It was in the high eighties in New York on Saturday, the low seventies when I left it on Sunday, and by the time I got to Williamstown, Massachusetts later that day, into the fifties and sixties. Veritable scarf – boots – trench coat weather. Could I really live in a mountain town where leaves have turned from gold to russet before October? (Better question: Will I get the opportunity to make this choice, oh gods of grad school admission roulette?)
A place where the mountains, yes, look gorgeously aflame — but this for only one month out of the year. There is a coffee shop, albeit a fantastic one: large, inhabited by students, glass display cases filled with sweets and bagels, and creamy, creamy lattes. There is just one Indian restaurant — but what cozy orange walls! I had lunch there on Monday, and went back to the buffet table three times for chicken korma. There is one pizza place (to be fair: perhaps more exist; I mean “one worth mentioning”). But this is what it looks like:
Question. If your pizza place looks like this, do you really need more? Wouldn’t that be gilding the lily? I ask you. Sunday night, I got a frankly delicious take-out pie that I’m still thinking of: pesto sauce, goat cheese and mozzarella, and diced tomatoes. The crust was crisp yet chewy, caramelized in parts. Heavenly.
The profs I met with were really great. I loved MASS MoCA — but then, you already know about that. Driving around the firey mountains was beautiful. I visited Williams for college six (six!?) years ago with my mommers and best friend, and we were, I’m sorry to say, APPALLED at the eerie, cold New England quiet. What a difference college makes, even college in Manhattan. Doesn’t studying in the mountains have some sort of nerdy appeal?