Michael pulls out of the parking lot and begins following Gladys’ instructions to get us to Woodstock.  I don’t trust her to take us anywhere but on major highways, and I want to see the heart of New York, driving through the mountains awhile; even though I can see by Google Maps that Interstate 90 is in our immediate future.

“You might as well follow what she says,” I tell Michael, “there is no easy way to get to 90.”

We are taken on some extreme back roads. We see I 90 beside us, I look at my phone and can tell we are on the right path.

“I thought we were supposed to get on 90.”

“We are,” I say.  Checking my phone I see we are way south of the interstate…on a country road so narrow it looks like it was built for one vehicle at a time—a tractor.

Headed for Ithaca, we let Gladys do her thing, even though we both think she has lost her mind. We are guided to smaller and smaller roads, but still we follow. Winding our way through Ithaca, it is confirmed. Gladys needs to see a therapist. We have never driven such a round-a-bout path, but she gets us through the town and on our way east.

Away from the Finger Lakes region, we drive through the foothills of the Catskills. There are farms and barns and silos galore.  Most are well maintained; a few fallen and shattered. We pop up over a hill, and there is the farm of my dreams—from a storybook of my childhood—set in a small green valley with a huge red barn, two tall silos, a few more bright red outbuildings, and a large two-storied white farmhouse. Perfection.

A flowering golden plant fills the hills.  It is everywhere.  I think goldenrod—I hope beautiful goldenrod—but I wonder…evil ragweed? The flowers are so similar, only the leaves tell the true tale, and we drive too fast for me to see anything but a green blur.

An overlook is up ahead, the flowering plant is by the roadside. We stop. I snap. I check. Goldenrod!

After six hours of driving through very back roads—taking Gladys’ detours that take us through the hearts of small towns—we arrive in Woodstock.  This is a nightmare; it is like downtown Wimberley on a Saturday afternoon—times ten!  We need to find a parking space so we can pick up the keys to the house we rented for the next four weeks. We wind and twist our way through the town, turning down one side street and up another.

After paying five dollars to a parking attendant, we head back to the main street of town. Being disoriented after our winding path, we can’t agree on turning right or left.  We turn right, and walk and walk and walk. Michael thinks we should turn back, but we keep going, finally seeing the large sign for Imagine Woodstock Realty. There are two large houses on either side of the sign, but neither of them is the real estate office. Then we see a teeny tiny doll’s house well back from the street. I laugh and wonder just what I have gotten us into. We collect our key—from a lock box—and drive to Bearsville to find our new home.

The house is tucked back in the woods, barn red and part of a three-building compound—house, guest house, and garage—surrounded by trees ten times taller than I am. We unlock the back door and begin to explore.  It is higgledy-piggledy with rooms tucked in unexpected places and looks in need of a lot of TLC. Out of three bedrooms available, we choose the one upstairs for our master suite.

It is hot and humid. Michael immediately starts turning on the air conditioning and checking out the WIFI. Nothing works but the giant TV in the living room. We are so deep in the woods that I do not have 4G’s on my phone and bars are non-existent.  I try turning on lights to erase the gloom of the woods and find few that work. One of the reasons I chose this house from VRBO was because of the photos showing a light, bright interior. I’m stressed. Michael to the rescue; he does the same thing that I did, but this time there is a soft glow in the downstairs living area—not bright, but light.

Frustrated with our inability to be connected (thirty years ago we wouldn’t have cared…I wonder why we do now?) and needing laundry detergent to wash two weeks of dirty clothes, we decide to go back to 212, make purchases and call the landlord.  Before we can gather our things, Mike Young appears.  He is puzzled at our problems. He tells us a tiny bit about the house and its furnishings, and not knowing what he is doing, accidentally fixes the WIFI.

We are exhausted. After a trip to the small Cub Market and a simple dinner of bacon and eggs, we watch a movie to wind down…and then crash in the cool upstairs bedroom.  I’ll unpack and wash clothes, and organize tomorrow.