You know that you are in Nowhereland, New England when:

There isn’t a hotel that you’d even dream about setting foot in within a 15 mile radius of your destination. 

You would never, ever consider visiting the place you now have to visit if familial constraints hadn’t dictated otherwise. (No, not even for the fall foliage.)

The nearest hotspots are the Karaoke Bar/Pool Hall on Main Street and the seasonal ice cream farm down past the reservoir.

The price of regular unleaded is way less than $3.00.

You are complimented on your eyebrow-grooming habits by people who clearly have never seen the inside of waxing room.

Cosmopolitans are a rarity. (The persons and the drink)

You find yourself ignoring relatives’ snide remarks disguised as innocent chit-chat, simply because they’re just too damn much a waste of time and energy to engage.

You’ve been visiting regularly for six years and your list of palatable restaurants is still inexistent.

You have to literally overdose on Benadryl to make it through your visits to animal fur-laden homes.

When at 10pm you do finally stumble back (in an antihistamine stupor) to your room in the only halfway decent hotel you actually found just outside the 15 mile radius,  there is a fife and drum jam session going on in the next room which just happens to have a connecting door to your own.  The only thing missing:  colonial period costumes!

Post Disclaimer: to all New Englanders who actually have it together, my utmost apologies.  Remember that there IS a difference between quaint and substandard, and between having standards and being a snob. More on these arguments once I’ve recovered from this weekend’s trip.