It was a pleasantly still, grayish morning in Woodstock, dew glistening on the grass underfoot as we sauntered out to Route 212 for a little morning walk. In search of breakfast before we embarked on some exploration in the fresh country air, we'd casually settled on the Bear Cafe we saw last night on the drive up to the cabin.
"Look, someone mentioned that Bear Cafe in the Airbnb reviews for this place! Looks cute, you wanna take a walk over there for breakfast?", she asked.
"Sure, why not. Just let me throw on some designer sweatpants real quick, and we can get goin. Man, I'm getting hungry."
After a troubling incident with a puddle and my minimalist running shoes, we strode confidently down Route 212 towards the cafe.
20 minutes later, we realized that the cafe could theoretically be anywhere, since without cell phone service we were left Google map-less and forced to rely on hazy memories and reckless speculation.
"Well, it can't be that much farther, right? That review said it was like a five minute drive...AIIIEEEEE!!!!"
A passing car clipped her elbow with their passenger mirror, spinning her around like a top and propelling her fist into my jaw, knocking the expensive sunglasses off my head. As I fell backward, vision growing dark, I croaked "just...bought....those...."
I awoke to the feeling of water slipping between my parched lips, as my girlfriend wrung out her french scarf above my mouth.
"I dragged it through the grass to collect the dew. That's some real artisan stuff you're drinking there, pal. Now get up off the ground and start walkin, I'm hungry."
Revived, I dusted myself off and began jogging down the shoulder towards the elusive cafe. Maybe there was brunch there.
After 30 minutes of jogging, there was no end in sight. Her elbow had swollen to the size of a grapefruit, and gravel had shredded the minimal soles of my shoes, leaving me hobbling on bloody feet towards a cafe that now seemed like a barely remembered dream. A dream of brunch.
In the distance, an American flag waved in the breeze atop the post office flagpole, a beacon of hope in the gloom! As we stumbled towards the flag, hoping some representative of the government might step in to save us from our plight, we detected the unmistakable aroma of frying bacon.
"Bacon!" we cried.
Like characters from a Looney Tunes cartoon, we drifted off our feet, arms slack and noses pointed forward as the bacon breeze carried us towards the Cub Market next to the Post Office.
Gravely injured, weak from hunger, lost, and sweaty, we floated through the front door of the market. The delightful staff immediately set about making us sandwiches, supplying us with Belgian beer and greek yogurt, and graciously allowed us to use their phone to call a cab back to our cabin.
They had those little olive oil spanish tortas too, those things are really good with cheese. read more