As madness began to take my mind, 4 days since I last spoke to anyone as Clare and BBS were back in NYC, I felt compelled to venture into the nearby hippie enclave of Trumansburg in search of a chat-up. I'd estimated I'd find a bar, have a drink and talk to whomever was nearby. There was an anti-establishment establishment spoken of frequently by locals and travelers: the Rongovian Embassy to the USA. The name itself suggests a "get away from the man, man" dream of utopian venues for the wayfarer's intoxication and music. I'd later find out that Rongovia was derived from hippie slang for Vietnam, like Vietnam was the wrong way to go, man.
Surprisingly I was, at times, the singular and solitary person at the bar. Many tourists came and went, some doing shots, most wearing pastels and loafers, few among them staying to drink seriously. The bartender told me that they'd hoped to find food but the Rongovian's kitchen was yet closed. It was being remodeled by the new owners who had reopened the space but 2 months ago. Things here were still coming together, she said.