Late last summer we fulfilled a life-long dream of mine. We rented a cottage (billed as a Love Nest) on the shores of Lake Champlain in Vermont. We went on our own, rented a tiny car, wandered the countryside and stayed in that tiny Love Nest chosen, from among many others, on a website.
Our trip began in a promising manner--lovely flight, nice hotel, convenient car rental agency, sunny skies and cute little Mazda with built-in GPS. I immediately popped in "Shortest Distance" when requested and we headed for the southern reaches of Lake Champlain. Eight hours later it had become a long day. The sun had gone down...or maybe it was just the heavy clouds hiding the sun's rays; clouds that at that exact moment cracked open and began pouring buckets of rain on us. We were on a dirt road and I was screaming at the GPS and, occasionally, at BC. It's a bad habit brought on by extreme anxiety, because we seemed to be lost. Wholly, completely, upside down, inside out lost. Wait--I just saw a road sign with a familiar name on it--Witherall Road. We may have been saved!
We turned left onto a narrow dirt road which was quickly becoming muddy. We turned right onto a narrower dirt trail. But--I could see a house here and there--mostly there. Then, through the trees I spotted the Love Nest. "Turn here!" I ordered. "Where?" asked BC looking a bit confused. "Here!" I said again, this time a bit testily. "This is it." He looked to his left as I pointed, hit the brakes and with a shocked look on his face turned slowly to me and said, "You've got to be $^!&&!*# me." He has never in his life said, "You've got to be $^!%%!*# me" to anyone. I was a bit taken aback.
"Remember, I told you it would be a bit rough on the outside--the picture wasn't the greatest. But, the inside is wonderful! It's absolutely charming and quaint, and just...just perfect!" I had looked at those e-mailed pictures for hours imagining quiet evenings reading books, breakfast on the deck, BC fishing from the included rowboat, all of the magic that a Love Nest on Lake Champlain might conjure up. I leapt out of the car, grabbing the largish bottle of wine as I cleared the door, and ran to the cottage. As advertised, it was unlocked (no need for keys in Vermont), opened easily, and I was stopped cold. I looked left, I looked right. I looked left and right again, then I looked up and down. It was the cottage of the pictures, but strangely it was somehow different. The landlord had my dreams and our money, and in return, he'd just taught me the power of Photo Shop.
