less than charming.