Oh, For the Artsy Travelers

They tell me she sounds crochety. But that is after I have already boisterously agreed to drive several hours across the state to meet her. I wouldn't have been able to resist anyway. Another opportunity to get lost, and this time in pretty countryside, sounds intriguing and worth the gas to get there. And what can be sinister in hillsides bathed in baby leaves, misted with a light drizzle of fog?

It's all a wild goose chase. She might not be where I am supposed to meet her, in St. Albans, VT. Her phone number is wrong on her website. My boss shakes his head and jokes to his wife and I that we had better watch out for these artsy people who have difficulty with concrete and objective things. Like directions? Like equations? I squeak up a minor protest.

So here I am in Cambridge, VT after a wait or two here and there in Barnet and Morrisville. I've already gone past the Johnson Woolworks, the place where, according to my boss, they make the original red and black plaid wool shirts in a factory that has been working at least one hundred fifty years. I've already passed Hardwick too, with its bold yellow signs saying "WATCH OUT FOR SNOW FROM ROOF" and Jeffersonville with the yellow signs emboldened by a tractor figure. I pull off the main drag and call the webdesigner, this said artsy person. I am surprised that I have cellphone service.

I immediately decide that I like her. Crotchety? Bah humbug. I barely get it out that I am calling in behalf of my boss when she cuts in with a "yes, I know all about you, Emily." She won't let me call her Ms. but insists I call her Claire. She tells me that she will meet me in a few minutes at a "nice looking little gas station and convenience store" that will be off to my left in a few miles.

I beat her there and wait in my car. Perhaps the little gas station is nice looking for these hereabouts. And then she arrives. She is almost a second Paul Bunyan--decked out in a fishing vest, large glasses, and dark blue dungarees. I shake her hand and give her the information for the school website.

"At least you got to see a lot of Vermont," she says as she walks to the driver's side of her dark green Chevy.
"Uh huh, especially after being in Michigan so long."
She leans on the roof of her car. "What're you studying?"
I can barely reply "English" before she is nodding her head.
"Excellent!"
I grin and look up at her in time to hear the rest of her sentence: "...and a perfectly useless degree." She beams back at me. We share the glow for a moment and she gives me a knowing nod.
"Yep, we English majors are poor, but we sure lead interesting lives. Keep at it. Oh, and by the way, they make great sandwiches in there," she says, pointing her chin at the little shop.