The Weekend Not in Scotland Part II

As noted previously, my last-minute Hotwire booking gamble landed us at the Springfield, Mass. Sheraton, next door to the Marriott, and extremely convenient to Route 91. This interstate parallels the Connecticut River up through what the guidebooks call the Pioneer Valley; that part of western Mass. east of the Berkshires, two hours yet from Boston, and full of college students.  With this young, transient population in mind, the signs all up and down 91 beg drivers to ride with a designated non-drinker.

The college towns of Amherst, Holyoke, and Northampton are adorable, in October full of mums and hosta plantings, memorials to famous local long-dead poets, bicycles and cars with reassuringly politically blue-ish bumper stickers, and book stores dispaying similarly inclined, local-author books.  Musicians play at the entrances to their mews, pedestrians wait at every ADA-compliant traffic light. Their storefronts trade fairly in hemp clothes, crafts, body lotions and bubble tea within the solid, ornate, red brick and granite buildings raised around the turn of the previous century by more staid,  carnivorous and vocationally tangible Yankees.

Like I said, we didn't stay in any of these towns. We stayed in Springfield, where our first sight upon parking near the old town center was the annual Zombie Walk. Sporting grievous wounds, young zombies filled the green between city hall and steepled church, where  a band was playing the boomer music that had first drawn our attention. The walk raised funds for good causes, but the sight of all these people applying stage makeup and latex appliances to appear convincingly stabbed, shot, and diseased just creeped me out.  It did turn kind of amusing, though, when a newly married or about-to-be-married couple appeared on the steps of city hall with their wedding party for photographs, and the zombies proceeded to zombie-walk across the street and pose with them.  The new couple took it in good humor.

Springfield has at least two tourist attractions: the Basketball Hall of Fame and the Dr. Seuss sculpture

garden (All his best-beloved characters are there, from Horton to Who, life-size or more, in bronze. So is a bronze Theodore Geisel himself.)  Aside from that, the town is just another largely abandoned  shell of its former industrial, industrious Yankee self. Its downtown has ornate red brick buildings of another era, just like Amherst, but none of the life or refinement.  Where in famously lesbian-friendly Northampton  the old corner banks are given over to jewelry and design galleries, in Springfield they tend to house social service agencies if they're occupied at all.  

At night we walked a few blocks to a place the hotel receptionist assured us was teeming with restaurants.  There was hardly anyone else on the street. The cars that raced down Main Street blared in-your-face, thumping rap lyrics in a vibe diametrically opposed to Northampton's.  We did find the recommended (and expensive) restaurant, though -- 350 Grill on Worthington Street, next to a strip club  --  and the food was good.  We ordered tapas, which were generous.  The waitress was oddly even more generous -- she comped us our wine and dessert.  She assured us that management knew.  

Then there's the breakfast we caught the next morning in the Esselon Cafe, just off 91 in Amherst en route to the National Yiddish Book Center.  A free-standing building with a weatherproofed outdoor area, its clientele's bicycles artfully bolted standing on their hind wheels, it looked promising. We weren't disappointed; in fact, it was obviously THE place the weekending Upper West Side was taking its student children to for brunch. We got there at 10:20, in the nick of time to order and take our number back to a waiting table. Fifteen minutes later the line snaked all around the room and out the door. 

Esselon has coffees and lattes from around the world, colorfully chalked on the wall-sized blackboard behind

the busy barristas.  Vegan and gluten-free options, of course.  A shining, patterned, copper-colored ceiling and gleaming wooden tables, caned and beaded chairs.  Singles at laptops, opened to urban plans and sound files. Couples with Sunday Times in hand. Tow-headed toddlers wearing Red Sox caps, carried on hip. 

Just ahead of us in line, a young man with a neat beard and bright eyes wore a baseball cap with a "Jewish Farming" logo.  "This is the place," he said, congratulating us on locating the independent, beating heart of the visiting parent brunch scene. "And this," he said, pointing to the muffin with what looked like pumpkin seeds on top, "is the muffin." We struck up an immediate conversation, triangulating our eco-contacts until we overlapped on some of our kids' nature camp sites and nature staff personalities.

When our $13 breakfasts came they filled the plates like charming little dioramas; the fresh eggs plumply snuggled in two concentrated bulls-eyes against the avocado-topped salad, the multi-multi-grain bread toasted in two biscotti-shaped slices, the pancakes and berries generous, the yoghurt dressing in its little stainless steel pitcher and the coffee in its logoed white mug perfect.  We'd lost the head start on our pilgrimage, but we didn't care.