After a particularly jarring breakup, I didn’t leave my bed for weeks.
Sleep was a novelty only afforded after a hefty pour of wine, and my meals consisted of random bites taken from random leftover containers found at the back of the fridge. I could feel myself morphing into a zombie. I wanted and desperately needed something to snap me out of my heartbreak, but couldn’t bring myself to take the first step.
Luckily, I have very pushy friends.
When Ashley and Jared insisted that I take a spontaneous trip with them to Mystic, Connecticut, I had a sneaking suspicion that they were up to something. It’s no secret that Mystic Pizza is one of my favorite movies and I have long dreamed of wandering the quaint, coastal streets of this pizza-frenzied town. My mood, however, was far from enthusiastic.
“I can’t go anywhere.” I mumbled despondently.
“Come on, please! Trust me, you’ll love it!” Jared cried.
“And, even if you don’t, you’ll have something to write about.” Ashley chimed.
An adventure, a pizza, and a story? I was reluctantly sold.
After agreeing to the maritime getaway, my cheeky friends made the travel arrangements, and I managed to pull myself out of bed.
Fast forward two days and I had a choppy new haircut, a thrifted leather jacket that only slightly pinched my arms, and a readiness for the great New England unknown.
We arrived at the tiny town well after dark. While I wanted to curl up in our hotel room like a heartbroken armadillo, Ashley and Jared wouldn’t hear of it. Refusing to waste a moment, they dragged me to “The Original Mystic Pizza” (it’s important to clarify, as there are now several locations!) and ordered almost everything on the menu. We shared platters of Oysters and fresh salad and looked at nostalgia merchandise from the 1988 cult classic film, which covered the walls like family photos at my grandparent’s house in Philly. It was hard to take a bite of anything without ending up face to face with Julia Roberts.
“You gotta try the clam pie.” Shelley, our gum-smacking teen waitress insisted.
Sensing my general ennui, she leaned in and whispered, “I’ll tell them to add extra clams. Trust me, you’ll love it.” The gesture almost brought mortifying tears to my eyes.
And, you know what? It was the best pizza I’ve ever had. My heartbreak appetite had returned, huzzah!
There was an eerie feeling of days gone by that evening, as we were seemingly - aside from Shelley - the only people in the restaurant. Mystic thrives on summer tourism, so our crisp fall arrival was met with an off-season emptiness, which I - jilted spinster - very much appreciated.
After gorging on pizza and wine, we slept like rocks at The Whaler’s Inn, a historic boutique hotel in the center of downtown Mystic. The next day, with my historical curiosity quelled, my heartbreak hunger returned and we stopped for lunch across the street at S&P Oyster Bar, where I had what I now refer to as the best meal of my life. We munched on Blue Point Oysters, risotto, and crisp white wine as we people-watched over the Mystic River.
For a few moments, I almost forgot that I was irreparably jilted. The magic of Mystic was working, already.
Bursting with tourist excitement, we popped into Olde Mistick Village, where I bought dried sage and an engraved - seemingly purposeless yet horrifyingly expensive - wooden box.
“What are you going to use it for?” Ashley asked.
“I don’t know.” I replied, dreamily. “Maybe nothing.”
At the counter, a very mystical-looking woman, fully adorned with jingly baubles and bracelets, rang me up.
“This box was meant for you.” She remarked, tapping the lid with her lacquered nails. Mesmerized, I wanted for her to elaborate.
“I’ve had a feeling about this one. I knew it would go to someone who really needed it.”
She wrapped the box delicately in tissue paper with a piece of dried lavender.
“Use it well.” She whispered, eerily.
***
Later that night, inspired by my witchy interlude, we popped - or snuck - into the ornate (and definitely haunted) Elm Grove Cemetery. With our jackets bundled and our flashlights in tow, we strolled the gravel paths between the 17th century graves, reading headstones and jumping at every leaf crackle in the distance. The cemetery sits directly on the edge of the Mystic River, and - with no neighbors, aside from the ornery caretaker - the grounds are deafeningly quiet. My adrenaline spiked with kiddie enthusiasm as we posed as ghost hunters, trolling the river’s edge for spirits of days gone by.
Unfortunately, after the first leaf crunch, Ashley caught a bad case of the willies and refused to go any further. Jared and I teased, calling her a chicken, and charged boldly into the darkness. Close to tears, Ashley waited by the gate.
“You guys are horrible!” She called after us.
Jared and I giggled and continued our paranormal investigation, still shrieking at any and every snap, crackle, or pop. Needless to say, we did not sleep quite as soundly that evening, but a night of ghostly fun was well worth the dark circles around our eyes.
***
Our final morning in Mystic. Feeling forlorn to leave the town so soon, we checked out of our lodgings and crossed the drawbridge to the row of stores and sweet shops that line Main Street. After purchasing a raspberry ice cream cone, an absurd amount of marshmallow fudge, and a set of matching claddagh rings, we loaded our wares into Ashley’s massive SUV, bid adieu to my new favorite seaside town, and made the 2-hour trek home.
That night, exhausted from my adventures and cozy in the bed I once refused to leave for weeks, I ate the entirety of the marshmallow fudge and slept like a rock.
***
Months later, the engraved wooden box still sits, without purpose, on my window sill. I can’t bring myself to use it for anything. Knowing that it’s empty and untethered brings me a sort of peace I can’t totally grasp.
Adventure truly awaits the willing. Mystic healed my heartache, filled my stomach, and snapped me out of my fog. After what felt like an eternity in a hole, I emerged excited to experience the world again.
And, that’s worth all the marshmallow fudge there is.
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