Vermont, Vermont, Vermont
The state where I want to be... 'Bucolic' fails to do it justice. It came to pass: The wife, knackered from interviewing Trumpists on Pennsylvania's coal-stained ramparts, insisted on evacuating the swamp for a vacation in Bernie's magical kingdom. Vermont! , she said, Oh! Vermont... You'll see! She had made all the arrangements. My job was to point the vehicle north, drive for nine hours, and make cooing noises on arrival. Vermont it would be. If we made haste we would arrive in time for Peak Fall Foliage. I'd heard only whispers about this northern hinterland: of deranged feral hippies churning cheese in the hills; of Jewish hobbits hurtling out of town halls waving their hands about and mumbling plans of praxis ; and of magnificently bearded, plaid-clad hipsters brewing sweet nectars for the gods. AND IT WAS ALL TRUE. Jesus, Bernie and Joseph! Make no mistake, Vermont tastes good! The Cheese Indeed. T...