brunch the next morning. I had always thought Woodstock was impervious to change: the stores would sell
tie dyes and Birkenstocks forever, and ageing hippies and tourists would always dine at the same three
restaurants. But a new crop of shops and restaurants have opened to accommodate the demand for craft
cocktails and eggs Benedict and designer fireplace accessories, with city prices to match. And while the
Woodstocker in me is appalled at paying $12 for a drink, the Brooklynite thinks “Hurrah, lavender syrup!”
But Woodstock’s unpolished, live-and-let-live appeal continues. True, there are more deer ticks and black
bears than when I was a kid, but the frogs peeping down by the pond, the fireflies winking in and out at
dusk, the green folds of the ancient mountains, the inky black sky full of stardust, remain as magical as ever.
And there’s something more, something ineffable that keeps people coming here.
Jazz great Sonny Rollins, who moved to Woodstock over a decade ago, says he felt that special quality when
he visited for the first time. “When we came here, there was an aura in the town. It seemed to have a
gentleness almost,” he says. “Artists and musicians and painters and writers – we don’t always feel
comfortable in this world. Woodstock just had that feeling about it.”