Aside from the obvious pleasures of sun and swimming, one of my favorite things about visiting the beach is seeing nature's detritus scattered along a shore.
Shells. Polished stones. Driftwood. The odd coconut here and there.
Bleached by the warm sun, scoured by the sand and wave after wave of salty surf, and revealing colors, textures and stories of all sorts.
After moving away from New York City last spring, and a long summer in beautiful Vancouver, we have finally settled down in our new home - a small town outside San Jose, Costa Rica. It has only been seven days, but we're already smitten with the natural beauty and the warmth of the people we are meeting. And don't even get me started on the fruits and vegetables. The words "avocado heaven" flash into my mind at least three times a day.
I mentioned in a post long ago that one thing that makes me very happy is picking fruit and eating it straight from the tree. Let me amend that to include bushes as well. 
This past May we had the chance to spend a day in Yellowstone National Park--a little hiatus in a mad drive across the country from Chicago to Vancouver. Little did we know when we set out on our "summer" road trip that we would arrive at the park only the day after it had reopened following a long winter's hibernation.
Stunning waterfalls, canyons, rock formations and volcanic pools, and we got to enjoy it virtually uniterrupted (except for a few herd of shaggy bison and one grizzly bear who woke up from his winter's sleep a few days too early).
Also known as the Snowpocalypse, Snowverload, and (in my own inner monologue) Snowmygoodnessgracious. Not too long ago we were caught smack dab in the midst of the mid-Atlantic's biggest snowstorm in three centuries. The most memorable aspect? The icicles. Three feet long and shimmering with a diamond-like glitter in the cold winter sun--every time I passed under an awning, I felt like they were aiming right for me. 
What better way to combat the winter blues during the first snowstorm of the season than by looking back to warmer and sunnier times when winter and work were thousands of miles away and your only concern was whether to apply SPF 45 or 70.
Time spent lying on the beach
watching the sun move across the sky, palm trees silhouetted above my head,
and the thrill of learning a new skill (or attempting to learn a skill and falling off the surfboard a whole lot in the process).
What happened to fall this year? By the time I noticed the temperature start to drop and headed to the Catskills for some woodsy hiking and fall foliage photography, the leaves had already fallen.
Now that I'm getting around to posting the photos (just a few weeks later, truly!), we have already had our first snow of the winter and streets are bedecked with Christmas lights.
There wasn't nearly enough time to properly enjoy lightweight coats and tweedy skirts, pumpkin bread and mountains of apples and all other things that feel like fall. How did it manage to pass me by? Next year I must pay more attention.
There is something special about visiting the beach in the off-season.
Perhaps it's the wide open vistas of windswept sand and bleached driftwood without a soul in sight.
The thrill of solitude after months spent in close quarters with millions of other New Yorkers. 
And, of course, what can compare with the joy of feeling the wind in your hair and sand beneath your paws?
One of the last things I ever expected to see winding through the rooftops of lower Manhattan--about level with the pigeons, power lines and escaped helium balloons--is a pathway bordered with prairie grasses and wildflowers, but New York City never ceases to amaze.
The High Line is an abandoned elevated train track that has been refurbished and landscaped and opened to city dwellers for strolling, watching the sun set over the Hudson River, and yes, even napping.
The old train tracks have been preserved and the landscaping makes it appear as if nature has begun to reassert herself, eclipsing the rusty leftovers of the modern world.
As you walk, the bustle of the city dims to a low hum. If you listen carefully, you can actually hear songbirds. And somehow, (though you know you must be dreaming this one) it feels like you might even be breathing fresh air.
A few more photos here.
Some weeks ago I went a little photo-overboard at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden. The flowers were lovely and plentiful, and there were so many crazy varieties I'd never seen before.
I have been wanting to share some of the results on the blog for a while, but couldn't think what to say about the photos.
Sometimes I forget that I don't actually need to say anything at all. Photos can speak for themselves, right?
For me, the truest escape from the pressures of everyday life can often be found when I am the farthest removed from my everyday experience. And the watery wild of Pacific Rim National Park on Vancouver Island is about as different from New York City as you can get. There is only one road that leads there. It winds through miles of mountains and woods, past pristine lakes and ancient growth forests. Even at peak season, there are few other cars on the road.
I actually got out of the car and stood in the middle of the road to photograph this scene. I took my time. Nobody was around to care.
In order to maximize our wilderness experience, we planned a day of kayaking in Toquart Bay (accompanied by a trained professional, naturally). The places we paddled were completely inaccessible except by water, untouched by roads, barely marred by a human footprint.
From the seats of our kayaks gliding through that wilderness we saw black bears coming down to the shore to fish, seals and sea lions frolicking in warm pools in the afternoon sun, and majestic bald eagles guarding their aeries. We saw the mountains, still snow-capped in July, and the Pacific Ocean stretching far as the eye could see. And we heard the absolute silence, broken only by the dipping of our paddles in the water. (And we thought to ourselves..."Why do we live in New York City when there is all this?")
Ash must have been quite inspired by all the wilderness and bears and whatnot because some basic human survival instinct seemed to take hold when we returned to land and he insisted that we must cook our dinner ourselves over a fire out on the beach. Being a city girl, I was somewhat hesitant, but I deferred to his boyhood Scout training and agreed to give it a shot. We picked up vegetables and a few basic tools, gathered together some driftwood and kindling, and set out for a beautiful beach (where, fortunately, fires were permitted by the Parks Department).
And would you believe? We had one of the best meals I've enjoyed in a long time. Fire-roasted corn, baked potatoes, buttery vegetables, and soup to wash it all down. And, to top off a perfect evening, toasted marshmallows. All cooked over a fire! Can you imagine? Just like people did it in olden times! I ended the evening feeling that, if push came to shove, these two New Yorkers could definitely survive in the wilderness, and eat well too!
As long as there is a supermarket nearby. And marshmallows of course.
Our evenings outdoors by the fire (because a person can't stop with just one evening of toasted marshmallows) inspired some interesting photography experiments too. This photo below was taken in the backyard of our bed and breakfast, where I opened up the shutter for a long exposure while Ash rustled the burning embers sending sparks flying into the night.
Yes, it was about as far from life in New York as I could get, and a perfect holiday.
Sometimes, following a particularly nice vacation, when I return to the real world I really just don't want to believe that the holiday is over. Consequently, as part of my vacation withdrawal, I avoid doing all the things that I ought to do upon my return like unpacking, listening to my voicemail messages, responding to unread email, checking my favorite blogs, sorting through my many photos, and tidying up the apartment, and instead I try to maintain my "vacation state of mind" (i.e. just doing nothing).
Inevitably this backfires, because by the time I am ready to face the world again, my backlog of things to do is just overwhelming. Basically, this is a lengthy way of apologizing to all the people to whom I owe email, phone calls, blog comments, and to whom I've promised I will post my photos online. I promise to get back in the groove shortly!
In the meantime, so you can understand why I'm trying to hold onto my vacation state of mind a little longer, a little visual from the western coast of Vancouver Island where we recently spent a few days. More pictures to come. Sooner or later.
It is a truth universally acknowledged (or pretty much so) that the best weekends begin with a leisurely cup of coffee while sitting in the sunshine, perhaps with a freshly baked banana-coconut muffin. If you can share those morning moments with an awesome cousin and her husband visiting from Chicago, your weekend is already well on its way to perfect.
Following coffee, the perfect weekend might include a walk through the neighborhood to enjoy some lovely spring weather (on perfect weekends the temperature is 60 degrees at least) and to admire the trees and flowers that suddenly seem to be blooming everywhere.
After that a visit to the neighborhood farmers' market might be in order. And if you enjoy photography, and you happen to have just replaced your polarizing filter recently, that might be just the place to test it out on a crate of apples.
Any truly perfect weekend is not complete without some activity. And if one is not inclined to be particularly active oneself (for example, if you have pretty much avoided the gym since running the marathon last November), being a spectator is a very satisfying alternative.
After a couple of hours sitting under the trees watching the soccer game and the children zooming by on their scooters, you might enjoy some lunch and then head into Manhattan to walk the city streets, see a few sights, and catch up with your out-of-town guests.
Now if you're really going for a 10 out of 10 weekend (and this basically hardly ever happens) you will get to enjoy some of your very favorite foods for dinner, and will top that off with a hot fudge sundae from the Shake Shack for dessert. That would be followed by an enjoyable movie (or episode of BBC's Planet Earth) and yet more excellent conversation.
And that's only Day 1 of the perfect weekend!
Day 2 might be a trip to Brooklyn Flea--especially exciting if it's something you have been anticipating for a while. After browsing the work of local designers and craftsmen and looking for diamonds in the flea market rough (and finding some) , you might enjoy a cappuccino at a local cafe with some friends, both old and new. 
Now, people in the know may differ on this point, but I firmly feel no weekend is really perfect without getting at least something constructive accomplished. But if it is a perfect weekend, that constructive thing will not be doing the laundry or vacuuming, because those things are not enjoyable at all. Enjoyable constructive accomplishments suited to a perfect weekend are things like organizing your spice cabinet or, even better, clearing out and reorganizing your closet (perhaps putting the lovely hat boxes you found at Brooklyn Flea to good use by using them to store purses, belts, scarves and the like).
The only imperfect thing is that weekends that perfect come around so rarely. That is why it is important to finish off such a weekend with a blog post to remind yourself to enjoy weekends like those more often.
