We departed at mid-day, and the sky, with its intermittent cloud cover and brief glimpses of blue, could not decide whether it would be nice or nasty. The foliage was already past its peak, but a few maples and birches held onto their leaves of golden yellow, brilliant in the scattered bits of sunshine, fluttering like golden coins on some belly-dancer’s get-up. Over the rolling hills and farmland of New York, we traveled West from Albany, along Route 20 – a simple and straight shot, and, off the Thruway, a peaceful and lazy drive.
Small groups of crows – solitary ones too – flew across the barren landscape, over the brown expanse of dried cornstalks, the tilled soil of beds turned over for winter rest, and one lone, shocking cover crop of mustard in bright lemon-hued bloom. A stand or two of pumpkins  was all that appeared for miles, and the houses came fewer and further between. The patches of blue sky were slowly covered by a thick gray cloud cover, and the day grew darker. Though we were in no danger of not arriving before nightfall, I grew anxious for warmth and safety, for a bed and bathroom, for a home-cooked meal. Soon enough, we wound our way into Sharon Springs, a sleepy little town that seemed to have already gone to slumber. Turning onto Main Street, we followed a curving road until the American Hotel winked at us from the right…
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