A travel missive for my fellow Louisiana souls brave enough to venture where the coffee is weak and the vowels are dropped

Well, darlings, I’ve done it. I’ve traded my beloved humidity for what the locals charmingly call “crisp air” — which, as it turns out, is simply a euphemism for “arctic punishment.” Yes, I, a daughter of the Mississippi Delta, have ventured forth to New England, that peculiar corner of America where they pronounce “park” like “pahk” and consider anything above 70 degrees a heat wave worthy of declaring a state emergency.

Vermont: Where Maple Syrup Flows Like Our Mississippi Mud

Vermont greeted me with the sort of pastoral charm that makes one understand why city folks pay obscene amounts for “authentic rustic experiences.” The autumn foliage was, I’ll admit, rather spectacular — though I couldn’t help but think that our Louisiana cypresses put on quite a show themselves, thank you very much, and without requiring a parka to properly appreciate them.

I stayed at a quaint bed-and-breakfast where the proprietress served something called “real Vermont maple syrup” with the reverence typically reserved for communion wine. Having grown up on Log Cabin, I was prepared to be underwhelmed. Reader, I was not. This amber nectar made me understand why people willingly subject themselves to months of snow just to tap a few trees. Though I still maintain that nothing beats our cane syrup on a hot biscuit, I’m woman enough to admit when I’ve been bested.

Massachusetts: Where History Lurks on Every Corner

Boston proved to be a city of contradictions — simultaneously ancient and youthful, sophisticated and charmingly parochial. They have something called the Freedom Trail, which is essentially a tourist trap disguised as a history lesson, but an effective one. Following that red brick line through the city, I found myself genuinely moved by places where actual history occurred, not just the sanitized version we learned in school.

The locals possess an endearing combination of pride and self-deprecation. They’ll tell you their city is the greatest in America, then immediately complain about the Big Dig as if it personally affronted their ancestors. I found this refreshingly honest after years of Southern politeness that could kill you with kindness while secretly judging your choice in sweet tea brands.

Maine: Where Lobster Rolls Cost More Than My First Car

Maine surprised me. I expected quaint fishing villages and got them, but I also found an almost Louisiana-level devotion to local cuisine. Their lobster rolls are what our po’boys would be if they went to finishing school and developed pretensions. At $28 for what amounts to seafood salad on a bun, I initially balked. But after my first bite at a weathered shack overlooking Casco Bay, I understood. Sometimes excellence commands its price, even if that price would buy you a week’s worth of groceries back home.

The coast of Maine in autumn possesses a stark beauty that grows on you like a particularly persistent case of kudzu. The locals warned me about “mud season,” which sounds charmingly rustic until you realize it’s their polite term for “when everything turns into a brown, soggy nightmare.” I was grateful for my October timing.

New Hampshire: The Quiet Achiever

New Hampshire struck me as the middle child of New England — competent, pleasant, and slightly overlooked. They have no sales tax, which delighted my Louisiana sensibilities, and mountains that actually deserve the name (unlike our charming but diminutive Driskill Mountain). The White Mountains provided hiking that challenged even this Gulf Coast girl who considers our levees adequate exercise equipment.

I spent an evening in a pub in North Conway where a local gentleman — and I use the term loosely — attempted to explain the appeal of “leaf peeping” while consuming what he called a “craft beer” but what tasted suspiciously like liquid bread. His enthusiasm was infectious, even if his pronunciation of “beer” as “beeyah” was not.

Connecticut and Rhode Island: The Sophisticated Bookends

Connecticut impressed me with its ability to be simultaneously rustic and refined. The fall colors along Route 169 rivaled any postcard, and the historic towns possessed that particular New England charm of looking exactly as they should while costing more than a small yacht to inhabit.

Rhode Island, despite being smaller than most Louisiana parishes, packed more personality per square mile than seemed mathematically possible. Newport’s mansions made our Garden District look positively modest, though I maintain that our antebellum homes have better stories. Their clam chowder, however, was a revelation — creamy, rich, and utterly unlike the tomato-based abomination they serve in Manhattan and dare to call by the same name.

The Verdict: A Louisiana Girl’s New England Confession

Would I return? Surprisingly, yes. New England in autumn possesses a beauty that justifies the pilgrimage, even for those of us accustomed to year-round blooms. The food, while different from our Creole and Cajun traditions, showed a respect for local ingredients that resonated with my Louisiana soul. And the people, once you crack through that famous New England reserve, proved as warm as our Gulf waters — they just express it differently.

But I’ll always return home grateful for our endless growing season, our understanding that seasoning should make your eyes water, and our collective wisdom that life’s too short for weak coffee or apologetic hospitality.

Pack layers, dear Baton Rouge travelers. Pack many, many layers. And perhaps smuggle in some Crystal Hot Sauce — just in case.