If you ever want to quit smoking, it helps to spend some time in Vermont.
I am here visiting my wife. She is working as a college professor in a quaint town called Middlebury.
About the riskiest thing for sale within a block of her apartment is a cup of Americano at the local cafe. There's also a bookstore, and a place to rent snowshoes.
Looking out the window, I don't see any tobacconists or neon signs advertising Budweiser and Winstons.
I see many, many Subarus, men with grey beards and women without make-up.
I see a lot of green and white and water and sky. Just a whole bunch of Vermonty goodness. Not a smoker or a cigarette in sight.
A few hours ago I had a strong craving. With restless legs I headed outside to walk it off.
I stumbled into a cross-eyed local, who had granola chunks in his scraggly beard, and he told me - though it was hard to hear him over the waterfall raging nearby - that the law in town is clear: If you smoke within three feet of a live tree you will be trussed and shot by a cheese-fed park ranger named Leslie.
Though he added that a risk-taker might find cigarettes at the Exxon station up Route 7.
But I imagine they're made with dried berries, bark essence and the parched skin of the last smoker to cross Leslie.
Hey, don't scoff. They recycle people here.
I would just as soon smoke a cigarette in public in Vermont as I would bungee jump off the CN Tower.