There is no absence of time. But with the right books, music and reflection tools, that time crawls surely by. Living in an amplified version of my past quarantine life in California only magnifies feelings of isolation and suspension.
Port Kent is a sleepy town in upstate NY, a hair away from Canada, and just across Lake Champlain from Vermont. It’s probably the only town where the name Rennell holds weight, and almost every gravestone bears it. Many of the houses have been standing since the US was just a cluster of colonies. The “town” is a small park and post office.
When I was notified that in order to attend NYU I would have to undergo a two-week quarantine, spending that time in Port Kent simply made sense.
Without wifi or modern fixings, passing time there is comparable to camping. But pitted against quarantining in a hotel room, the remote lake beaches and woods for hiking make Port Kent preferable.
At least there is a definite time when my sojourn will end. When I will pack my belongings back up and journey to the city for my next period of uncertainty and suspension.