This past weekend, the BF and I traded the bustling noise and busy Saturday streets of Rochester and headed down South to the serene hills and farm-scapes of Nunda, NY. Yes, I ventured again out to another small town in hopes of finding some hidden treasures in the town's thrift store. The day was warm and sunny and very much dress appropriate. Sometimes it's nice to get away from all the daily commotion and experience a new surrounding. So after a nice and leisurely 45 min drive, we arrived at our destination, the Town of Nunda.
Side Note: Another peculiar thing about small towns is that there are as many pizza shops as there are Tim Horton's in Canada or Star Bucks in New York City. This town didn't disappoint. I believe that there were literally 20 ft between two shops on the same side of the street! Silly.
We ended up walking around the few blocks that the town could afford us and visited the thrift store. I ended up not getting a thing because the store held more knick-knacks and miscellaneous objects rather than the clothing I was looking for. But it was fun, nevertheless, to see toys from our childhoods and beyond.
On our way out, we did end up eating at a small diner right outside the town called, Poor American Cafe. With a name like that, one has to stop and eat there just to say that they did! The place was an oddity for sure. The building was more of a make-shift house surrounded by a yard of gravel and mud. A tall and brightly colored giraffe statue stood candidly outside, giving the whole odd impression. I find such places tend to always leave an impression after I leave. . .
We entered to find the place in an organized chaos. Mix-matched chairs, tables and decorations gave the impression of a theme of no theme. A Family with young children sat at a round table by a window and pairs of older couples sprinkled throughout the rest of the one large room with an attached kitchen. Thom and I sat by a window at a booth and looked over the menu.
Now I realize that people make impressions of others all the time. And perhaps it just comes naturally and we find ourselves making our judgments before we even know a poor soul. But that day, I found myself being sized up and down and judged. It was like the strike of a gavel. Our waitress came over, took one look and as quick as a strike, her faced changed from friendly to cold abidance. Maybe not as dramatic as I make it out to be, but there was a noticeable difference in how she acted from there in out.
We did receive our meals and drinks and eventually our bill but with as much avoidance as possible. We were like the magnets that repel when like poles are close to each other. Thom and I left thinking of people and how we're all different and the same. Odd. Nunda. People. And that's all I could really think about on our way back to Rochester. I guess we saw small town, Nascar and deer hunting folk and perhaps they saw a guy with a credit card and an odd girl in bright fushia tights with a camera.
Side Note: Another peculiar thing about small towns is that there are as many pizza shops as there are Tim Horton's in Canada or Star Bucks in New York City. This town didn't disappoint. I believe that there were literally 20 ft between two shops on the same side of the street! Silly.
We ended up walking around the few blocks that the town could afford us and visited the thrift store. I ended up not getting a thing because the store held more knick-knacks and miscellaneous objects rather than the clothing I was looking for. But it was fun, nevertheless, to see toys from our childhoods and beyond.
On our way out, we did end up eating at a small diner right outside the town called, Poor American Cafe. With a name like that, one has to stop and eat there just to say that they did! The place was an oddity for sure. The building was more of a make-shift house surrounded by a yard of gravel and mud. A tall and brightly colored giraffe statue stood candidly outside, giving the whole odd impression. I find such places tend to always leave an impression after I leave. . .
We entered to find the place in an organized chaos. Mix-matched chairs, tables and decorations gave the impression of a theme of no theme. A Family with young children sat at a round table by a window and pairs of older couples sprinkled throughout the rest of the one large room with an attached kitchen. Thom and I sat by a window at a booth and looked over the menu.
Now I realize that people make impressions of others all the time. And perhaps it just comes naturally and we find ourselves making our judgments before we even know a poor soul. But that day, I found myself being sized up and down and judged. It was like the strike of a gavel. Our waitress came over, took one look and as quick as a strike, her faced changed from friendly to cold abidance. Maybe not as dramatic as I make it out to be, but there was a noticeable difference in how she acted from there in out.
We did receive our meals and drinks and eventually our bill but with as much avoidance as possible. We were like the magnets that repel when like poles are close to each other. Thom and I left thinking of people and how we're all different and the same. Odd. Nunda. People. And that's all I could really think about on our way back to Rochester. I guess we saw small town, Nascar and deer hunting folk and perhaps they saw a guy with a credit card and an odd girl in bright fushia tights with a camera.
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