Comments & Curiosities:

Are you there? I’m not. I am Back East, or as they call it on the Right Coast, “Back East.” We flew to Boston on Christmas morning to spend a few days with our daughter, Lisa, and son-in-law, Chris, and their two dogs, Chewie and Otis, all of whom have a place in the Berkshire Mountains in Massachusetts.

Flying on Christmas Day was interesting. We’ve never fastened our seat belts and returned our tray tables to the upright position on Christmas Day before and it was definitely, umm, different.

I thought the flight might be cheery and fun, with passengers and crew trying to make the best of flying on Christmas Day, maybe some passengers in Santa hats, flight attendants in silly reindeer antlers, impromptu Christmas carols, etc. Not exactly.

When you’re glued to the TV in front of you, watching the story of a foiled bombing attempt on a Northwest flight unfold in real time while you’re at 34,000 feet, it puts a real damper on the Christmas carols. It does keep the drink cart busy, though. Four-inch headline in the Boston Globe on Saturday morning: “Terror Plot Foiled on Flight.” We wish you a Merry Christmas.

The Berkshires are a wonderful place, about as New England as New England gets, which is very New England, and just like Newport-Mesa in every way, except any that I can think of. White Christmas? I’ll give you white Christmas.

In the Berkshires, they’re not sure what that means. “Why would you put ’white’ before Christmas?” they ask. “If it’s Christmas, it’s white.”

Right now there is a light snow falling on top of the foot or two already on the ground, which by the way made Friday night’s drive from Boston to the Berkshires an excellent adventure on a mid-winter’s night, complete with rain then sleet then snow then a full-on, white-out, are-we-still-on-the- road-or-not blizzard. Fortunately, I learned how to drive in a cold, unforgiving place where being able to tell the difference between water and black ice is really handy.

But with or without the white stuff, their little town, West Stockbridge — and “little” is not just an expression here — looks like an illustration for a Robert Frost poem, at the moment, “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening.”

My daughter’s place is a refurbished 1875 farmhouse outside West Stockbridge, with small farm and large pond attached. West Stockbridge itself, which is all of five blocks long, was established in 1774 and if it were any cuter it would need a permit.

To make the scene complete, a train runs along the back of the property and every now and then you hear the train horn in the distance then the clackety-clack as it passes by.

The next town, Lee, is the home of Tanglewood Park and Cultural Center, which is a hip and happening place every summer with the Tanglewood Music Festival, which is the summer home of the Boston Symphony.

We have spent a number of balmy summer evenings on the lawn at Tanglewood, listening to everything from Mozart to James Taylor to Prairie Home Companion. Don’t think we’ll be doing that on this trip though.

Another thing I love about the Berkshires, and why it is a good thing I live far, far away, is that it is a global hot spot for wine and foodies. Case in point, Rubiner’s Cheesemonger & Grocer in Great Barrington. Sacre bleu. It is a galaxy of imported French cheeses and delicacies, fine wines and freshly baked French bread that is still warm when you tear off a chunk, and I have torn off many a chunk at Rubiner’s.

If you love food, France, fromage, warm baguettes or any combination thereof, you will have to be physically removed from the premises at closing time.

I think that’s it then — West Stockbridge, terrorists and Robert Frost, which brings us back to “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening.”

Is there a better way to end this? Not that I know of.

“Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village, though; He will not see me stopping here, to watch his woods fill up with snow.

“My little horse must think it queer to stop without a farmhouse near, between the woods and frozen lake, the darkest evening of the year.

“He gives his harness bells a shake to ask if there is some mistake. The only other sounds the sweep of easy wind and downy flake.

“The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, but I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep. And miles to go before I sleep.”

My sentiments exactly, Bob.

I gotta go.

PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs Sundays. He may be reached at ptrb4@aol.com .