Virginia and Vermont Both Start with "V"

I've done a fair amount of moving in my 26 years (ten different abodes in VA, NC, and KY), but a pitiful amount of traveling. Never having been further north than New York, in about a week I will be an honorary Yankee, via Amherst, Massachusetts. My deficiency in northern knowledge is so pitiful that I wasn't even confident in my ability to spell Massachusetts until recently (and my momma still can't pronounce it.) Most people like me, Southerners born and bred and lives led, couldn't accurately label the states between Virginia and Massachusetts. It's all just a big blob above Maryland not-so-affectionately called "New England." Until now, which one happened to be Connecticut was irrelevant to life. But oh so soon I will be loading up and climbing I-95 to a region of snow, hockey, and ear-grating accents. Ear muffs are multipurpose.

So why, perhaps you implore, am I relocating to a place that honestly should require a passport? I'd like to say for the pursuit of a wonderful career and loads of cash. Unfortunately, that has not come to fruition just yet. No, I leave the land of cotton and peanuts for a different reason. 

For a little Yankee love.

Or, rather, for the love of a little Yankee. 

Nate grew up in Vermont. We met in class at the University of Kentucky where I was in my last year of grad school for Historic Preservation and he in his third year of undergrad for Landscape Architecture. It was a weird time in both our lives. I'm still not sure if everything happens for a reason or if we make decisions and live with them. Either way, for your benefit, I'm going to fast forward three years to this past summer. I was back home in Virginia, figuring out what to do next, and Nate was about to start grad school in Amherst. It was time to make a decision about whether we should be together or go our own ways, which in truth meant me going my own way because Nate's way was Amherst for the next few years. He hesitated to make a commitment, as guys do, so I started hanging out with another guy, as girls do. Though this guy was just a friend, it's possible that Nate had the impression it was more serious. As it turned out, Nate did not care to share so he found us an apartment near campus and I started packing. Some plans work perfectly.

So now I'm days away from making the move. When I talk to people around here about my upcoming adventure, they give me interesting advice and perspectives. Most warn me of the cold or lament of their own traffic conundrums in the northern states. Bob at the hardware store told me that they'll leave the county gates open if I ever want to come home again. That is, naturally, unless I return with a Yankee accent. 

It's becoming clear to me that there are many inherent differences about life in the north versus life in the south. When searching for apartments in Amherst, for example, many ads boast "hot water and heat included!" which reminds me of cheap, crusty motels that still illuminate neon "Free HBO" and "Air-conditioning" signs. Several apartments included snowplowing in the rent, which is something us southerners would never think of. In fact, I had never even seen a snow tire until Nate sent me a picture of one, insisting we put them on my car as soon as I get there. I always just thought they were regular tires wrapped in chains. He seems to think I don't have experience driving in the snow. Excuse me Mr. Abominable, we got four and half inches last winter and I drove around in it just fine thank-you-very-much.

And then there are the little regionalisms that I probably will have to adjust to. Kate told me that her Yankee friend wore house slippers over to her apartment one day and when questioned about it, said that in the North people remove their snow boots upon entering someone's home and pad around in their slippers. Makes sense. I reckon I need to buy some slippers. Rednecks always remove their boots, leave them lined up by the door, and visit in their sock feet. Perfectly acceptable. House slippers are reserved for your own home and maybe your patio. Well, in some neighborhoods, the grocery store. But that's a different story.

So this is where I'm at. Packing to move to the great tundra. The arctic north. The white way. I'm pretty excited about getting some long johns, hopefully with the little flap in the back. I'm not at all excited about the 12 hour drive north with my two timid cats. I'm super excited about living with Nate. Not excited about waitressing or babysitting or whatever I'm gonna do to make rent until I find a real job. But as Nate says, we'll figure it out.

I plan to update as I learn more about the Yankees and their way of life. I hope to observe them until I become accepted among them.

My accent might give me away though.