I like a slow drive down a country road. Slow enough to notice all the details as we pass by, slow enough to pull into any antiques shop that looks promising, or down a side street whenever something catches my eye.
It threatened rain as we made our way through the back roads of the Green Mountain National Forest in southwestern Vermont, and we dodged downpours as we stopped here for cheese, and there to browse through old pyrex baking dishes and boxes of dusty vinyl records. Sometimes a covered bridge warranted a u-turn and sometimes we’d skid to a stop on the side of the road to admire a barn full of dairy cows. I’d gladly spend the whole summer exploring every little road in every state, until we’d mapped them all out and seen every detail there was to be seen, just the two of us.