The most vital thing Pennsylvanians have taught me about their state is that their winters are somehow not accompanied by a 24/7 blanket of gray sky. To a Michigan girl like myself, the notion of actually seeing sun during the colder months is about as close to heaven as it can get, so it didn’t take much to keep my mind open about getting to know the area better. Myself and my two fellow travelers, a little gang of three, marveled at the PA highways on our drive from Brooklyn to Lancaster. How the hell are the roadsides so green? What’s with all this…nature?
As our drive further west gave way to wide open fields and farms, it was hard not to gape. Too much time in the city starts to make the most commonplace of natural scenery seem like a museum exhibit, so being faced with miles upon miles of rolling hills and cornstalks felt like we’d stepped into another universe. Even the view from the gas station – a lush field framed by distant trees and foothills – was breathtaking. When we turned a corner and found ourselves sharing the road with a horse and buggy, we knew we weren’t in Brooklyn anymore. Are we in a fever dream?
My only tangible clue of what to expect in this part of the country was my beloved quillow, allegedly made with love by the residents of Amish country (and gifted to me by my beloved teacher aunt who’s field-tripped there with her students one too many times).
“Quillows,” I kept declaring from the backseat, despite the fact that our whirlwind plans for the weekend left zero time for a true Amish experience. “We have to buy some quillows! And jam. Definitely jam.”
We pulled up to a sprawling farm in a Lancaster County town of 5,000 people, waving hello to horses and cows and a massive living pillow/farm dog as we maneuvered through the gravel driveway. I was immediately greeted by the fresh, welcoming smell of the air. I was painfully aware of the clarity of my own breath. How could a place so peaceful even exist at the same time as the loud, frantic city I go to sleep in most nights back on the coast? We stood on a hill next to the property’s barn and watched the sky change colors as the cows played nearby. When nightfall came, we gazed up at more stars than we could have ever dreamed, each one bright and twinkling and full of a life of its own.
In short: I was sold on PA.
Impossibly enough, things only got better and better. When we at last ventured into downtown Lancaster that night, I learned I’d spent my life pronouncing the name all wrong (I’m told it goes a little something like “Lank-IS-ter”) before exploring the community’s cozy streets, which were alive with vivid storefronts and locals out and about enjoying their Saturday nights.
We checked into a spiffy friend-recommended establishment called the Lancaster Arts Hotel, after which I discovered that our room was essentially a real-life recreation of the New York City woman-about-town studio apartment I dreamed of when I was around thirteen – hardwood floors, exposed brick walls, a dreamy shower – I was in heaven.
So, the Narnia version of New York City exists here? Sure, I couldn’t have a stunning exposed brick studio in the big city, but here I could have all that plus a “room stylist” who believed in my dreams (thanks Julia!) and could even be freely referred to as an artist, luxuries that are all but nonexistent for a run-of-the-mill New York millennial.
The next morning at last allowed an hour or so to wander through Lancaster in daylight. We knew we’d have to come back again someday to explore all the nooks and crannies we missed this time around, but we tried to scratch as much of the surface as we could manage.
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