I was soaring over the clouds, feeling especially blessed — and no, I didn’t die and go to heaven, although the trip was heavenly. Returning to New York from a two-week stint in California to celebrate my son Jeff’s marriage to the lovely Cassandra, I felt a certain peace. My kids were settled — or as settled as one can be.
Sitting back and getting comfortable for the long flight back, I reveled in the beautiful memories that we, as a family, shared. It goes without saying the bride was stunning, the groom handsome and now I have two beautiful daughters-in-law. How lucky can one gal get? Yup, lucky — even though my kids live on the West Coast. Our relationship has always been tight, and the times we spend together are magical. Of course, we are always on our best behavior!
The wedding was held in northern California in a little (literally) town called Coffee Creek — population 217. I suppose you never heard of it, neither did I or my family. After landing in San Francisco, we drove another five hours until we reached Trinity Mountains. It was a bit of a trek, but well worth it. Who would believe that in the midst of the mountains we would find a tastefully appointed historic inn circa 1857? Talk about throw-back Thursday!
One may wonder why my son and his bride-to-be selected this place to exchange their vows. Me too! Both are employed by the U.S. Department of Agriculture, Division of Forestry. They share a sense of the divine in the natural beauty that surrounds them daily and, in turn, wanted to share their special place with family and friends. Makes sense, right?
Savoring a morning cup of coffee on the veranda that overlooked mountains, I felt serene as one usually does when enfolded in the arms of Mother Nature. On the other hand, I am sure the town’s folks were a tad freaked out when a bunch of New Yorkers, most of whom were of Italian decent, turned up en masse — doubling the population of their small town in one day.
Despite the scarcity of people, my heart did a two-step when one the locals disclosed that there is a healthy amount of mountain lions living in the Trinity Mountains. He quipped: “Don’t worry, they like deer; humans don’t taste that good.” Somehow I still didn’t feel warm and fuzzy!
When the townies discovered that we were from New York, we became a novelty. One fellow asked in all sincerity: “How do you swim in dirty water and breathe polluted air?” I asked how he lived among mountain lions. He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Tis natural.”
I was a guest in their quaint town, a tourist, if you will; however, l did my best to respect their quiet lifestyle. The townies went out of their way to make us feel comfortable — notwithstanding the comment about co-habiting with mountain lions.
For some of us who live on the North Fork “tourist” is a frightening word. It conjures up a variety of inconveniences that we locals endure from Memorial Day through Labor Day. Getting to work in Cutchogue during the summer months is a slow-go.
The winery traffic is dense on a good weekend, but add the fairs and festivals that dot our area, we experience bona fide traffic jams! During the summer months, my “sacred spot” isn’t so scared. Our population doubles too! One weekend our small beach rivaled Jones Beach — complete with a cacophony of noise and large blow-up things floating in the bay.
I get a tad annoyed when someone with out of state plates makes a U-turn before my eyes on Route 25. (The aforementioned behavior seemed to be the new norm this summer.) Feeling sanctimonious, I spied on a fellow standing in the fruit aisle at a local supermarket eating grapes. OK, a taste, maybe? I watched in shock as he devoured the whole bag and walked out of the store.
After Labor Day, we North Forkers enjoy a little breather — but not for long. The traffic amps up when the pumpkin pickers and corn stalkers arrive by the carload. Lordy, Lordy, it’s like no one has ever seen a pumpkin before!
If you think I am against tourism, think again. Inconvenient as it may be sometimes, it’s a necessary evil. We live in a beautiful environment and folks flock here to enjoy what some locals take for granted. Agritourism saved the North Fork from becoming an ugly twin to some “up island” towns. My personal belief is that the wineries saved the North Fork from becoming an over- populated area, jam-packed with “file cabinet houses” and strip malls that the developers favor.
When I returned from the West Coast, I was anxious to get down to my sacred spot — and damn! “Squatters” occupied my bench.
Then I overhead them remarking about the beauty of the bay and this time, instead of “cursing the darkness” I turned on the light of consciousness and engaged them in conversation.
They were a traveling from Virginia and staying in town. These folks were awe-struck by the beauty of the North Fork and before you know it, we were no longer strangers but friends for the day. I suggested places to eat, what to see, and let them in on those little out of the way secret spots that make our hamlets so special.
I was a tourist in the “wilds of the Trinity Mountains” and have been a guest in many other areas. Unless you live in a bubble, most of us have been strangers in another place at one time or another. To paraphrase the Good Book: The stranger residing among you must be treated as your own native-born, for you were once strangers. There it is, folks — a reliable source is telling us how to treat strangers aka tourists. I will try and follow this good advice, really.
Post script:
I was about to leave it there folks, but yesterday morning I was running late and found myself racing the clock to get to work. Sure enough the pumpkin pickers and corn stalkers were arriving by the carload causing a logjam on Route 25. But aha! I had the perfect excuse. Without missing a beat, I breezed into the facility and bemoaned the fact that I was tardy: “So sorry, you know how it is with those damn tourists!”
Celia Iannelli is a native New Yorker enjoying a second career — in ‘retirement’ — as a freelance writer. She lives in Jamesport.
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