No one keeps track of how many Vermonters spend the winter in warmer climes, and the absence of that data is likely intentional. The snowbirds I know, who tend to be older and more affluent, have a way of discreetly departing so as not to inspire envy. They take wing before the deep freeze of January and alight in some ice-free, often undisclosed location. It’s a neat migratory trick, facilitated by modern air travel.
My partner, Tim, and I recently took a more leisurely route south. Lured by an invitation from my late mother’s oldest friend to spend a few days with her in Cape Coral, Fla., we hit the road on the last Wednesday in January. Having our own wheels allowed us to see old friends and long-lost relatives along the way, in Washington, D.C.; Bluffton, S.C.; and the Sunshine State cities of Venice and Sarasota. The list included my two best friends from childhood and no fewer than four nonagenarians — one of whom, my Aunt Julie, I hadn’t seen in more than 20 years.
Reconnecting with loved ones was just what the doctor ordered. Welcome, too, was the long drive in Tim’s secondhand Prius. Nothing clears the mind like a change of scenery. Watching the world go by — even if it’s dotted with Amazon warehouses and billboards advertising personal injury lawyers — puts things into perspective. So does being one car among many. In these divisive times, it’s heartening that drivers of all ages, races and political persuasions still pretty much follow the rules of the road.
The truth is: Even off Interstate 95, much of the U.S. Eastern Seaboard looks like the same commercial strip. You have to make an effort to find the beautiful, the authentic, the independently owned. On the days Tim and I weren’t visiting someone, we’d settle on a destination city that seemed interesting and reachable before dark. My job was to bone up on the history of the place and find a unique hotel and restaurant downtown. That’s easier said than done, it turns out, when national chain brands dominate every urban artery, and the internet, too.
We went to extremes to try to book a room at a bed-and-breakfast in Dover, Del. When no one answered the phone there, we drove to the place and peered in the front windows. It was all lit up but locked, with no sign or voicemail message of explanation. We ended up at a Microtel Inn & Suites on Route 10.
On the bright side: The homogenization of America makes discovering a cool spot that much sweeter. We lucked out with lodging and food in Florence, S.C., and Wilmington, N.C. — although some episodes in the histories of both burgs are pretty unsavory. On the Outer Banks, which we reached by car ferry, only one motel and a sole restaurant were open on the island of Ocracoke. We were grateful to get a warm room at the Pony Island Inn and a rare glimpse of the off-season population at Jason’s Restaurant, over plates of drumfish, coleslaw and hush puppies.
We walked along deserted beaches, swam in the Gulf of Mexico when everybody else thought it was too cold, marveled at the Confederate trenches on a Civil War battlefield, and listened to two amazing podcasts — “Bone Valley” and “Dead End” — set in the regions we were driving through.
The car never broke down. We didn’t get sick or make anyone else ill. And, best of all, after two weeks and one day, I was happy to return to the quiet, chilly north. Driving back along Route 22A, flanked by sun-drenched, snow-capped mountains, reminded me why I adopted this state more than 40 years ago. The last miles of 3,500 felt like what they are: the home stretch.
This article appears in Feb 15-21, 2023.
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