Either I’m a masochist or I need a travel agent: Karen, my wife, Andrea, our 17-year-old daughter, and I spent the weekend recently in Warren, Vt., home of Sugarbush ski mountain and about an hour south of Burlington, the clogged main artery of Howard Dean-Land, where we came to play tennis, and enjoy the blinding red and orange foliage and our friends.

Coming into town, I was greeted by a bumper sticker that read: “Defend America – Defeat Bush.” I was warned not to wear my new Republican convention hat, either during tennis lessons or at night, which bore the simple logo: “W 2004.”

Primarily, we went to spend time with dear friends, both accomplished doctors doing important work; warm and challenging people whose chief attribute, among many, is their shared commitment to being engaged parents to three fine children.

On Saturday evening we went, with two other New York City couples, to a place called Flatbread Pizza, which enjoys a cult following. Built in a field (of dreams), one is greeted by two American flags hung upside down, flanking a handwritten poster decrying everything that is “wrong” with America. Among its litany of complaints, it detailed the number of unemployed, the number of uninsured, the cost of the war against terrorists, government environmental insensitivities, and suggested that if one didn’t focus on the negatives, that that person’s soul rested just south of Satan’s (not Saddam Hussein’s, though).

Never mind that they make a small fortune and make people wait for hours: They cook their delectables in a blazing brick oven, as they do their half-baked political ideals; we sent an emissary at 5 p.m. to make reservations for 7 p.m. and were told they couldn’t take us until 8 p.m. – and when we came back at 8 p.m., we waited for more than an hour. Nobody seemed to care, as they had two bonfires going to ease the evening Vermont chill, and children ran through the fields, as their parents, who typically drove up in Volvos, LandRovers, and BMWs, sipped local wine and beer.

Flatbread, despite its protestations against America’s failings, seems to enjoy the best of our capitalist system: They have opened a California factory, with a restaurant to follow, to meet the demands of their cultists; they have a Web site and ship their goodies to patrons and food chains in virtually every state. However, I never saw truckloads of pizzas being loaded for the homeless.

But at dinner, one best not be a capitalist, or worse, a conservative capitalist. I sat across the outdoor picnic table from a man who I’ll call “Ben,” a New York author who does very well capitalizing on publishing information that has fallen into the public domain, and listened to him rant about the vapidity of Republicans.

Silent at first, when he disparaged Republicans, and determined not to talk politics in this serene setting, but loosened by the sparse but revered vineyards of Vermont, I couldn’t hold my tongue when he dared to rave about former President Carter’s expertise as an ambassador.

“He’s a good carpenter, but that’s about it” I chimed, “and if you think he’s a good ambassador compared to being a president, that’s only because he was one of the worst presidents of the century. As an ambassador, he tried to sanctify Hugo Chavez’s electoral manipulations in Venezuela, just as he did the Palestinians’ murderous ways in the Middle East when he was the president. This man is such a good Christian that he forgives his enemies before he finds out who his friends are.

“And, as far the Republicans go,” I added, perhaps too loudly, “they have come up with many new ideas in the last several years, including: welfare reform, which President Clinton fought against, then acquiesced to; free choice in schooling for inner-city children; privatizing portions of Social Security for people who want more than a 1.25%-taxed return on their retirement accounts; tax-deductible health care accounts – and confronting terrorists in their homelands rather than here. The Democrats, it seems to me, are caught in a web of trying to keep their cobbled constituencies together, rather than risk new programs.”

“I hate talking about politics, because it gets so mean…I’ve heard enough from you, I’m not listening anymore,” the author shouted for all to hear, including my wife, who was at the table, and my 17-year-old daughter, who was at a separate table about 20 feet away.

Despite the fact that he brought up politics not once, but twice, I put down my second glass of mediocre wine and tried to recant, for the sake of peace, and our common friends’ empathy: “You’re right about the meanness (not really sure that responding with facts and philosophies equals “mean”); I give you that and apologize,” I said.

Another dinner partner, an American oil executive of Middle East extraction, sitting to my right, stated that the “only issue” is the defense of America, and in that, “Bush is right. But, we have to become energy independent. Then, if the Arab nations descend into their traditional tribal warfare, it’s their problem.”

“Good point,” I ventured, “but let me ask you one question: If we become ‘energy independent’, do you think America would defend Israel?”

This is a question I routinely ask all my Jewish friends, almost all of whom reply negatively.

“Who gives a s- about Israel,” the Lebanese oil executive expatriate shouted, “If you care so much, why don’t you move there.”

I was stunned by the forcefulness of his response. While I agreed with and admired his primary concern about America, I wanted to ask him two questions: One, are you unconcerned with every nation, or only Israel? And two, how and when would you have confronted Nazi Germany with that philosophy?

But, I didn’t have a chance. The table of “friends” ran to the fields of Flatbread Pizza, no doubt seeking the tranquility they trekked here for. I was instantly met by my loving wife and daughter, offering me support in my latest foray. But, at least, for once, I didn’t have to leave the party early, as both protagonists (as if I wasn’t the third) left in a huff.

There I was, with the remnants, the leftovers of carbo-organic pizza and a couple of agonized friends. Neither were tasty anymore.

The next day, Vermont really felt like fall, and the temperatures of my friends cooled even further. A competitive, but not great tennis player, I couldn’t get my friends to play a doubles match after lessons. There were no invitations, even for my wife and daughter (innocents, if not victims, to my combative nature) to join them for breakfast at The Warren Store, a storied deli in the one-block “downtown” of Warren, where they neither bag your goodies unless you ask, nor forgive you for being a penny short when you pay their exorbitant prices ($1.75 for a plain croissant, more for a flavored one).

So, we packed our bags early on Monday, none of my family having ever played one set of tennis at this famous Sugarbush racquet-resort, said our goodbyes, and headed south down Route 100 toward our home in Manhattan, where we arrived more than six hours later.

Next year, I think I’ll plan our vacations in a place where freedom of speech, rather than adherence to one ideology, is welcome, but having spent time this summer and fall in Westport, Conn., Cape May, N.J., Cambridge, Mass., and Warren, Vt., I’m not sure where that is. I’m thinking beyond the East Coast, and before the West Coast (where I’d likely do worse), perhaps Texas or Czechoslovakia, where, maybe, I can make new friends faster than I can make new enemies by engaging in open dialogue about the questions of our time.

Mr. Bromley, who lives and writes in New York City, is thinking of opening a Republican travel agency.