2 feet from my face, a web of Stars of David stamp the soles of tennies propped up on a table at the other end of a girl in a Princeton t-shirt. We sit in a circle of rustic fabriced chairs in an eclectic Tudor-style coffee shop. Across the street, the University stands like a young fortress, the way that Cambridge may have looked in 1550. Classes start in 2 days and America's smartest freshman scurry around clueless and bumping into things.
Outside, summer is seasoned to taste with autumn. Sunflowers still decorate the median and apples grow alongside gourds at Terhun Orchard where patrons can clip their own flower bouquet, harvest pumpkins, and see a Christmas tree farm from afar. There, I felt like I was standing in three seasons at the same time, so I waved goodbye to the flowers, shrugged at the conifers, and picked 12 apples. After I had selected from Gala, Jonathan, and Macintosh apples, I followed a gaggle of guinea hens, who looked like someone had smeared tooth paste on their faces, scurrying like clueless college freshman to the porch-register, where I was greeted by a dog, a duck, and a very long haired cat. $5.
The orchard sells cider, but Starbucks does not yet sell Pumpkin Spiced Lattes. Therefore, it is not fall quite yet, so I didn't buy a gourd.