I’ve long admired the Amish from the time, years ago, I saw an old Amish couple in an artisans’ mercado in Tijuana haggling like ninjas with a guy selling blown glass. What’s not to love about a self-sufficient community with a staggering 95 percent success rate in starting businesses and about people who load up on gravy and pie yet make health professionals jealous? And perhaps the greatest point of admiration: the kindness and concern that the Lancaster County Amish immediately showed for the wife and family of the monster who gunned down 10 of their girls in a schoolhouse in 2006, killing five before taking his own life.
It’s just a little over two and a half hours from the D.C. area up to the heart of Pennsylvania’s Amish country. I’m not sure why I never made the trip before in nearly five years on the East Coast, except I didn’t want to be one of those tourists perceived as gawking at the plain people while contributing to the vehicular traffic making the roads a bit more perilous for the horses and buggies. This congressional recess, I decided I needed a bit of time around people who don’t give one whit about federal politics. Off to Amish country I went.
I knew there was a 20 percent chance of rain on Friday, but there was a 90 percent chance of more annoying tourists on Saturday, so I chanced it with the rain and got sprinkles. I arrived early in Intercourse, Pa., and first stopped at the oh-so-touristy Kitchen Kettle Village so the puppacita could stretch her paws. She enjoyed lots of flowers to sniff, stores to wander in and out of, the occasional piece of fallen kettle corn and staring at Amish men washing buggies and caring for horses used for tourist rides. I wasn’t opening my wallet for the higher prices and gaudy tourist items like the T-shirt that proclaimed “Virginia may be for lovers, but Pennsylvania is for Intercourse.” I vowed then and there that I would only buy from the Amish on this trip. And so with a list of tips about good roadside locations in hand, my GPS and I set out to find the best of Intercourse.
Not that GPS is necessarily needed — if you want to keep it real in Amish country, just follow the horse apples.