To add insult to injury, immediately following my return to N.H. I contracted a case of hives that lasted for all of June and July. In an attempt to determine the cause of this reaction, I made an appointment with an allergist. I was hoping to test my theory that perhaps I had developed an allergy to our four family cats, which was mainly hopeful, as the presence of their fur on every surface of my home rendered my virtually monochromatic Manhattan wardrobe superfluous. However, after stabbing me with exactly 41 needles, my allergist ascertained that I am not, in fact, allergic to cats, or dogs for that matter. No, after nine months living in New York, I have developed an allergy to nature—to four different kinds of trees as well as, more generally, tree pollen.

Now living at Fordham College at Lincoln Center (FCLC), this isn’t exactly an issue; the sporadically-planted street trees don’t exactly sky-rocket the pollen count. However, when coming home to Strafford, N.H., population 3,626, being allergic to nature is certainly an issue.

So it is safe to say that returning to my dark, silent and decidedly tree laden town was a bit of a readjustment. However, these are all things easily remedied by copious amounts of Benadryl, flashlights and running my air conditioner on the fan setting reminiscent to my McMahon hall wall unit. Other adjustments were not so easy to accept. For instance: my town.

Let’s consider a list of options for entertainment in N.H.: an information forum to “learn about coyotes” at the town library and a community theater production of “Waiting on Trains.” So basically you can either learn how to avoid letting your pets get eaten by wildlife or you can be mentally scarred by the experience of your friends’ parents and the post office ladies doing musical theater.

I would be willing to look past the utter lack of entertainment options because I could always just visit with friends, but even letting that slide, my town is completely lacking. Lacking in what? Well for starters, it lacks people, having about 1/400th the population of Manhattan in about twice the space; my neighbors live so far down the road that I only see them about every four years. Another consequence of this is that everywhere I go in and around my town I see someone I know. The convenience store clerk is a friend-from-grade-school’s mother and asks me about my family; the post office workers went through the drama of sending college applications with me and ask me about school. Each time I go to the supermarket I run into at least seven people I know; if I didn’t see him in his house, I would be convinced that my friend’s father actually lived at the supermarket. In essence, if you’re not in the mood to chronicle the last year of your life in detail, you might as well just stay home.

The high frequency with which I run into people I know in my town is definitely due to its small amount of residents, but is also due to the fact that there are exactly five buildings you can go to in my town: the post office, two convenience stores, the town hall and the library. Oh, and if you’re lucky, the town historical society will be open. Not only does this mean having to small talk with someone you didn’t really want to see every time you need to get gas, but it also means that, unless you want to send a letter or buy gas, you will have to leave town. In New York, it was annoying that the nearest Bank of America ATM was six blocks away. In NH, it is annoying that the nearest Bank of America is a 30 minute drive from my house. It takes 25 minutes by car to get to the closest supermarket, 35 minutes to the nearest CVS and 50 minutes to get to a mall. After living in N.H. for 18 years, it should not be so shocking that everything is so far away, but the amount of time I spend in a car everyday is appalling. As a result of the nothingness that is in my town, I must drive 45 minutes to get to my summer job—a pretty typical commute for any N.H. resident.

My rapidly increasing carbon footprint aside, moving back to small town New England was certainly and surprisingly more difficult than making the move to Manhattan. Although on the upside, after three months of being home I’ve run into most of the people who demand a detailed description of how I like life in New York, and my skin has finally gotten over its arbor-phobia. Oh, and the stars are alright too.