When I walk, I take a unique route each time, whether an average walk from my house with Mochi the dog, or if I'm in a new city — always a new route, rarely the same path. Maybe it's the stimulation of novelty? Conversely, I crave order at home and consistency in communication. Always the tug-of-war between a vibrant experience and a relieved nervous system. Welcome to my brain. No vacancy.
It's for that brain I'm in Dover, New Hampshire this weekend for a trauma intensive. It's not exaggerating to say that this kind of thing has become a hobby for me. It's like a reverse knitting, but instead of scarves, I'm unraveling my childhood. Day one, I'm out the door by 6:15 am to poke around Dover before my first session. 10 minutes and a few photos into my walk I discovered Harvey's Bakery and Coffee Shop, a 90-year-institution in Dover. The bakery is the older firstborn, and the diner is a fledgling 50 years old. It's all currently run by three sisters who seem to think age is a flavor best served sweet.
After a light breakfast of over-medium eggs and a kielbasa sausage, I had enough time to take the long way to session one with my trauma-camp counselor (I'm joking — well, mostly). Around the corner from Harvey's is Cocheco Falls Mill. A windowed monolith of brick rising in a uniform grid out of the Cocheco River. The uninterrupted form of arched windows is copy/pasted for what feels like a quarter mile. It annunciates the utilitarian nature of the industrial age that built this mill. Dover itself has softened like the body of a middle-aged man. You can see the chiseled utility underneath, but weariness and some wisdom have softened it. Dover isn’t cozy, it's more like a well-worn shoe that still fits.
Each day of this intensive, compelled by curiosity and an insistent internal clock still set to Southern time, I find myself at Harvey’s. It's unusually cold in the mornings for late April and it's light earlier than I expect for the Eastern timezone. The internet tells me it's because I'm 630 miles further to the East than I am at home.
At Harvey's, every face is a story in an intimate foreign language. This older couple tucked into the corner booth, silently shares a newspaper — talking is apparently not their thing, though I think I catch a knowing glance once or twice. The lumpy barista with a patina'd smile greets regulars by name with coffee in hand. Each "Good morning" he dishes out seems to come with a free side of cheeky commentary, not that anyone's complaining
On my last day, the train to Boston left before Harvey's opened. I never said goodbye and now the sting of even a silly tragedy makes the heart's memory stronger. Chances are slim I'll ever see Dover again, but it'll be a curio on the shelves of my mind, adjacent less appealing memories — like a souvenir from a trip you didn’t plan but deeply needed. All of it adding up to a life I'd choose to live again and again. Just as it is.
