A snowy day in Baltimore used to mean shoveling sidewalks and digging out the car — followed by Ben Gay. Now a snowy day means watching the snowplow and digging out our vacation picture albums — followed by a cup of herbal tea. There’s nothing better than reliving a sunny vacation as snow piles up against the windows.
Vacationing with John is pretty much a ‘crap-shoot.’ He likes nothing better than taking the road less traveled and being surprised at our destination. Our most memorable ‘surprise’ was on Cape Vincent, NY State, eight years ago.
We’d left the highway, against my better judgment, and were coming to the end of a
narrow country road running along the St. Lawrence River. Suddenly, the road ended. Directly in front of us — an unbelievable sight. Overlooking the point where the St. Lawrence River and Lake Ontario come together, stood a picturesque lighthouse. Tibbett’s Point Light, the sign in the yard said. As I reached for my camera, John said something that sent shivers up my spine.
“Look at that sign on the light-keeper’s house; Tibbett’s Point Lighthouse Hostel.” He looked at me, eyes sparkling. “We’ve never stayed in a hostel, Hon.”
“Hostels are for young travelers who can’t afford a motel,” I said, conjuring up images of partying backpackers.
Inside the managers house, a woman took a batch of gingerbread cookies from the oven while assuring us that hostels are no longer just for youths. “Just last week, two doctors from India stayed.” Then the clincher: “There’s a large, dormitory-style bedroom downstairs; so far, only four men are staying tonight, though we accommodate 26. You would share a bathroom.”
‘In your dreams,’ I thought as I bit into the warm cookie, remembering how Hansel and Gretel had broken off pieces of the witch’s Gingerbread house. The manager gave us directions to the nearest restaurant, and we promised to read the brochure over dinner and get back to him.
I must have looked skeptical, because his wife called after us. “You can have the small bedroom upstairs, but you’ll have to share the first floor bathroom. Don’t be late; doors are locked at 10:00 sharp.”
I said good-bye, reasonably sure I’d never see her again. Over dinner, John perused the brochure then looked up with a dreamy expression.
“Imagine, waking up in that beautiful place.” I knew he was picturing the sun’s rays shedding their golden reflections across the lake and into the river channel with its islands and tree-bordered shores.
“There’s no way I’m sharing a bathroom with four strange men. They could be criminals who do drugs and smoke in bed — or worse.”
John pointed to the brochure and read smugly: ‘No smoking! No alcohol! No drugs! Disorderly conduct not allowed!’
We signed the guest book, paid $35.00, and were introduced to the four ‘criminals’ in the kitchen — a priest on his way to 
retreat, a father and son biking around Lake Ontario for the summer, and a student from Washington State. Not quite the threat I’d imagined.
Fresh August air blew through the opened windows while the beacon atop the lighthouse cast a warm, intermittent glow. Six seconds on, four seconds off — six seconds on, four seconds off… During my one nervous trip to the bathroom in the middle of the night, fully clothed, I met no one.
John’s research has uncovered some interesting facts: there are farm, city, tepee, and ranch hostels. Would I spend another night in a hostel? Not on purpose.
