The madness of leisure

Badly needing a getaway for some relaxation, we headed to the Pennsylvania countryside recently. Here, we thought, we could relax, slow down, take life at a leisurely pace.

And then we met our innkeeper.

A petite flurry of activity, she heaped on us not only great food but idea after idea of what to do in the area. An entire antique desk outside our room was filled with brochures, every one of which was pointed out to us with enthusiasm. Were we outdoor people? There was a nature area nearby. Did we like tours? We could tour the quaint countryside, or an Amish home. Antiques? Outlets? Restaurants? They had them all. We could even visit a chocolate museum ("It's kinda small," she said apologetically) or a pretzel factory.

We really wanted to shop, we said.

Ah! This brought on another flurry of brochures, maps, and advice. If we wanted to go to the cute shops in the nearby town -- which we did -- we'd better hurry! They close early.

We said we wanted to go to a flea market and antique shops one day. It's supposed to rain that afternoon, she warned us. Make sure you do the outdoor sales in the morning!

Oh, and these stores aren't open on Sunday!

But THIS place is ONLY open on Sunday!

And some places might not be open on the holiday!

We nodded as if we were actually taking this all in. And for the first two days we became a flurry of activity ourselves. We would be eating lunch when one of us would suddenly remember that the Shaker shop closed at 3, and off we would dash to the Shaker shop. We ate dinner only after everything else closed. Sometimes we misjudged our time. Once, while enjoying an ice cream break, we were dismayed to realize that we had missed the window for visiting the chocolate museum.

By the third day we were exhausted. So we avoided the lure of still more shops and headed for the countryside, where, one of the ubiquitous brochures promised, we could take a leisurely drive and observe several well-preserved covered bridges. Just our pace.

Driving in the countryside IS quite leisurely, unless -- because one is following a map of dubious accuracy -- one accidentally sees rather more of the country than one intended, and one's stomach begins to protest this business of taking one's time. But the brochure described several quaint inns along our drive at which we could stop and refresh ourselves with a bit of local fare, and we looked forward to dining at one of these establishments.

The brochure neglected to warn us that they would all be closed on a holiday.

"What is WRONG with these little towns?" I said as we passed the fourth closed inn. "Just because it's a holiday, everything CLOSES?"

Maybe we are not cut out for a leisurely life after all.