In my 30-something odd years on this earth, I’ve never been to New England. I hear people talk about how gorgeous it is. I have relatives who have lived there most of their adult lives. And yet I’ve never had an opportunity to go.

Until now.

My dear friend Kati Kennedy foolishly invited me to come and stay with her and her brood outside Hartford. It was the best weekend trip I’ve had since … well, birth.

Kati and I ran amuck from sea side to country side and back. Now, not only can I say I’ve been to Massachusetts, Connecticut and Rhode Island … I can now say I’ve eaten my way through them as well.  I ordered clam chow-dah and lob-stah with wild abandon.  (Probably because Kansas isn’t exactly known for their seafood.) 

Everywhere we went, people noted I was a tourist. How they knew … I’ll never know? It was probably the fact my mouth was agape and I was gawking at the gazillions of fall colors – that is, when I wasn’t fawning over ye olde structures and landmarks.

Kati provided a lot of running commentary. For instance, tourists who come to visit New England in the fall are called “Leaf Peepers”. They cause traffic jams and fill hotels to capacity. It’s a cottage industry of flora and fauna. 

During the cultural enhancement portion of the trip, I demanded we visit each and every nearby Hard Rock Café. Kati countered with trips to Yale University and Mystic, CT. Good thing too. My mom demanded in no uncertain terms that I visit Mystic while in Connecticut. And I always thought my mom was a landlubber.

I’m off to North Carolina this weekend for more fun and frivolity. I’ve never been there either. I’ll simply have to take off my Paul Revere hat and trade it in for a southern belle bonnet. Same planet, different worlds.