Randolph, NY

Decided it was high time to trade in compostable vegan hemp sandals for some rubber hip waders and head back to WNY for some R&R amidst rugged loggers, rough lagers, and a refreshing absence of calculated irony. When you actually have to perform physical labor for your bread, you don't have much energy left to scour boutique thrift shops in search of $30 vintage Dukes of Hazzard t-shirts. Besides, you'll likely have a closet full of them anyhow.

Backpackers and tourists burn millions of gallons of jet fuel every year since time immemorial seeking "authenticity", yet invariably end up in some resort in Borneo resenting the other fat white guys with cameras hanging out in the hotel bar. However, if it is "authentic", unspoiled culture you seek, save the frequent flier miles and hitch a ride to western New York, where unemployment is high, sunshine is scarce, and the mosquitos are as fierce and stubborn as the farmers, hunters, and assorted rugged yet big-hearted hillbillies who make sure the rustic charm never fades into strip mall oblivion.

Randolph's main recreational activities typically require firearms, ATVs, chainsaws, and a frightening amount of alcohol. Assuming you are a Sophisticated Modern Traveler with an aversion to loud noises, I'll focus on the latter category.

Sophisticated Modern Travelers with sensitive palettes may be disappointed if they hope to find organic tofu curry bowls, cappucinos, or frothy microbrews, but they will have an abundance of cheap-as-dirt Fish Fries (and don't bogart that batter!), gallons of Busch beer, and enough bottom shelf whiskey to turn a dog off a gut cart. (Side note: Pinch holds the distinction for the most expensive rotgut Scotch in the world...take my word!). I was fortunate enough to dine at the best restaurant in the Southern Tier, but it's location shall remain undisclosed. In the meantime, belly up to the bar, throw down a ten-spot (which will probably last you the rest of the night), and BS about the good old days with the good old boys while George Straight sings in the background. If you stay until closing, you may be propositioned to finance a used car lot, start a goat farm in west Texas complete with underground house, or learn the best way to drive to the Erie VA. Just be sure to hit the road when the corn-fed farmers daughters start to look good.

After several days of epic gorgefests and visits to various veterans' clubs, I found myself in Newark Int'l Airport, where the open glassy expanses are as close as we get to a Red Square in this country. Fortified by Rolf Potts' compilation of travel adventures titled Marco Polo Didn't Go There, I felt compelled to wander around the international departures looking for a Sophisticated Modern Traveler who could recommend an unknown off-the-beaten-path village in Borneo to spend New Years Eve. Failing that, we could always nurse $7 bottles of Heineken in the hotel bar and loathe fellow travelers for ruining it for everyone else.