When the man with the beard asks me, \u201cDid you travel very far to get to this place?\u201d I\u2019m tickled that he\u2019s asking me, but I\u2019m especially struck by the phrase \u201cthis place.\u201d<\/p>\n
It\u2019s late afternoon, and a stream of light from the descending sun passes through the narrow window slats. Otherwise the light in the cottage is dim. A fire crackles next to me, with something burning on it (something to do with muskets, I\u2019ve been told).<\/p>\n
Something about the atmosphere strikes me, and I decide to play along (sort of). \u201cNot that far,\u201d I tell him. \u201cI came from a place called New York City.\u201d<\/p>\n
The man scratches his beard and gazes into the fire, \u201cNever heard of it,\u201d he tells me matter-of-factly.<\/p>\n
There is a titter of understanding laughter among the other group gathered in that tiny cottage, but the bearded man ignores it. He has never heard of New York because for him that great city does not exist. The name of my new acquaintance is William Bradford. Though one might not know it from his humble cottage, his occupation is governor, and \u201cthis place\u201d which he governs is Plimouth Plantation. The year: 1627.<\/p>\n
Growing up in California\u2014far, far away from Plymouth Rock\u2014I donned my paper Pilgrim hat and learned, like every other classroom in the United States, about the first Thanksgiving, a tale as all-American as the apple we eat to commemorate it, but of course Plymouth Rock and a giant feast are not the full story\u2014and even that part feels wildly diluted when you grow up eating turkey against a backdrop of evergreen trees, some 3,000 miles from where it all took place. This year, I decided to get in the spirit with a fall visit to Plymouth, MA, the place where it all began.<\/p>\n
If you’re interested in going on a bog tour – check out this video:<\/p>\n