Hamilton, NY
In upstate New York, some hours after the last late afternoon light faded from the cornstalks, I question a tow truck driver while Alexandra sits on the curb with the guys we are staying with. The guys are smoking cigarettes and I am anxious. I’ve already called my father, a friend who works on Volkswagons, and finally, AAA. Three passing men tell us about a local who works on VWs only a few miles away. They lick ice cream cones and joke with one another and ask us if we need any money or a place to stay. We shake our heads and look to Zach and Christian, two super-seniors at Colgate who invited us to stay. Their favorite people have graduated, and Hamilton isn’t the same. Zach is a friend of Alexandra’s and is living on Christian’s couch despite having his own apartment on the other side of town. We feel bad about causing trouble but our arrival and stalled-out car don’t seem to put either Zach or Christian out. They are more than eager for our visit, glad that we might be stuck in Hamilton for another night. Four hours later we are lying in an abandoned Masonic temple in their apartment building, making plans for them to move to Chicago with us when they graduate in September.
During the three weeks on the road prior to our arrival in Chicago, I am surprised by how each ambiguous situation turns out to be the more memorable. As much as I like Chicago thus far, a part of me still wants to be stuck in upstate, where the weather was at a crisp fall peak and the population quiet and stern. Thanks to the problematic electrical systems of Volkswagons, I was set back $400 (on top of a flat tire the week before and a missing hubcap). And yet the afternoon light on the cornfields and Victorian brick buildings stays with my memory for than any other place despite being distraught over my car.
In upstate New York, some hours after the last late afternoon light faded from the cornstalks, I question a tow truck driver while Alexandra sits on the curb with the guys we are staying with. The guys are smoking cigarettes and I am anxious. I’ve already called my father, a friend who works on Volkswagons, and finally, AAA. Three passing men tell us about a local who works on VWs only a few miles away. They lick ice cream cones and joke with one another and ask us if we need any money or a place to stay. We shake our heads and look to Zach and Christian, two super-seniors at Colgate who invited us to stay. Their favorite people have graduated, and Hamilton isn’t the same. Zach is a friend of Alexandra’s and is living on Christian’s couch despite having his own apartment on the other side of town. We feel bad about causing trouble but our arrival and stalled-out car don’t seem to put either Zach or Christian out. They are more than eager for our visit, glad that we might be stuck in Hamilton for another night. Four hours later we are lying in an abandoned Masonic temple in their apartment building, making plans for them to move to Chicago with us when they graduate in September.
During the three weeks on the road prior to our arrival in Chicago, I am surprised by how each ambiguous situation turns out to be the more memorable. As much as I like Chicago thus far, a part of me still wants to be stuck in upstate, where the weather was at a crisp fall peak and the population quiet and stern. Thanks to the problematic electrical systems of Volkswagons, I was set back $400 (on top of a flat tire the week before and a missing hubcap). And yet the afternoon light on the cornfields and Victorian brick buildings stays with my memory for than any other place despite being distraught over my car.
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