The Trip to Fallsburg

Truth Unvarnished

This internet award-winning piece invites us to reflect on a town where deception is impossible. Have you ever experienced a moment when raw truth transformed your view?

Share your insights and help illuminate the path!

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“Fallsburg. Calling at Fallsburg,” the announcer said as the train hissed to a standstill. I hadn’t planned to leave the city during my trip, but after elbowing through the swarm upon swarm of tourists, even a day’s escape sounded like heaven. Every town has a list of unmissable sights; however, I found delightfully little written about Fallsburg. When one of the few reviews mentioned what sounded like missing the open arms of a tourist trap, I bought my ticket.

“If you’re not ready, stand aside to let others pass,” said a voice over my shoulder, as I fumbled with my phone for the right barcode to scan. I turned to see a woman doing everything short of tapping her toes in frustration. Moving away, she barreled through the turnstile before I’d even pulled up my ticket.

Basking in the autumn sunshine, I shrugged off the slight and followed a broad lane towards the center, feeling as though I’d stepped into another world full of winding cobblestone streets and quaint buildings with timeless design.

“Sidewalk’s for walking, not gawking,” an old man grumbled, stepping around me after I stopped to take a photo. Chuckling about the frankness born of old age, I continued toward the square, bustling with an artisanal market.

“They’re worth the price, but no sampling.” said the woman selling fruit as my fingers hovered over an apple. Pulling out my wallet, I offered her a twenty, “Don’t you have anything smaller?”

I opened my mouth to tell her no, but words wouldn’t come. I did have smaller bills, but I habitually reserved them for tipping. Annoyed, she handed me change and stared expectantly until I took a bite. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, intent on telling her it was the best I’d ever tasted but again, nothing came out. She watched me fumble silently, her eyebrow inching upward.

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere around here.”

I puzzled at her words, but another customer drew her away. After weaving through the stalls selling fresh bread and hand-made jewelry, I spotted a covered bridge a couple blocks off the square.

Making my way along the riverbank for an optimal angle, I was squatting in some reeds when a deep voice shattered the stillness, “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“T-taking a picture of the bridge.”

“You’re trespassing.”

The locals, it seemed, were none too fond of tourists. Having seen what it was like in the city, I understood the reticence and hurried back the way I came, my cheeks burning with the prickling of embarrassment. On other side of the bridge and safely out of his view, I discovered a slogan painted on the aging wood: “You can’t lie—there’s no place like Fallsburg!”

I snapped a few pictures before I called any more attention to myself, hurrying back to the square. The market was winding down, but the apple had made me aware of how many hours had passed since my hotel breakfast. Entering the lone restaurant, my eyes adjusted to what looked like a pub: dark wood, leather banquettes, and a gleaming bar.

“Are you open?” I asked the young woman removing glasses from an under-counter sanitizer.

“Whenever the door is unlocked,” she replied with a grin. “You can sit anywhere.”

Taking a table with a view of the square, I perused the small menu before she came to take my order.

“Which will I like better, Nothing but the Bisque or No Lies on Rye?”

“If you don’t know, how can I guess correctly?” she winked.

Hoping to stay on her good side, I ordered both and looked out at the last of the stalls coming down while she was in the kitchen. Most of the vendors were gone, leaving a pair of men behind. I watched one approach the other, shaking his fingers in reproach. Their argument escalated quickly, their faces soon red with frustration.

“It wouldn’t be market day without a shouting match,” she explained, bringing a tray of food.

“Why so contentious?”

“People here speak their mind, no matter which feathers they ruffle. Fallsburg has that effect on people,” she said as she walked back to the bar, leaving me to my meal.

While nothing that would earn her a Michelin star, I enjoyed every mouthful. Leaving her a few small bills, I crossed the square to visit what looked to be a bookshop. Absent the usual tote bags and magnets emblazoned with stylized images of the town, a book seemed a unique souvenir to commemorate my day in this strange place.

At the sound of the bell above the door, a voice called from the back, “Feel free to poke around, I’ll be with you directly.” The smells of glue and paper greeted me like old friends as I perused the mix of philosophy and fiction titles.

“My books have a way of finding people who need them,” the shopkeeper said, materializing next to me as my finger lingered on a copy of Kazuo Ishiguro’s Never Let Me Go.

“Then I’d better take this one,” I said, handing him the book and following him to the cash register, where he inquired about what brought me to Fallsburg.

“And what do you make of our town?” I opened my mouth to say it was charming, but the same wordlessness from the market returned. “Ah, you were going to lie, weren’t you?” the shopkeeper said.

I gawked, the words of denial unable to pass my lips.

“Most people have no trouble stretching the truth, confusing a fib with politeness or even kindness. Personally, I find it cloying if people don’t mean what they say to you.” I opened my mouth again, but he was making a little more sense than I would have liked to admit. “It doesn’t matter how long you stay, once you’ve been to Fallsburg, you’re compelled to tell the truth.”

Suddenly, it clicked: when I tried to tell the fruit-monger hers was the best apple I’d ever tasted, I couldn’t because it wasn’t true. The barmaid’s jokes were each statements of fact. The woman in the train station, the men on the sidewalk and by the river were being honest…even if bluntly so.

“That explains the slogan on the bridge,” I managed, choosing my words carefully. “Must be difficult to sell novels, so full of imaginary plots.”

“But books don’t change their words to spare your feelings. There’s no hiding the honesty of something once it’s written on the page. Many find reading the only way to familiarize yourself with the inevitability of truth.”

“Living here must take some getting used to.”

“It does indeed, but the folks who decide to stay value the security that comes from knowing everything you hear can be trusted.”

“Well, I, for one, plan on catching the train back to the city.”

“So you say, my friend,” he smiled, handing me my novel in a paper sack emblazoned with the shop’s name, Veritas, surrounded by a smattering of punctuation marks.

Back aboard the train and through the streets of the capital, I listened to strangers making idle chatter with a new spark of interest. I’d never paid much attention to the overly effusive way most people speak to one another, commonly offering pleasantries they don’t mean. Before today I’d done the same without thinking, but now the platitudes and false sentiments—expressed in artifice or disguised as kindness—no longer felt warm and welcoming; after Fallsburg, they seemed hollow and isolating.

At dinner, I noticed the waitress speaking to her other patrons with effervescence, but dropping the smile as soon as she stepped away. When she beamed it at me, I asked for her recommendation. Without hesitation, she pointed to the most expensive burger, a strange concoction based on Beef Wellington, “It’s simply divine!”

Once it arrived, I did not find it so and when she returned to ask what I thought, the words that came out of my mouth surprised us both, “The meat was dry, yet somehow the puff pastry was too greasy.”

Her smile vanished and shortly after, another waiter appeared with my check. I walked back to my hotel feeling strangely free, even though I’d clearly made her uncomfortable…but why should lying about a burger make her feel anything at all, let alone better?

“Good evening sir, here’s your key,” the night porter said. “I hope you had a wonderful day in our fair city.”

“Do you, honestly? And if my day were terrible, what would that mean to you anyway? Don’t you have anything better to hope for?” His eyes widened, clearly indicating his real expectation had been I would nod, smile, and go upstairs. “Never mind, forget it.”

“D-did you want to reserve a table for breakfast?”

“No, thank you. In fact, I will be checking out early tomorrow morning. I’ve got a train to catch.”

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