On Being Far Away

While I’ve been in the Netherlands, a lot has happened. New York City has experienced an earthquake and a hurricane—neither severe, thankfully. My hometown in Vermont, where my parents and sister still live, was hit a bit harder—with massive flooding that tore down beloved landmarks, gouged canyons in the roads, and reshaped the landscape.

Meanwhile, things are peaceful here in the Netherlands. It’s cold and rainy—though we’ve had a few nice days. And I can’t help feeling a bit frustrated with that peace, and at being so far away from events that are affecting people and places I care about.

If I was home during Hurricane Irene, I might have stayed in New York. If I had, I would have stocked up on food and spent a long, boring (or relaxing, depending on how my week went) weekend holed up in my apartment, catching up on reading, watching movies, and doing yoga podcasts. I would have been stuck there, because the subways and buses were shut down throughout the city all weekend.

Or, I might have gone up to Vermont to stay with my parents for the weekend—and escape the possible insanity of a hurricane in New York City. If I had, I would have seen torrential rains. I would have seen our pond overflow, a massive waterfall take out a large chunk of road near our house, and beloved covered bridges collapse into normally-peaceful rivers turned into ravaging monsters. Here are some pics from the hurricane:

This is the road next to my parents’ house.



Here’s our overflowing pond.



This is another section of road, just a little farther down.



This is one of our bridges getting washed out.

Quechee was particularly hard hit. Under the Quechee covered bridge, the river carved a deep canyon framed by tall granite cliffs. Some adventurous soul had tied a ropeswing to the bottom of the bridge, and you could swing out over the deep channel and fall into the water.

There was a dam next to the bridge linking to a hydroelectric power plant that powered the adjacent restaurant, Simon Pearce, which had a glassblowing and pottery studio on site. Simon Pearce was the nicest restaurant in the area, and visiting Connecticut tourists (and locals) could sit on its porch, have a drink, and watch the local kids jump off the rocks. I used to be one of those local kids. I would wear my bathing suit under my waitressing clothes at the nearby Marshland Farms inn, then go to the bridge when my shift was up.

During the hurricane, the river that ran under the Quechee bridge rose to the level of the street. It washed out Simon Pearce’s hydroelectric power, all the glassblowing and pottery equipment, and the first floor of the restaurant. It also took out the road on both sides of the bridge. The bridge itself is still standing—but whether it’s still structurally sound, I have no idea. I hope they save it.

In addition to all this, I just found out that two of my friends in New York are moving to Boston—and they’ll be gone before I come back. Maybe it’s not a big national disaster—it’s more of a smaller private upheaval. They were two of my first friends in New York, and I’ll miss them.

When I get back to New York and Vermont, I’m not sure what it’ll be like—and how the land will have changed. That’s the risk you take with any place, once you leave it.