I’m sitting in one of those adorable, small, little rural towns voted “America’s Best”, or “The Best Little Town in the Whole USA”, by some nameless, faceless, national organization that appears to have voted at least two towns in every state “The New Best Little Town In All of America” in some recent years past.
Your state has at least two, depending on size, maybe three.
Funny how so many little towns were voted “America’s Best Little Town” between 1995 and 2010. It is almost as if all that voting, and all those organizations proclaiming a town the “Newest, Oldest, bestest”, is nothing but a giant PR campaign to separate Americans from their cash in little boutiques dotting rural America.
What White wife between the ages of 40 and 80 doesn’t want to drag their reluctant husband to a Farmer’s Market on Sunday morning in some small rural town where they get to price the vegetables cheap, but the vintage and hand-made clothing is double-priced, and brunch is going to set you back New York City prices?
The particular town I am visiting on this beautiful Sunday morning is called “Berlin, Maryland”, and is just a brief 5 miles or so from the actual coast.
Is it an adorable little town that harkens back to the days of a “Canteloupe Festival” or a Georgia small town “Peach Festival”, and pictured so wonderfully in “Doc Holiday” as a Carolina small town with a squash festival.
Of course it is adorable here, of course it is.
Their claim to fame here, in Berlin, Maryland, which they have been absolutely milking since day one, is that they filmed the movie “Runaway Bride” here way back in 1999. Somehow they’ve managed to glom onto that fleeting fame and glory for some twenty-five years now and going. Richard Gere walked down this street right here, and into this cafe. And that Julia Roberts, she purchased items in every boutique to send home to California, this is the hair salon they filmed in, the real one! Posters still hang in store windows here advertising the movie.
The entire Farmer’s Market here feels like less than a block long. With all the usual vendors in your own Farmer’s Market, no matter what one you are visiting. Home baked goods in this stand, someone selling batch made vinegars and olive oils right next door to that one. A few artists, one here who adorns sea shells, and conch shells with bright colored paints. A farmer selling fresh steaks, bacon, and other fresh butchered meats in this stand. A gourmet coffee stand. At the back of this stand they’ve put up a small petting zoo. Keep the children being dragged around amused.
For some reason just wandering these trite, same-old stands sends the wife into some kind of euphoria. I tag along just behind, my back an aching mess, a recurring tooth ailment, hunched over, and with “old man resting bitch face” in a constant scowl. Visiting a Farmer’s Market, to me, is an absolute complete waste of time. They are always on a Sunday morning. And they are as big a miserable activity to me as being forced at thirteen to go to Mass. Oh Dear God as a little Catholic boy did I hate to attend Mass every Sunday. Perhaps the most miserable experience of my early life. I found it all excruciating.
Sitting on the park bench on this beautiful September morning wondering which boutique the wife has fallen into, and how long it’s going to take her to emerge, reminds me of those days sitting in the pew at the back of the church. Wondering how in the world some effeminate single man could lecture us all about “family”, when he had none of his own.
The old all-brick facades, wrap around porches, and 1880’’s window-fronts take you back to a Americana, an old world that only exists now as a tourist attraction. In this particular small town gentrification has taken place, and interspersed with the unique boutique craft and clothing stores are old buildings housing modern farm-to-table restaurants. Fusion cuisines. The marriage of local seafood with an ethnic flair.
The blessing of this morning is that I’ve announced that my one wish on this warm, still Summertime Sunday, is that I’d love a good Bloody Mary, and the wife has concurred. She will go along with a Mimosa, and breakfast, if only we can find a restaurant open at this early hour. One that serves liquor.
Sure enough, at the end of our journey, there it is, an oasis. We push open the door to find a lovely place serving breakfast, and cocktails. We pull down two bar stools, and saddle up to enjoy the usual old bay rimmed Bloody Mary they always serve in Maryland. Here, everything gets the Old Bay treatment. They put Old Bay on Old Bay here.
We decide to split a breakfast burrito, it arrives with the best damned and crispest oven roasted potatoes I’ve ever had. As someone of Irish heritage every bite feeds my soul.
Believe it or not after I get only two Bloody Mary’s deep I’m the one advocating to run three doors down and purchase a whole apple pie from the specialty baked store. Last time I was there an apple pie cost me $ 43. You drink a few Bloody Mary’s at Ten AM and the idea that a country made, cross hatched, thick and delicious apple pie might set you back close to fifty dollars, it all becomes inconsequential. You actually feel good about yourself spending almost fifty bucks for an apple pie, you are contributing to a local economy, giving back, keeping the small town dream alive.
The last and final donation to this tourist trap is a visit to the specialty butcher shop. Why not get a thick, beautifully trimmed, ribeye for dinner, along with a generous hunk of fillet for the wife. Fresh corn-on-the-cob, a tomato salad, and a thick grilled steak will make a great Sunday night Labor Day Weekend meal.
And isn’t’ that the great irony in these troubled times?
Inflation is destroying all our purchasing power, costs are spiraling out of control, the family budget has gone out the window, and we can no longer afford to keep up the lifestyle, but somehow we do.
Ignoring reality is the new American normal.
We “New Americans” cannot deny ourselves. We can’t. No matter how ridiculous the prices become. Especially when you get a few Bloodies deep.
There won’t be any pie for dessert, the specialty store has run out of apple. And the shelves are looking a bit bare. Business has been good this morning, even at these prices.
And we can’t find coffee to replace the Dunkin’ Donuts we are now forced to boycott, since they went all woke. I was hoping to find a small boutique coffee shop or stand that sold bags of ground coffee. They have coffee, but not ground coffee to make at home. This boycott in particularly is killing me. I love Dunkin’ coffee.
Oh, well.
I haven’t totaled it up, but I guess I am already a few hundred deep for this early morning “Farmers’ Market” excursion. I chalk it all up to a donation to keeping the lie of small town America alive. Not many in the crowd seem to be carrying bags, one wonders how all these dress shops, knick knack shops, and odd vendors can pay the rent. It is all just cute as Hell, ain’t it!
Time to leave now, before one of the many dogs that owners have brought to tag along to the Farmers Market decides to drool on my shoes. I’m wondering as I leave what the correlation is between large dog owners and a love of Farmers Markets, because it seems to be a one-to-one ratio. Black Labs, and Chesapeake Retrievers appear to be the Farmers Market White female dog of choice. Adorable dogs, but man, do they slobber. Hard to purchase vegetables and other food items when you look both ways down the street and see a dog drooling all over the pavement, it just isn’t appetizing.
Soon we will head back to Florida for the Winter. I’m sure the wife has a plan for us to stop on the way in North or South Carolina, in a town recently voted “The Best Small Town in All of America, 2008”.
I hope some enterprising spot there serves a good Bloody Mary with breakfast.
So true-even in the Midwest!