I went there with my Mélodice, really someone super cool with whom everything becomes light, and right from the start, we put the music all the way up, as if life’s volume needed to be turned to maximum to match the scenery. Road trip means this: a playlist that becomes a kind of official soundtrack of the moment, a mix of songs that don’t necessarily belong together but that, on the road, become perfect. And crossing the border, everything went surprisingly smoothly, almost suspiciously simple, a few questions, a glance, and boom, we were through, as if Vermont was already saying “ok, come in, breathe”.

And that’s where I started thinking that a road trip is not the same as a backpack trip. With backpacking, you are in the blur, in slow movement, in constant uncertainty, you depend on buses, schedules, unexpected events, you are kind of carried by the world. In a road trip, it’s different: you control your space, your bubble, your music, your rhythm, but you still stay in the adventure. It’s like an in-between where you are free, but comfortably free, and it gives a very particular feeling, almost like being in your own little travel capsule.

First stop: Burlington, and that’s where Vermont really starts to reveal itself. Burlington is a small city sitting on the edge of Lake Champlain, and as soon as we arrive, there is something soft in the air, an open, relaxed, almost warm vibe in a way that is hard to explain. We started it slowly by going to eat at The Friendly Toast, a place with a colorful, retro, slightly eccentric vibe in the best way, a place where you can feel that people take their time. And the waitress… honestly, she was incredible. Very outspoken, very “woke”, clearly left-leaning in her ideas, but above all so human and endearing. She talked to us like we were her friends of the day, she even called me “love”, and that instantly gave this super cute, welcoming American feeling, as if you were already part of the scenery. She recommended places, streets, little local spots to discover, and we followed it kind of like an improvised mission. Burlington is exactly that: a city that doesn’t force anything on you, but invites you to slow down, to walk without purpose, to look at the windows of small independent shops, to feel the progressive side of Vermont all around you.

Vermont in general has this very particular identity: very nature-oriented, very community-driven, very local, with a fairly present environmental awareness, but not in an overwhelming way, just in the way people live. Burlington is lively without being stressful, it is simple but not empty, and above all, you can feel that people like being there.

Then we went toward the University of Vermont campus, and there a different scenery opens up: the sorority houses. And honestly, it’s a slightly strange moment because you recognize exactly what you’ve already seen in American movies, except that here… it’s real, and it completely changes the perception. Sororities (and fraternities) are part of the university student life system in the United States, where students can join social organizations based on Greek letters, such as Alpha, Beta, Gamma, etc. Behind these letters, there is mainly an idea of structured community: belonging, social network, events, traditions, and a student life very organized around these groups.

What is particularly striking is the both very visible and at the same time slightly closed-off side of these houses. They are right there, in the middle of the campus, but they have their own internal functioning, their own rules, their own dynamics. You feel a very strong American university tradition, where the student experience is not limited to classes, but extends into a nearly complete social identity. It is a culture that highly values the sense of belonging to a group, sometimes even to the point where your university network becomes an extension of your identity.

And walking around, there is also this interesting contrast with Burlington itself. The city is open, inclusive, very “progressive New England,” with a broad and relaxed community vibe, whereas the sororities embody a more structured, more hierarchical, and more traditional version of American social life. It is as if two visions of community coexist in the same place: a very broad and fluid one in the city, and a very defined and coded one in the houses. And this is exactly what makes the observation fascinating, because nothing cancels out the other, everything coexists, almost like two parallel layers of the same place that sometimes ignore each other but constantly intersect in space.

Then we took the road toward Woodstock, and there the Vermont landscape changes once again. Even before arriving, everything becomes calmer, more rural, slower, almost as if the landscape itself decides to turn the volume down. And an important note: no, this Woodstock is not the one from the famous festival, which actually took place in New York State, in Bethel.

But despite that, this Woodstock in Vermont absolutely does not need that reference to exist. It is a village with its own quiet legend, a living postcard founded in the 18th century, with perfectly preserved colonial architecture, immaculate white houses, tree-lined streets, and that typical New England central green. Everything feels stable, harmonious, almost suspended in time. You can really feel the agricultural roots of Vermont everywhere, something deeply American in its history, but softened by an almost artistic aesthetic, as if the village had been carefully preserved without being frozen.

We went to see the covered bridges, the Middle Covered Bridge and the Taftsville Covered Bridge, two iconic Vermont structures dating back to the 19th century, which are a real part of the region’s historical identity. They are entirely wooden bridges, built at a time when coverings were not decorative but purely functional: they were used to protect the wooden structure from rain, snow, wind, and sun, in order to extend their lifespan. Without this protection, the wood would have deteriorated much faster under Vermont’s harsh winters, so these bridges are also an ingenious and practical response to the climate conditions.

What strikes you when you see them is their immediately recognizable architecture: a massive wooden frame, often painted in that iconic dark red typical of New England, with enclosed sides and an entrance that feels like a tunnel passage. When you walk inside, the atmosphere changes instantly: the light becomes dimmer, the space feels narrower, the sound of the river below becomes more present, and you can almost hear the wood reacting under footsteps or passing cars. The Middle Covered Bridge has something particularly intimate about it, almost soft, as if it naturally belongs to the surrounding landscape. The Taftsville Covered Bridge, on the other hand, feels more imposing, more solid, like a structure that has endured everything—storms, seasons, and time itself.

And these are not just historical or decorative objects: they are still used today. You can walk or drive across them, just as people did over a century ago. There is something very special about that, about crossing a piece of history that is still alive and functional, not locked behind museum glass.

Then we went into a bookstore, and there I had one of my favorite moments of the trip. In the United States, bookstores are not just shops; they are living spaces. People sit down, take their time, read, talk, stay. There was a father sitting with his little boy reading him a story, completely in their own bubble, with no sense of rush. A bit further, a vinyl section where someone was quietly browsing, almost ritualistically. And then this woman who stood out to me: stylish hat, perfect outfit, a natural elegance, looking through records with calm focus, as if she was part of the scene while also carrying her own story. That is what I loved about Woodstock: the feeling that everyone is fully living their own moment, without rushing, without performing.

We grabbed a coffee, then walked through the streets with our drinks in hand, looking at the small local shops, art galleries, wooden signs, the fresh air moving gently through everything, and that overall impression of being in a place that doesn’t need to chase anything, because it already exists exactly as it is.

On the road, there was also a completely unexpected moment. We saw a woman stopped on the side of the road, staring intensely at a sign, and out of curiosity we slowed down. And there, a small owl, sitting right there, tiny, completely still, almost as if it was observing the world. It was in a somewhat redneck setting—simple houses, a quiet roadside area, nothing spectacular around—but that owl completely transformed the scene.

And finally, we went back to Burlington to end the day at Pizzeria Verità, and honestly, what a finale. A wood-fired pizza, perfect dough, crispy on the edges, soft in the center, simple but executed to perfection, with that kind of taste where every ingredient stands out. We were seated right next to the oven, so we could see the flames, the pizzas going in and out, the pizzaiolo working, and it gave the whole experience an almost meditative vibe. And to finish, a cannoli: crunchy on the outside, soft and sweet cream on the inside, the perfect way to end the day.

In the end, Vermont stayed with me as a strange and beautiful mix of simplicity and depth. It is not a place that feels spectacular in the classic sense, but it is a place that makes you notice the small moments: a waitress calling you “love,” a quiet but living bookstore, a red covered bridge in the middle of the forest, an owl by the side of a road, a perfect pizza at the end of the day. And within all of that, there is this feeling that travel is not just about the places themselves, but about the way you move through them.