Even the smallest things can be a delight if you change your perspective sometimes

Happy new year from the still-trapped expats of Brooklyn, who spent an uncharacteristically sedate Christmas at home in our apartment with presents round the Christmas cactus. Yes, some of the gifts got impounded at customs and only just arrived; yes, the plastic cactus lacked that classic piney smell of a real Douglas fir. But did we throw on Now That’s What I Call Christmas, a pair of themed pyjamas and a pan of mulled wine? You bet we did.

In those weird days between Christmas and New Year’s Day which are, by British law, supposed to blur into each other in an alcoholic haze, we packed up an offensively large SUV and headed up the highway to Vermont. We were craving an apartment with more than one room, open spaces that weren’t filled with people, a slight change of scene. Bordering the very tip of New York, Vermont is an adult Disneyland in Covid times: isolated cabins in the style of ski chalets look out across forests of evergreens, snow falls gently on the deserted hiking trails, and the biggest store in the town sells cheese, wine, fudge and a selection of kitschy Vermont-themed memorabilia and nothing else. And driving through New England is a weird and wonderful history lesson in itself, charting the order in which settlers arrived on the east coast of the US through its small town names: Sunderland bordering Manchester, which in turn borders Londonderry, which, confusingly, borders Berlin, Bromley and Peru.

Dressed in my new “VERMONT, EST. 1791” sweatshirt, I helped haul logs into the fireplace and sat on the handcrafted rug of our rented chalet with a glass of red wine and a huge hunk of blue cheese. It felt peaceful and decadent, like a little slice of someone else’s idyllic life.

Stocking up on supplies the next day, the store owner asked me where we’d come from. “We live in New York,” I explained, “but as you can probably tell from our accents, we’re originally from England.”

“Oh, you’re from the city,” said the man admiringly (I noted that even a couple of states along, New York City still counts as “the city”. It makes sense really, considering that Vermont is an extremely sparsely populated state, with the nation’s highest ratio of cows to people at 3.8 to one. And yes, I have been reading up on my Vermont trivia. I’ll have you know it’s also one of the most progressive states in the country, having been the first to abolish slavery, grant women the vote and legalise same-sex marriage. Little wonder that that’s where Bernie Sanders thrives.)

“You know, if you’re from the city,” the man continued, while bagging up my maple syrup fudge, “you’ll get a real kick out of this. Get yourself down to the village of Ludlow, where they have an actual traffic light. City-style, with red, yellow and green.”

I laughed, because what else do you do when someone tells you to visit a traffic light as a tourist attraction? He looked back at me over his transparent face-shield, deadly serious.

“Brilliant,” I said, “we’ll definitely go there.”

“You should,” he said, handing me the paper bag. “There were people in here yesterday who loved it. Also from the city. They looked a little different from you two, though. You know, wealthy types.” Thanks a lot, I thought, scarpering with my sweets.

After a couple of days, curiosity overcame us and we really did make the ten-minute drive to the village of Ludlow where, lo and behold, there was a “New York-style” yellow traffic light, just as promised. When we paid attention, we realised there really didn’t seem to be any other traffic lights for miles around. A few steps down the road from the recommended tourist attraction was a cafe with a picture of the traffic light proudly drawn across the awning. It was named Cafe at Delight. (Give it a few seconds. You’ll get it.)

I don’t like to boast, but there’s a traffic light directly outside our apartment in Brooklyn; in fact, truth be told, there are two. It just goes to show, I suppose, that the grass (and the traffic light) is always greener on the other side.