But there was something different about upstate New York. I could smell it in the air—the fragrance was minty like a forest in the winter. At first, there wasn’t much to see aside from other cars on the road, but once we passed the black-and-white sign welcoming us to Pleasant Hollow, homes and businesses lined the streets.

As we zipped down Main Street, I fidgeted in my seat with my nose practically touching the smudged glass window. My skin tingled in anticipation of entering all the shops. I wasn’t sure what I’d need at Mel’s Hardware Store, but who couldn’t use a new wrench or pliers? And lactose intolerance wouldn’t stop me from indulging in a serving of dairy-free ice cream or sorbet at Lickety Splits Ice Cream Shoppe.

The driver pulled up to the curb in front of a big white colonial-style house. “Pleasant Hollow Bed and Breakfast,” he said, announcing our arrival. These were the first words he’d said to me, despite my attempt to engage him in conversation when I first stepped inside the car. Very un-small-town-like, but maybe he wasn’t a local.

After I thanked him for the ride and added his 20 percent tip on the app (in case I forgot later in all of my excitement), I snapped a photo of the building’s exterior and wheeled my suitcase to the entrance.

This was it.

I opened the shiny black door to the B&B, stepped inside, and marveled at my surroundings. Beyond the small foyer was a common room with rhubarb-red walls and an Oriental rug partially covering a gleaming brown wood floor. Set in a circle around a cherry oak table were a dark-red velvet couch and matching recliner, a floral-printed armchair, and a wooden rocking chair. I took a moment to visualize guests drinking hot cocoa or wine by the fireplace in the evenings as the sun set. The open-space concept allowed me to see into a white-tile kitchen with matching cabinets and an island with four round stools set side by side.

I turned in a circle and called out, “Hello? Anyone here?” Without a front desk to check in or another human in sight, it was the only way to make myself known.

“Can I help you?”

My head swung up toward a white-painted staircase, where a sixtysomething woman with bleached blond hair wearing a pink-and-purple argyle sweater and mom jeans (the nineties-era version) eyed me suspiciously.

I waved awkwardly. “I have a reservation under Adina Gellar.”

“Check-in isn’t until four.”