City Girl at Heart?

I once read an article about a woman who collected her dreams through magazine clippings: the home she wanted to own; what she’d wear to a future dream job, a wedding cake. I kept my dreams in my head. My favorite was having a small chicken farm, living on the side of a mountain out West. I pictured myself married, writing contentedly in the kitchen, drinking tea. When I looked out the window above the old-fashioned farm sink, I’d spy deer or even a lone wolf. (It would be early morning, my chickens still safe in their pen). ;)

Then, recently, I spent New Year’s Eve in New Hampshire. Despite the city’s population of 13,000, doubling that of some towns in Connecticut, the isolation was striking. Let’s put it this way: driving that last hour of thickly forested highway, I asked my friend where the nearest hospital was. Just in case. “In case of what, bears?” my friend laughed. I barely smiled.

Our mutual friend had moved to the area three years ago to be closer to family. Before we arrived, we stopped at the local Hannaford grocery to buy hummus for snacks. I got slowly out of the car, feeling like a foreigner among the scattering of folks leaving Subarus and trucks bearing Vermont or New Hampshire license plates. Although we were all clad in puffy coats and jeans, there was something indelibly city about us. Maybe it was our naturally quick paces, or our voices, which seemed louder than usual, drawing curious stares from people wondering who we might be. But even in the thick fog, evidence of a too-warm December, I inhaled the scent of pine. The air smelled like a Christmas tree. “Beautiful,” I admitted.

My friend’s home was equally refreshing; I admired her tasteful collection of prints, from Van Gogh’s original Starry Night to Magritte’s The Son of Man. Dinner turned out to be a diamond in the rural rough. The restaurant, located at the end of a block featuring a smattering of businesses, including a gym and a dollar store, reminded me of my favorite pub-style establishments in South Norwalk. The ambiance was rustic but upscale, featuring dark wood booths and soft chandelier lighting. A local singer played acoustic covers so spot-on I thought I'd stumbled into a Mumford & Sons concert. Those hours were perfect.

But when the dinner plates were cleared and the room transformed into a quasi-club, with 24-year-olds (all married) dancing as if they’d known each other for years, I knew it was time to go. While we watched the ball drop from my friend’s home, I wondered if I could live happily in a place where small-town friendliness compromised the anonymity I had in Fairfield County. For once, I relished bustling around stores among dozens of people who wouldn’t once look my way. I realized I didn’t want to live in a place where I knew everyone, where personal business could become fodder for local gossip. And while I generally consider shopping of any kind a chore, I couldn’t imagine driving almost an hour to the nearest mall, just to pick up a new shirt.

On the ride home, I found myself revising my dreams. Call me spoiled, but I don’t think I can ever live more than an hour outside a major city. As for the skiing tourists love about New England, well, I’d rather try snowshoeing. And always be in a place with at least one neighborhood Starbucks. ;)