I had an interesting experience the other day.

We pulled into the bowling alley at about a quarter-to nine, figuring we'd get a lane or two at the tail end of league bowling. So we're driving around, trying to find a good parking space, when this prehistoric beast of a tour bus squeals into the parking lot, rumbles through the obstacle course of parked cars, and makes a B-line for our (admittedly smaller) Chevy Blazer. We pulled into the first open space we could find, while the bus-o-saurus came to a screeching, steaming, sputtering halt in front of the bowling alley's front doors.

The three of us (my friends James and Joel, and I) made a mad dash for the doors — we had no intention this evening of losing our lanes to, of all people, tourists. At the front desk, Norm told us we'd have about a 15-minute wait before we could get a lane, which turned into about 15 seconds as his eyes fixed on the 50 or so tourists streaming in through the front doors.

So we got our lane and didn't get hit by a bus. That gave me a fairly positive outlook for the rest of the evening.

We practiced, bowled, talked, and were joined after awhile by a couple of guys who began pulling on their bowling shoes and taking shots down the lane just opposite us. One was an older man, with white hair and a weathered face. He sniffled a lot. The other was younger, mid-thirties, with tattoos flowing down his arms from under the cutoff sleeves of his Iron Maiden t-shirt. As they bowled, they discussed the 50 young people who had been placed on the lanes three or four rows away from us. It turned out that our newfound bowling partners were the bus drivers.

They were friendly people, but they seemed very tired. We talked to them about where they and their passengers were from, and what brought all of them to the Berkshires. Skiing, of course. Little else brings people to the Berkshires in the middle of February. They had all come from inner city areas — Philadelphia, Manhattan, and the Bronx. We watched these two guys bowl: 8 pins here, a gutter there. Every now and then, one would pick up the spare.

The older man talked to us about how he used to league bowl. "I could do nothing wrong in those days," he said. "Bowled two 300s and a 275." We watched him send the 14-pound ball down the lane. A three. We hid our smiles.

"I hate coming here," the younger man said to us. "This is, like, the armpit of the world. There's nothing to DO! I'm just used to the city, I guess. Always something going on."

My friends nodded their heads in agreement. At the time, I did as well.

But the next day, as the three of us lounged on our respective couches and recliners watching "Revenge of the Nerds: Part Two," I found myself thinking differently. The thing about a place like the Berkshires is that you have to find your own fun. You have to get out and be creative. You have to discover how to find entertainment — it won't come to you.

But then, it's always a good feeling to be rewarded for your efforts.

I've always loved the Berkshires. I've always felt safe, secure, and happy here. But being happy here is a process like any other — you get out of it what you put into it. And as I walked outside the next morning through my backyard and up to the old picnic table, sat down, and sipped my coffee, I felt pretty good about things. I realized I was prepared to put quite a bit into it.

I'm glad I came home.

— Eric (2/26/99)