I’d been in and around town for seven hours, two of which were spent at an antique warehouse where I stared at the largest and most expensive vintage furniture I have ever seen, and sifted through racks displaying gorgeous coats, jackets, and blazers. My only plan for Thursday was to return to Spotty Dog, the charming and welcoming independent bookstore-meets-bar on Warren Street, the main drag of Hudson, New York. Oh, and if you needed art supplies, you could find them there, too. There was one more book I wanted to grab before I drove home the next day. I left with two books, two stickers, a wine buzz, and a new friend.
I didn’t recognize the employee, the same person working during my stop there the night prior, until I sat my items down at the checkout counter. I said hi in the way a person would greet an old, distant friend they hadn’t seen in years, like I expected the unreasonable fondness to be reciprocated. Mentally, I reminded myself that I was a tourist and then asked if they had rosé, and of course they had rosé, I read it right there, “ROSÉ,” written in pink on the massive chalkboard on the wall, you can’t miss it. And no, thanks, I don’t need a bag, but I’ll take a glass. I sat at the bar in what I considered to be the less awkward choice of the two available seats and kept my gaze forward.
It had taken some convincing to sit down, all internal, and the push/pull of assumed outcomes was a charade I was tired of entertaining. Leaving Spotty was the more comfortable option. I wouldn’t be perceived by the locals at the bar and left trying to gauge their opinions of me, the obvious tourist who seemed to be alone. To sit down and adjust myself on the tall wooden chair was to open myself up to a new experience. Plus, I’d avoid the dreaded fear of missing out, which would have left me feeling empty and subconsciously disappointed in myself.
The beer on tap, if I remembered correctly from my Instagram stalking, was all from small breweries, some of which were local, and the labels for each one were hand drawn in a variety of bright colors. I wanted to study them but also avoid looking too interested, too out of place. I’d given up on staring straight ahead and glanced to my right. There were stickers and other novelties on a table next to shelves containing an array of gay books, feminist books, and books about tarot reading. I tried settling into the comforting truth that Hudson was filled with people who, believe it or not, didn’t sit down at the bar with the intention to think poorly of me. They wanted a drink and a good time, just as I did.
The man to my left appeared to be in his mid to late fifties, had a full head and beard of salt and pepper hair, and when he turned to me to say something, I was met with kind eyes. On my head was a black newsboy cap with cat hair on it that I hoped wouldn’t be too visible in the warm lighting. I wanted to take it off so that I could appear at least somewhat relaxed and open to conversation, but I was unaware of the state of my bangs and wasn’t going to risk hat hair. When the bartender sat my glass of wine in front of me, I became present.
“Let me guess, you’re from the city,” the man said, meaning New York City, and God, no, I wasn’t from there. If I were, I’d have moved here long ago.
“I’m from Pennsylvania, about an hour from Pittsburgh,” I shared. He asked if I sneezed, would it hit Ohio?
“If I sneezed, in about an hour it would hit Ohio,” I replied.
“So, what brought you here?”
This would be where I revealed myself to be crazy, or at least seem more spontaneous than I actually am. Unable to lie, I explained that I’d read Big Swiss, the horny, gorgeous, deranged, and quite gay novel by Jen Beagin, a local author, and thought it’d be fun to visit. He said the author, referring to her by first name, comes here often, and they still have the poster from her reading, it’s up there, do I see it? He looked to the very top of the first set of bookshelves on the wall to his right, my left.
“It’s not exactly like the book,” he said, in reference to Hudson.
In Big Swiss, Hudson is practically its own character. It’s vibrant and sometimes (or all of the time) ridiculous, gossipy, full of antiques, gays, antique gays, gay restaurants, coffee shops, hair salons, etc. On the weekends, people came up from the city to ooh and ahh at the storefronts of Warren Street while they contemplated purchasing a second house there, just to, you know, get out of the city for a few weeks a year.
I said something about hearing that those who call Hudson home understandably aren’t fond of tourists, and that I wanted to avoid the rush of city people, which is why I’d planned my trip to be from Wednesday to Friday. I worried that I sounded uptight, but further into our conversation, the man deemed me a “real person,” even as a tourist, which I took as a compliment as well as a rite of passage to come back to Hudson in the future.
My glass was still a quarter full, I’d been drinking on an almost empty stomach. Not my best idea, but the wine loosened me up and I was loving it. In my slightly inebriated state of being, I mentioned that I should really eat, but I’m vegan, annoyingly picky, and anxious to go anywhere alone. Table for one. I mean, what a loser!
The man’s friend, sat to his left, showed my new friend something in the book he was reading. I thought it would be helpful to learn names.
In perfect timing, my friend turned back to introduce me to his friend.
“And this is..,” he waited for me to chime in.
I introduced myself and they shared their names. I’ll call my friend Don. Don unlocked his phone and opened Google to look for vegan food options in the area. I watched, almost in awe. Were people actually kind? Did they help without being asked to do so? What was going on?
After he listed a few options we joked about how, yes, I’m a vegan who hates salad, and isn’t that unbelievable? What do I eat, then? But I wanted to know more about Don. With his body turned in my direction he shared that he’s a veteran, talked lovingly about his children, and told me that I could ask him anything as long as it wasn’t too personal. He got a refill and used an empty pretzel bag as a coaster.
The bell above the entrance door chimed and a woman walked in. Almost immediately, she recognized Don and went in for a hug. She said she was there to find a book or two for a young girl she had volunteered to donate Christmas presents to. Don placed his hand on the bar and assured me he’d be back after he helped her look. I waited.
It was unlike me to sit down at a bar alone, to engage in conversation with a stranger and actually enjoy it, but in that moment, I’d never felt more like myself. Thinking about the conversation ending filled me with a sense of loss. I thought maybe I’d been born again, I’d finally opened my eyes, or that I’d simply simultaneously discovered that people can be good, places can be warm and accepting, and that I can be happy.
It was getting later, with the time having changed it had been dark outside for at least an hour. Was that how long we’d been chatting? Don sat back down while the woman purchased two books. We talked some more about movies, writing, my plans (or lack thereof) for the future, and how he came to live in Hudson. But it was time for Don to head out. I smiled as he stood up and announced his Irish exit. Before leaving, we followed each other on Instagram and shared a fist bump. I would see him again.
The drive back to my Airbnb was a kind of meditation. Directions were open on my phone but I was familiar enough with the route that I could focus my attention on the day I’d had. A layer of tears covered both of my eyes and I blinked them away, feeling them turn cold as they ran down my cheeks and settled into the corners of my mouth. A salty sustenance. I thought about Don, his friend, the woman he hugged and helped, the bartender, the smell of books and beer and wine. It was going to be so hard to leave.
For the first time in my life, I experienced the joy of community. The need for the sense of freedom found in being in a place where nobody knew me had mutated into the desire to know and to be known. It’s not often that I welcome an unfamiliar feeling, but I wished this one to be permanent. I floated through the rest of my night, scarfed down a ramen cup I’d packed, stared into my eyes in the bathroom mirror as I brushed my teeth, and got into bed. I had been forever changed, I could feel it in my body as I fell asleep. That night, I didn’t dream. I’d supposed I’d experienced enough good in reality.
wasalreadythere 