By my current standards of roughly one post per month, this qualifies as more frequent posting.
The next day of our vacation, the day of leaving Boston, is the perfect example of what it means to vacation as a married couple.
The plan for the day was to travel from Boston to Stamford, CT, which would be our base of operations for the next three days, via the scenic route (read, the longest way we could find). We drove to Amherst, MA, following the directions of my trusty GPS. We got there with no difficulty, but I am now of the opinion that there must have been another way to get there that was at least an hour quicker than the route we took, but not knowing Amherst, MA from a hole in the ground, I didn’t think to question it at the time.
The purpose of the Amherst trip was to visit the Emily Dickinson Museum. As an aside, as we sat in a restaurant about a block from Boston Common the night before, we were discussing Emily Dickinson. Laura started to be surprised and offended that I had not read Emily Dickinson. My contention was that, as I am male, there was no reason in the world to be surprised that I had not read her. In an effort to bolster my point, I turned to the two women who were sitting next to us. They were of college age and, as I had been eavesdropping on their conversation for the entire meal, I can say with fare amount of certainty that they were students in one of the 45,000 universities in Boston.
"Excuse me," said I, "but out of the two of us, which would you assume had read Emily Dickinson?"
"Oh, I’d say that’s more of a girl book." answered one of our news friends.
She also mentioned that she was an English Lit major.
I don’t know which of the 45,000 she attends, but she is not getting her money’s worth if she thinks Emily Dickinson is a book.
We arrived in Amherst and took the tour, where we saw something that Emily Dickinson never saw. The OUTSIDE of her house! Boom! Reclusive poet joke. DAMN!!!!
Laura loved it and, in the week hence, has read an Emily Dickinson biography and used her recipe for gingerbread to tempt me into eating sweets. Foul 19th century recluse!
We loaded up the car with our bodies and new knowledge and set off toward Stamford. As we were driving through Massachusetts, we saw a sign that said, "Basketball Hall of Fame Next Exit." It had not occurred to me to visit there, as I had no idea we would be driving past Springfield, but here we were. So we stopped.
Our excitement to disinterest ratio had inverted in the distance between Amherst and Springfield. We only had about 30 minutes to spend there before it closed, but it was worth the visit. I don’t know that I’d make a specific trip to Springfield, MA just for that, but there was a Cold Stone Creamery in the same building so that should add to the draw of Springfield a little bit.
Our check-in in Stamford was much less interesting than our previous experience in Boston had been, but it struck me that night, how perfect this day was as an example of the compromises of marriage. Each of agreed to do something we had little to no interest in doing, so that the other could do something they were extremely interested in.
For that reason alone, it was a great day.