Beer and Loathing in Vermont - Part 1

I duck behind a door to refill my water bottle at an industrial sink. The door is marked "Employees Only," twice, and in English both times, but I'm thirsty. You've got to stay hydrated when traveling, so I buy a couple of bombers and some seltzer as well. And some beef jerky; it's good country for jerky. A relatively uneventful start to a trip, taking slightly longer to fly than it would have to drive, just to admire the anthropological spectacle of the airport. And besides, driving is so pedestrian.

Bearing down on the back of a CD case, I am using an fountain pen with completely indelible ink which will, in the coming week, make only two small spots on my pants, but they will still have been worth the dollar I paid for them. I tell myself I will figure out how to make them serviceable again, whether by dying them or converting them to Daisy-Duke-style cutoffs. I also do not know at this point that this is about the best the pen is going to handle over the course of the trip. we pass a naked man fanning a bonfire and a cop clocking traffic as my pen jams again and I attempt to use an inkblot as an inkwell.

I eject a load of ink onto the pavement and I'm ready to go again. We arrive at the hotel, and briefly deliberate whether to check in or not, for reasons unclear to me. We dash off to photograph covered bridges 'before it rains,' which it does not. In haste, I nearly lose my gray card and we have to turn back, bringing the empty threat of rain ever closer. My homemade bay run cologne seems to attract mosquitoes; I should have been more specific when I designed it to make me 'irresistible.'

We pull up to a church and follow signs to Robert Frost's grave.

"Is he the 'miles to go' guy?"

"I think he's 'road less traveled.'"

"I knew it had something to do with roads."

We meditate on this as we traverse the exceedingly well-worn path to the headstone, denoted by signs.