On Sunday in Nenana, after we ate, we made the rounds of the shops that were open. There was the old train station with its small museum and souvenir shop, a dollar store, and a log-cabin complex of souvenir/books/art/t-shirt shops. After the owner took our money for the RV park (which she owned), for the CD of herself playing accordion with someone on the steps of her shop, after we had peered into all the little log buildings in her Alaska-style mini-mini mall, after she indicated that she owned the dollar store, after we were given a token for free coffee (in her cafe down the street ), I jokingly said, so you own the whole town? Practically, she said.

On the outside wall—beautifully framed, with chrysanthemums blooming beneath—were two panels covered with photographs of tour buses and their drivers. Andre said, she has a thing for bus drivers. I immediately thought of my tourist town, Shelburne Falls. And I wanted to show these pictures to Marion T., and Art, Andrew and Mike M. and Sarah, and everyone on the marketing committee, and SFABA members and anyone in town who has ever discussed the problem of tour buses and their ramifications in Shelburne Falls—and I wanted to say, and you think Shelburne Falls is a tourist town with a bus problem?

This evening, on our last night in Fairbanks, I think of home. Tomorrow morning we officially start back, and I'm ready. It's a sunny night, finally warmer here, and hours until sunset. It must be quiet, past midnight, on Bridge Street. Being the tourist—on the other side for the duration of this journey—has its appeal. But just for a time.

I think back to a hot and sunny Sunday in Shelburne Falls last year. I needed to get away from the computer and went outside. I got some ice cream and walked down Bridge Street to Deerfield Avenue. I sat down on the bench by the Massamont parking lot, next to North River Glass. The town was full of tourists. I watched them walk to the Potholes and back: an assortment of nationalities, young and older couples, families, friends. They had that air of anticipation that people have when they are on an outing, sure that something special is waiting for them, and it's here, today. And whether the couples held hands and looked at each other more than their surroundings, or strolled like old companions; whether they were minutes or many hours from home—it was easy to see that most of them were ready to be happy. Ready, in this different setting, to give each other a different kind of attention.

And for a strange few moments I developed a case of hostess jitters. Suddenly became involved with the tourists and their expectations. We advertise ourselves. We promise a lot. People flowed past me, eating ice cream, drinking coffee, carrying towels and picnics, laughing, reining in children. I scanned their faces. Were they having a good time? Did they think the Potholes were wonderful? Was the Bridge of Flowers worth the walk? Were they taking anything back as a souvenir of Shelburne Falls?

It wasn't that I wanted them to fall in love and move here. I'd still be upset if I couldn't find a parking place because of them. It's just that briefly, on that beautiful Sunday, I must have identified with them. It made me intensely aware that we in Shelburne Falls were all part of this, their one special day. And I felt a strange affection for them and their vulnerability. And I wished them well. And I'll never forget those moments. They passed. But they changed me.