Recombobulating

Northampton is a town of juxtaposition.

It's a town where the most progressive and new-age of our nation's young women flock to take classes in buildings constructed some 200 years ago; where Dunkin' Donuts shares storefronts with the most bohemian of organic coffee shops; where the cash registers of fair-trade vendors bear hand-written signs happily exclaiming that they accept all major credit cards.

It's also a place that just days removed from some of the bitterest ice storms my senses have ever borne, today wears a spring day rivaling any of the most beautiful of my childhood.

I took advantage of the weather and decided to stroll downtown to pick up a weekend newspaper and a trinket or two for Mom's birthday.

My, what sights to behold.

Homeless men played junk guitars for change, just steps outside some of New England's trendiest and high-priced boutiques. Amidst one busy section of sidewalk, in front of the retro-chic style store 'Faces,' I heard a large, bearded man playing a passable, if simplified, version of Dylan's "Like a Rolling Stone." Just across the street, on a nearly deserted patch of pavement in front of a local confectioner's shop, a skinny black man struggled painfully through a few bars of "Yellow Submarine."

(I know not whether the crowd size varied based on the quality of the store or the music.)

Further down, a sizable gathering of self-declared liberal labor supporters carried signs and shouted in support of healthcare on the steps of a large Catholic Church.

Fortunately, in this proudly feminist- and lesbian-friendly hollow, I have to this point been spared from the sight of any nudist displays. Unfortunately, as the warm weather portends, the daily attire of many 'Smithies' has become so negligible as to be nearly indistinguishable from the latter.

Many men here wear women's jeans. Many women wear men's shirts.

When I got to a spot sporting newspaper boxes, I looked down to take my pick. On the left was a bright yellow box, holding copies of the free alternative weekly, the Valley Advocate. On the right was a red box which held the daily Springfield Republican. ($1.75 on weekends). Split in between in a tattered orange box were copies of the Hampshire Gazette, which publishes a Saturday-Sunday edition that can be had for $1. I dropped in my four quarters and went on my way.

Returning to the apartment with my paper in tow, I was nearly sweating through my T-shirt. Two blocks on I passed a waif-like young girl bundled in a woolen sweater and parka, lugging what appeared to be a large instrument case. I said hi to her.

As I stepped up to our front porch, which lies just over the apex of Round Hill, I took a look around. Down the hill to the left is a straight path to the local mega-mart and, just beyond, to Wal-Mart. Straight to the right leads to the downtown I'd just departed.

"Eh," I breathed, and walked inside.

(Sarah, when you're in Milwaukee today, take some extra time in the Recombobulation Area.)