The other New York

For most of the 114 miles separating Albany and Binghamton, New York there stretches a beautiful, bucolic valley, liberally sprinkled with small dairy farms. Near the Binghamton end is the small college town, Oneonta, where I was an undergraduate. I so loved the area that I tried to stay on after I graduated, but teaching jobs were hard to find (before I was a librarian I was a teacher), so I ended up moving to Boston, where I spent the next nineteen years of my life.

But I always derive great satisfaction from making the drive along Route 88, that runs the length of that valley, for much of the way along a shelf cut out of the side of the hills, which then continue down into that shallow, peaceful valley. When you look out from that shelf you see hills across the way that recede in a way that makes me think of old-fashioned stage scenery – a flat painted to look like a hill, and a little way beyond that, another flat, then another, to give a sense of distance. This vista is very different from the terrain of the Berkshires, even though both places are full of hills and trees. In the Berkshires the furry round hills crowd around you, there are few actual vistas. And this is clearly domesticated land while the Berkshires give the appearance, anyway, of being in their pristine state. The Berkshires also depend utterly on the tourist trade, while this valley sees tourists mainly just passing through, though some do make a destination of the Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown.

I would live in this valley in a heartbeat, just as I would in the Berkshires, even though both would make my heeding the occasional call of the sea more difficult. But both contain at least two of my residential requirements : natural beauty that's heavy on the color green, and a climate that knows more cool weather than hot. The Berkshires are full of artists, while the valley between Albany and Binghamton is full of no-nonsense farmers. I love art, but dislike nonsense, so either place would suit me. Admittedly, the politics of the Berkshires would probably be closer to mine than those of struggling upstate New York.

The reason I was driving this route was that I was stopping off for the night at the home, in Binghamton, of one of my college roommates. Kathy was the roommate who got me through physics (I would come home from class, utterly bewildered, and she would explain everything in terms of apples and oranges), and who taught me to drive. She was the perfect driving instructor, completely unflappable. I remember once we were coming down and around a steep curve, during a practice drive, and I suddenly realized I was going way too fast. Instead of screaming and grabbing the wheel Kathy calmly said, "It might be good to slow down a little."

Kathy, husband Bona and son Bryan inhabit what I call the K&B Bed and Breakfast, since I almost always stay overnight at their house when I am headed anyplace west. They are located a convenient 8-hour drive from my home in Maine, and always welcome me with open arms, into a relaxed, like-minded atmosphere where we inevitably have stimulating political and moral discussions, with all of us managing to be our most entertaining at the same time. How can you beat that?