Layover

A 24 hour layover in San Francisco treated me exceptionally well, and so did the weather.

6am sunrise, jet lag, + three cups of coffee.

Yoga + a view at International Orange.

Palm trees + sunshine on the Embarcadero.

Taking photos + buying no souvenirs in Chinatown. 

Afternoon light + skyline delight.

Skipping Out Of Town

I told E that I was game for anything. So, we went to Hingham.

As we drove south, we realized just how hungry we were. We talked dinner and we talked post-dinner. I pointed out every dessert option along the way. Ice cream. Frozen yogurt. Donuts. E suggested seeing a movie. But it became simple when we saw the word "Frappes" on the awning at Wahlburgers. And even simpler when we saw Alma Nove across the way. Back-to-back Wahlburg experiences.

Burgers and a chocolate mint frappe to share at Wahlburgers:

(Mine: the Our Burger, no onions, lettuce-wrapped)

 

And drinks at Alma Nove:
(Mine: Knob Creek on the rocks)

I sat there with E, looking back and then looking ahead to a new phase full of promise and potential, as the fire pit raged outside and cast flickering, fiery orange light into the restaurant. As the the light bounced off every marble surface and the ice cubes in my bourbon slowly melted, I felt warm. For so many reasons. For all of the right reasons. For the first time in a long time.

Summer Days

I am on a long, hot run through the Financial District. I'm sprinting down Atlantic Avenue and suddenly decide to veer under the arch of Rowes Wharf. I work my way out to the water and along the wharf and I'm about to turn back to Atlantic when I take a big breath. Salt air. I stop, facing the water, and breathe. Salt air.

Salt air means only one thing to me: landing in a tiny plane on the airstrip in Nantucket, popping my head out of the airplane and being so happy to smell salt air. Summer after summer, year after year, I'd walk down the stair cart that had been rolled up to the airplane, breathing in the air and knowing that we were finally there, that we had a month ahead of us. A month of kite-flying and bike-riding, frappes from the soda fountain at Nantucket Pharmacy, Quidnet Beach, morning walks to Sconset Market to get the New York Times (for my parents) and chocolate milk (for everyone under the age of ten). And there was clam chowder, but I was little and didn't like seafood, so I would order clam chowder just to get the oyster crackers. I read and read and read those summers and I won the kids' reading contest at the Nantucket Atheneum library several years in a row. The librarian eventually had to disqualify me because I always won. If I couldn't sleep at night, I'd lie in bed and watch as the light from Sankaty Lighthouse flashed through my bedroom window. I'd count the seconds between each strobe of light and I'd eventually get too tired to keep counting.

***

Much later that day, I'm on Revere Beach. We've spent the day reading and lounging in our matching beach chairs, wading into the water, buying cups of frozen yogurt at Twist & Shake. It's late in the day, about 3:30 or so, but the afternoon is magnificent. It's sunny with just a little breeze, the light is golden, and the beach is calm. I pull out my iPhone and I open up Pandora. I'm playing the 90s pop station -- you know, N'Sync and Backstreet Boys -- but then Eric Clapton's Layla comes on.

And I think of the kitchen in Nantucket. The stove with the quirky pilot light, the big wooden table, and the tall chairs painted light blue. Were the chairs really light blue? Memories play tricks on us. But I think they were light blue. In the corner was the white wicker chair and near the countertop was the radio. I remember Layla playing on that radio. Did Layla really play? I think it did. And even if it didn't, my memory of Eric Clapton playing on the radio as we sat around the big table and shelled peas fresh from Bartlett's Farm is a good one. So I will keep that memory.

It's a truly beautiful afternoon. I have to be back in Boston for a 6pm board meeting. I look over at B and say that I don't want to leave the beach. I never want to leave.

Not So Far From Home

Do you ever forget that Boston is near the ocean?

Welcome to Miami

SPF 60. Don Omar on repeat. Big hat, big sunglasses.

Slip Away

It started off so well.

I started packing with all the best intentions. I carefully rolled up my jeans and and folded my t-shirts. I added gym shorts and socks. And then it all went to hell.

I chucked presents -- a bag of coffee, a tin of tea, chocolate bars, and coffee cake -- in my suitcase. I dropped my yoga mat nearby and hoped I'd remember it. After an hour at the gym, I slipped off my sneakers and threw them across the room towards my suitcase... and I don't really have good aim.

When my cab arrived and it was time to leave for the airport, I almost walked out of my apartment without my suitcase.

It doesn't really matter though. Because I've slipped away for a few days. Because I'm somewhere where I can wear a t-shirt and flip flops. Because I'll recharge and relax, just in time for that crazy rush of life that happens between Thanksgiving and Christmas.

I'll just work around the fact that I forgot my hair brush.

Summer in October

It was 86 degrees Sunday and 80 on Monday. I put aside my boots and sweaters. I pulled out my bikini, flip flops, my tennis racket, tank tops and shorts....

I hope you went out and played. Because I did. 

Not Quite Autumn

I slipped away from Boston for a few days, to a place where summer is still in full swing, to a place where September 1st holds absolutely no connotation. And I didn't mind missing that day at all. Even before I left, there were moving boxes piled on sidewalks and U-Hauls getting stuck in narrow Boston streets (Yes, stuck. Yes, I watched. No, I don't know how it happened).

When I got back, suddenly autumn was in full swing. The change that Boston undergoes when we flip our calendars to September is incredible. The college students are back and their classes have started. And we're making plans for apple-picking. I've never been apple-picking; I've never made apple pie or apple butter. I can't wait.

But, really, we're not seeing autumn yet. We've had a few wet, chilly days that remind me more of early April than September. Last night, I walked along Arlington Street, along the side of the Public Garden, and I looked out across the wet pavements and empty benches of the park, shrouded in a smoky, violet dusk, to the twinkly lights of the Financial District.

I love my rainboots and walking through puddles as the water splashes up around my legs. But I'm not ready to let go of summer yet.

Soon enough, peaches will be out of season. And we'll be looking out of our windows at falling leaves and, a little later, snow.

Maybe September could slow down a little bit. Because there's a lavender-colored ruffly sundress that I haven't worn yet. Because I didn't have a chance to make white wine sangria. Because I really love late summer tomatoes and those warm days and cooler nights of September in Boston.

Maybe we could have a little more summer. Because the seasons will change soon enough.

The Summer of the Egg

I’m all for summertime. Everything just seems a little bit easier. What we do, what we eat, how we live… it’s all different.

I spent Thursday on a private farm about forty-five minutes outside Boston. Green, lit up by the golden afternoon sun, stretched out in front of me in every direction and the air… it sounds so dumb to say, but it really was fresh.

The goats were busy chewing grass, but they stopped and nuzzled me when I stretched out my hand.  They weren’t too interested when they realized I didn’t have snacks for them.

I was told I could go into the chicken coop if I wanted.  Absolutely not.  I liked having the wire fence between those pointy beaks and me. The hens roamed free and came a little too close. 

At the very end of our day, I had one soft-boiled farm egg, almost as an afterthought. The 1½ hour egg at Stir had a creamy, viscous yolk. This one was cooked for five minutes on the stovetop and the yolk was just barely firm.  Different, for sure, but so good. There’s no photo. I ate it too fast.

We drove back into Boston late. After a day on the farm, Back Bay at 11pm seemed  wild and noisy and bright. And really, Back Bay is none of those things.

Yesterday, I woke up with huge, swollen mosquito bites all over my body. They should really be called welts. On my ribcage, my calves, the back of my neck. They’re my proof that I wasn’t in Boston for a day.

And, sitting last night at the outdoor bar at Legal Seafoods in Harvard Square, the goateed guy to my left told me about a 70-minute egg he had just had. 

It’s the summer of the egg.  I called it first. 

Lunch in Rockport

Just Your Average Night in Boston

It's a beautiful day in Beantown, and I know it will be a beautiful evening. I text L: "Maybe we should go somewhere on the harbor?"

We agree on Temazcal and, after work, we take the Red Line to South Station. Looking back at the shiny glass of the Financial District, we walk along Fort Point Channel and then Fan Pier. We guessed all sports bars would be incredibly packed as tonight is Game Seven, but we didn't figure on the two hour wait for a table at Temazcal. We vote for the bar instead.

The bar at Temazcal is crowded, the doors are flung open to the harbor and the warm air, and the sky is so blue. I turn to L: "It doesn't feel like we're in Boston. It feels like we're in...." She says, "On vacation!" I was going to say California, but, yeah, she's got it right. Two chivalrous gentleman have given us their seats and we've got two potent cocktails. This is as close to vacation as we're getting on a weeknight.

We eat our flautas, guacamole, and tacos de pescado and, at right at 8pm, management turns the Bruins game on. I like hockey. I do. But it's incredibly loud. It's so loud that the bartenders are wincing.

We get the check. We think over our options: Drink. Or Rumba at the Intercontinental. We could waltz into O Ya and have a drink at the bar.

We settle on Les Zygomates. It's all jazz music and atmospheric votive candles. The last time we were here, we ordered a 1/2 bottle of champagne. Don't fix it if it ain't broke. The champagne arrives and we clink our glasses. There's  a TV screen behind the bar, but the volume's off. It's pretty quiet until a cheer goes up: The Bruins score their third goal of the night, then their fourth.

With only a few minutes to go in the game, we settle up our bill and walk to South Station. I arrive at Park Station without incident, but the Green Line is dysfunctional -- the seats are dripping with beer and there's a vague announcement about delays due to crowds at North Station. I hedge my bets on a cab and head up the steps to the Common.

It's nuts -- crowds yelling ("Stanley Cup right here, baby!"), car horns beeping, cops standing guard on every corner. I'm lucky to get a cab. And, you know what, it's fun to roll through town with the windows down. I think of an October, not too many years ago, when the Red Sox were down three games to the Yankees and came back from the dead to win the ALCS. That was my first October in Boston -- a hell of an introduction.

Boston loves when the underdog wins. And that's when you realize when Boston is not so big of a city.

Tonight, the city is united.

Summer in the City

Summer's here.

Spring sort of went in and out of my consciousness this year. There were days in Buenos Aires -- warm days, a string of perfect days. I walked around with bare shoulders and sunglasses, while the portenos layered on light sweaters and shopped for leather boots. Fall was beginning there. But it was my spring.

There were also trips to the Northeast -- days spent wrapped up in a trenchcoat, wishing I had worn a wool sweater. There was rain, and inadequate footwear, and cold, wet feet.

My spring was a confusing back-and-forth, to-and-fro, are-you-or-aren't-you.

Summer, on the other hand, is unambiguous. With summer comes a totally different way of living, thinking, breathing.

In June, there will be new adventures, surrounded by some of the things and people I love best. There will be a weekend trip to New York, a 10K in which to set a new personal best (fingers crossed), and seventy-two hours in which to do "everything with that great mad joy you get when you return to New York" (Kerouac). I have big plans for those seventy-two hours. And then there might even be another 10K race a few weeks later, and there will certainly be lots of food -- cooking, baking, tasting, and shopping.

In July, there will be all-American celebrations for the Fourth, birthdays, and cocktails once the heat of the day has gone. There'll be an evening spent at a chef's table... I'll be the one with camera. There might be a film festival and there'll be escapes for a few hours or a few days to places where life is slower. 

In August... well I haven't gotten that far yet. But as the heat sets in, I'll install my window unit and look for ways to step away from the stove. Sushi takeout, here I come. And I'll be choosing races and planning trips for the fall. Where to go next? Where to run next? I'll be packing my calender full of runs and sprints in anticipation of longer distances and races. And maybe I'll be packing my suitcase too.

It's going to be a great summer. Stay tuned.

And That's How It's Done

We're so close to landing, maybe just a minute off the ground, when huge gusts of wind suddenly turn the plane on its side. A few passengers are looking a little tense. We see the tarmac from a funny angle. The plane pushes through the wind, lands with a bounce, and speeds down the runway -- maybe a little faster than usual?

Our pilot comes on the loudspeaker: "And that's how it's done." So it is. We pull up to our gate; I hoist my massively overloaded Longchamp bag onto my shoulder and find my aviators. The late afternoon here is stunning, a dreamy blue sky and balmy temperatures. We've escaped the winter weather and it feels delicious.

Where the Runner Meets the World

I run because I like to sweat. I run on sand, snow, treadmills, dirt trails, tracks, grass, and asphalt. I don’t sleepwalk; I sleeprun. I’m an athlete because I run. I sprint for the breathlessness; I train for the sense of purpose;. I run for the unbelievable smoothness and the clarity of movement that come after 5 or 6 miles, as the pumping of my arms and the cycling of my legs synch up, as I plunge into another 5 or 6. I can’t tell you what three centimeters or six ounces look like but I know what 26.2 miles feels like and that distance is written into the memory of my muscles and bones. I run for the destination and for the trip itself.

I travel because I get restless. I travel to know the sweet Valencian oranges, the reverberating sound of the Islamic call to prayer, the brine of Belgian mussels, the length of a New York City block. I like the authoritative smear of ink on my passport page. I like weeks of travel, months of living in a foreign country, and the weekend that gives you whiplash. I travel for the contrasts, for the grime of the Place de Clichy and for the dreamy, blue magic of a chilly January dusk in the Tuileries. I read snatches of guidebooks, plan trips that might not ever happen. Or they might. I travel to sate the need for escape and it only fuels the addiction. I carry home with me the afternoon in the Pommery champagne caves and the bumpy rickshaw ride and I travel for more of those instants.