The Woodstock Inn

The first time I ever visited the Woodstock Inn was on my way home from a Girl Scout camping trip along the Kangamangus Highway in New Hampshire. My friend's mother, our troop leader, promised us the best breakfast we had ever tasted. She sold the place short. The inside of the restaurant was filled with Victorian style decorations and dark wood paneling. When we sat down at the table, the waitress brought over a basket filled with giant cinnamon buns. Next we were invited to go to the buffet. I have never seen a display like that, except for the restaurant at my hotel in Mexico, which was all inclusive. There were all different kinds of fruit, croissants, bagels, muffins, and scones. There were chefs waiting to make belgian waffles and omelettes with a variety of toppings and fillings.
There were also desserts, sandwiches, pancakes, bacon, and sausage. It was the most delicious breakfast I've ever had. I've also never been so full in my life. Every time my Girl Scout troop went to New Hampshire, we always stopped there on the way home. My dad came to help on one trip, and was introduced to the restuarant. He fell in love. On every family vacation since that day, we always make a stop in Woodstock, NH to eat at the Woodstock Inn. My dad desperately wants to drive up there soon for a Sunday breakfast. It might be a four hour drive, but it would certainly be worth it!

Carnage on Canal Street

In the 70's, my parents were stereotypical hippies. Everything was tye dye and bell bottoms. During this phase, my parents lived in Brooklyn while my dad played with underground rock bands. Due to this brief period of city life, my mother has convinced herself that she is a New Yorker. Every year, she and my sister went Christmas shopping in New York City. When I was little, I desperately wanted to go. But every year, my mom left me with my grandma, saying I was too young to go and that I would complain the whole time. Finally, my freshman year of high school, I was invited to go to New York with them.
My sister searched for fun things for us to do in the city. One idea that particularly intrigued me was visiting Canal Street, a stolen and knockoff designer handbag heaven. I had no idea what to expect as I stumbled off the subway. We were all in for a surprise. Jewelery, handbags, sunglasses, and scarved adorned street after street of stalls and small shops. Tiffany's, Juicy Couture, Rolex, Coach, and Longchamp items were all within plain sight. People shoved and rushed, trying to find a deal on a backroom Dior. Men would call out in thick Asian accents, "Louis Vuitton? Chanel?" When someone uttered the C word, I immediately spun around. My mom was very reluctant as the man lead us back through a secret camoflauged doorway. He spoke over the walkie talkie in a foreign language. There directly in front of me, was a quilted pink leather Chanel bag. Although I don't believe in love at first sight, there was no other way to describe it. The man was very impatient, pushing us to make a decision. My mom bartered and got a great price.
We trudged through many, many more stalls before we retired to Little Italy. On our way, we visited the infamous CBGB's, before it was due to be closed down. Getting back on the bus, my feet were exhausted, but my head was spinning. I had never before seen so many people. I had never experienced a city of that magnitude, and I was mystified. New York never ceases to amaze me. I can see why some people never leave.

The Longest Night

In college, no one thinks twice about trekking from Old to New Eastward for a party. Neither did I, until last year's Halloween weekend. After a harrowing rain storm, my BlackBerry had been sent off to be fixed. After an awkward encounter at a party, my friends and I rode to another friend's house in Sandhill Cove. He was not doing a good job of comforting my friend, and she stormed out the front door.
Not wanting her to walk home by herself, me and my roommate followed her. When we came to the end of the street, we had a choice. We could go right or left. Without my GPS application on my phone, I was clueless. Alex seemed extremely confident when she demanded we go left. The road was dark and winding. We rounded a turn and saw that we were passing the Roger Wheeler Beach parking lot. I was concerned. Alex assured me we had passed it on our way to our friend's house. We continued walking and came to a rotary. Alex charged forward towards what she thought was the way to her house. Signs for the Block Island Ferry began to appear.
My roommate was completely horrified. "I may not know my way around Rhode Island, but this is NOT the way back to Alex's!" she exclaimed. I made everyone stop when we reached a picnic bench in front of a small ice cream shop. I called my friend to rescue us. Seeing as it was already one in the morning, he was annoyed but set out to find us. We attempted to meet him. He called repeatedly to ask what street we were on, but we had no idea. We collapsed in front of the Block Island Ferry parking lot. I cried as a I realized my replacement phone's battery was dead.
After several minutes of debating, we decided to turn around and walk back to our rescuer's house. As we reached his corner, his roommate pulled up, honking his horn. I had never been so relieved in my entire life. We crawled into the back seat, cold and mortified at our terrible directional skills. Andrew said, "I TOLD you to wait at my house!"
When we returned to Alex's house, at 3:30 in the morning, her roommates looked flustered when we stormed through the door. After berating them for not picking us up in the first place, I went upstairs and fell into the deepest sleep I have experienced in recent history. For the next few days, my feet ached miserably. Now, when I leave the house, I take note of street names, charge my phone, and make sure to wear comfortable shoes.

Running Away From Home

Jamestown, Rhode Island, is a tiny town. At nine miles long and one mile wide, there aren't many places to go. When I was four, I didn't understand this. I have lived in the same house my whole life. It sits on a quiet street near the center of town. With gray shingles and a large enclosed porch, its old structure stands out against some of the newer houses. The large yard slopes toward our neighbors' barrier of trees. My swing set, my favorite part of my house as a child, sat in the middle of the field.
One day, I wanted to go to the playground down the road. My mom couldn't take me because she had to run errands. As I sat in my room, I looked out the window and could see the top of the slide beckoning me. I searched under my bed for my ever-faithful Barbie suitcase, and decided to pack the essentials I would need for my journey. After stuffing the suitcase with enough socks for the next week, I made the long trek down the hallway. I snuck down the stairs, skipping the creaky step. When I reached the bottom, I peeked down the hallway into the kitchen. My mom was busy cooking dinner. It was my chance to escape. I snuck out onto the porch and inched up the screen door.
I was free! I bolted through the garden to the edge of the field. As I reached my neighbors' trees, I stopped in my tracks. I could hear the other children shrieking with laughter, but I could not bring myself to step onto the road. I sat in despair, watching birds fly in and out of the tree next to me. I sat and waited for what seemed like years. Finally, I heard a rustling behind me. My mom had discovered my escape and had come to take me to the playground. We took hands and made our way down the street.