“So you learned my middle name?” he says with a laugh.
“I told you that I Googled you last night. I was thorough.”
We walk toward a large gazebo-like building. “This is our first stop: the communal kitchen. It has three fully stocked kitchens so cottage guests and campers can use it to cook their meals.” The cupboards are stocked with mismatched dishes. There are lockers where guests can keep their pantry items, as well as a common pantry full of extra items left by campers.
“That’s a lot of organic, non-GMO food,” Edward says, eyeing the shelves of partially used food items.
“Right? I think we have a better selection than Whole Foods.”
The smell of sauteing onions and spices wafts through the air. From where we stand in the covered dining patio, we can see a group of college students making breakfast burritos.
“Who does the dishes?” asks Edward
“The guests do a remarkable job cleaning up after themselves. But once a month we do a deep cleaning.”
One of the college students crosses over to the second stove where a man with a graying beard and a Neil Young t-shirt is sautéing vegetables. The college student hands over a bottle of olive oil, and the two strike up a conversation. We’re too far away to hear the details, but I can imagine them swapping tips on the best hiking trails and swimming holes.
This is one of my favorite things about Norland Park—the way strangers often strike up the most unexpected friendships. I’m glad Edward can see the magic of college kids making nice with aging hippies. I’ve never stayed at a luxury resort, but I have a hunch they don’t have the same bonhomie as Norland Park.
We cross the dining area with its eclectic collection of tables and chairs and old couches. Edward notices the big chalkboard currently advertisingStarry Nights at Norland Parkevery Saturday night.
“What’s that?”
“On weekends we have a campfire. Annie brings her guitar—it’s a good time.”
“Good thing I’m coming back next week”
“Yeah, perfect,” I say with a heavy dose of sarcasm. Edward glances at me sideways but doesn’t respond.
A bird perched in one of the rafters above swoops down right in front of us and flies out the window.
“Whoa!” Edward starts back in amazement. “There’s no screen or glass?” he asks as he waves a hand through the open-air window. “What do you guys do about rain?”
“We close these at night with wooden shutters, and there’s a sizable overhang that keeps out most of the rain. But yeah, if the wind is really blowing...” I point to a particularly ratty couch. “The furniture takes some damage.”
“What about critters?”
“As you just saw, we do have a few birds who live here. Personally, I think they add to the ambience. At night we lock up the kitchen. Between that and the food lockers, we don’t get too many large woodland friends. Although each summer a raccoon or a possum seems to get through our security.”
“Are you telling me Virgil broke into the quinoa?” Edward says with mock alarm. I’m tickled that he remembers the nameAnnie gave the possum living in our sycamore tree—but also, why does he have to be so much fun? It’s challenging to stay angry with Edward.
“No! Virgil would never travel so far. He’s a lazy possum.”
We leave the common area, following the trail to the campground. As we cross an old stone bridge over a gurgling stream, we come upon a very stressed Brandon.
“Have you guys seen Pepper?” he asks almost frantic.
“No.” We both say in unison.
“She ran ahead of me with the map. We were going to a poetry class.”
“Oh! My sister teaches that. It’s in the amphitheater. Follow that trail.”
I point to the path that leads to the amphitheater. “It’s not far...” But Brandon doesn’t wait to hear more. He jogs ahead of us. “I’m sure she’ll be fine,” I tell Edward, “but should we follow to make sure?”
“Yes, let’s.”
I lead him down the railroad-tie steps that descend to the amphitheater.
